Ronnie's Hallucinations
Ronnie’s hallucinations started running together: a pair of blinking lizard heads in his box of fried rice, the ashes from his stepdaughter’s nightgown scattered over the backseat of his pickup truck, a tablet of Klonopin stuck in the end of each tiny cigarette he pulled out of the package he bought at the ice cream stand not ten minutes before returning home to hear his wife banging her head into the wall of bathroom tile he had misplaced in the garage earlier that day: over and over again, like the metronome that was hidden inside the pearl-handled pistol his mother kept tucked inside the thrift store handbag they buried her in.
