I have secret pictures from the night of my sister's murder. The shots are crude composites, caught at the skewed perspective of a small, frightened child. Bodies lean at a curious tilt.
Faces stretch in grotesque disbelief.
Everything has the feel of a universe gone dangerously awry. Elements of these images have come to me in dreams. Others wafted up the stairs in tantalizing scraps when my parents presumed I was asleep. Still others I have plucked from historical records in an attempt to fill the disquieting blanks. But my pictures remain grainy and indistinct.