- S U T T E R -
11.21.16 // 8:32 p.m.
747 Jackson Rd, Beverly Hills is no longer a house. I stand outside of the place that was once a home, but is now scattered pieces of burned wood that are covered up by the autumn leaves that continue to fall from the oak trees.
I squat down, pick up one of the leaves and rub it in between my thumb and pointer finger. It is soft to the touch, the wet soil on it falling off and landing on my fingers. I throw the leaf down and make my way to my car, my feet crunching the brown leaves beneath me.
When I am in the warm space of my car, it begins to rain. The hard pitter-patter bangs against my car loudly and it makes the pressure in my head begin to build up. I groan and bang my head against the steering wheel.
Think, Sutter. You have to think. If you
