The rooster and the sofa

 The afternoon sun
leans through the front window.

There are no doors.
You are already inside.

There should be a bed.
Instead there is a sofa.

The sofa is death.

Purple,
its leather catches the light
until it almost blinds,
shining with blinding inquisition.

Above it,
a weathercock,
one of those rooster arrows
that shows where wind goes.

It changes.
It becomes a bow.
The arrow is loosed.

It buries itself
into the leather.

Death.

Then nothing.

Darkness.