Joy Forgets Killings

I soothe the row of pearls draped across my neck, following the navy trim down my collar to tug the gold buttons of my pink jacket. Pulling my silk glove back into position, I wave to the throng of cheering people gathered along the stretches of Dealey Plaza as our limousine cruises slowly down Elm Street. The brisk November air rustles through my carefully styled hairdo. I turn to rub my husband’s arm. As our eyes meet, we exchange a glance of relief at the welcoming atmosphere. Suddenly, his brow scrunches and he heaves forward, clutching his chest. I grab his shoulder and shift towards him, hoping he simply needs to even his tie.

“Is everything alright, Jack?” I probe.

He grunts intensely and I tighten my grip on his sleeve.

“Jack,” I persist.

A faint his precedes a sharp crack and his head jolts forward abruptly; his body falls limp

into my lap and I catch a glimpse of the gruesome tangle of blood, flesh, and skull before snapping up to shriek for help. I scramble back over the seat as an officer vaults onto the rear of the car and pushes me back, shielding me with his body. As we speed away, the unwavering cheer of the crowd echoes in the distance.