Start with a four-by-four-inch piece of paper.
Fold the paper in half by bringing the top edge down to the bottom edge.
Unfold.
Fold the upper left corner to the lower right corner. Crease the edge with your thumbnail.
Unfold.
Fold the upper right corner to the bottom left corner. Crease the edge with your thumb. Ignore the red streak it leaves behind.
Unfold.
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The paper should now, fittingly, have an X at its center.
Turn it on its point, fold the top corner point to the crux of the X. It should now look like a diamond and if angled correctly and swiped at a certain speed, will cut like one.
Fold the bottom corner point to the top edge.
Fold the bottom left and right edges to the center crease.
Ignore the sound of cracking bone, it is only a memory, not the paper’s marrow.
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Run your nail across all creases and see how the red smudges seep into the fibers of paper, snuffing out the white. Remind yourself to find your manicure kit and soak your hands in hydrogen peroxide. Remind yourself you warned him. Hold the paper in between your fingers and evaluate your work so far.
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At this point, the crane resembles a red and ivory marbled ship. Pretend that’s what it is; the buoyancy of this fantasy will calm you. This is why you enjoy the paper arts. It keeps away the idleness, it contains your terror in tiny folds. Keep the deformed bird afloat on the imaginary waves for only a few minutes; it’s essential you keep your nautical wishes at bay. There isn’t an ocean or river for hundreds of miles and the temptation to submerge the remains of your secret in the man-made lake down the road will only further implicate you.
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Finally, fold the top and side corners back.
With considerable force, slam the palm of your hand down and flatten, flatten, flatten.
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The crane seems to have taken on a shape you didn’t expect. There is still time to fix it.
In the middle crease, on what could be considered the flattened paper’s left ventricle, write your crime. Write what you did—you will never right what you did—and seal the paper heart with clear nail polish from your manicure kit. Now it is a water-resistant talisman. As long as the paper is safe, you are safe. From the law, from his ghost, from yourself.
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Slip on his wedding band when you miss him. He kept it on your nightstand; he claimed silver made him itch. You understand. Silver makes you itch, too.
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The part of you that belongs to the moon is calm again. The shovel and lye are waiting and you must find time to clean the crescent curves of your fingernails.
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Marytza Rubio is a writer and tarot card reader from Santa Ana, CA. Her writing has appeared in Los Angeles Times, Slice Magazine, and The Normal School, as well as in the anthologies Choose Wisely and Exigencies.