OxiClean
Em Richards

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In December, my spinal cord snaps in my neck. My head floats off,
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meeting Billy Mayes in his cloud fortress built in between God’s

toes. Trusting him with the blood stains on my collar would be a
​
mistake.

Billy, how do I return home? Billy, I am so far away.

He takes the red-soaked fabric and wipes his nose on the cotton

sleeve.

I’m not in the game anymore, kid.

I collect my head, tucking it under my arm and walk over to the

edge of his oxidised estate to plummet.

Sorry.

I don’t mind that I left my shirt with him. No one cares about what

you are wearing if you don’t have a head, or if you don’t have a

home. I wouldn’t have been able to get that stain out on my own
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anyways.


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