Doctor’s Religion

The hospital walls were cold, unforgiving..Merciless. Low murmurs and whispers rang through the hallways like haunting voices of an abandon mansion. The temperature — cold, like the feeling of the woman who had just died only moments ago…

It was times like these he didn’t believe in God.

Had he been a little bit more caring..a little less hardened with life, and somewhat attached..He might have..would have been listening to his heart break a little. All because the man who was currently holding the dead woman’s hand, his body shaking, sobs coming out in a choked manner.

 But seeing he wasn’t a little more caring, he wasn’t a little less hardened, and he wasn’t somewhat attached, he couldn’t bring himself to comfort the man. Besides, words didn’t bring someone back, if anything, they made the pain worse. He knew; he was experienced in tragedy.

So instead, he turned heel and walked out of the room. Of course, waiting on the other side of the door was the nurse he had been working with. She was smiling, grinning, ear to ear. Seeing his face did not make her smile leave, it remained.

“How are you doing?” he looked at her as if she had two heads. Did this woman just ask him how he was after their patient had just now died? “I’m doing wonderful, I succeeded with my goal of having one less person contribute to the population!” his voice was a sarcastic drawl, the nurse’s smile faded, and she gave into what she really felt with a frown.

He looked at the nurse, though he didn’t admit it, he loved her smile. Sometimes when he looked at her, he thought maybe there was a God. After all, who else could have produced such a perfect creature?

She was always there to share the happiness he wouldn’t show when they saved someone. She would always try to cheer him up, and pull him from the depths of his hellish thoughts. She knew what he was thinking all the time..and she would tell him it wasn’t his fault, and for a moment, he would believe her.

So she put back on her smile and said, “It wasn’t your fault you know? ” and for a second he did believe her, he would never admit that though. He continued to brood. “Alright, so we lost a patient, people die everyday. No need to get depressed about it.” she said with a roll of her eyes, though inside she felt exactly the same. No, no she didn’t, because he didn’t feel bad. That’s what he told himself.

Had he been able to save the woman, he would have just been delaying the inevitable [Because death was always going to happen, why not end the suffering sooner?]

But of course, that was a lie too. He got into this business to save lives and be able to give good news to his patients’ loved ones that everything would be alright. He lived for that moment to say the words, “You’ll be just fine.” but as of lately, that phrase seemed so out of reach.

Everything had been falling apart, not that he would tell anyone that. He was cold, but anyone who knew him saw through that facade. He cared, just a little bit more than he wanted to.

But for now, he would just go home, his shift was over and he needed sleep.

So, he went home. He took his shower, scrubbing off the invisible blood from the patients he had treated that day, and though only one had died, it had been the one that mattered most [but of course, she didn't matter to him...]

When he was done, he did his usual. Grabbing a bottle of vodka, downing it all. After all, what better way to forget than getting shit-faced drunk? Though of course it would only be temporary.

And so he would walk to his bedroom, collapsing on his bed in a drunken stupor, and pray he didn’t have a hang-over the next day. Which he knew he would. He, of course, was used to this, so it would most likely just be a dull, easily ignored pain in the back of his mind.

The next days had come to pass, and then something had happened that was a little bit out of the usual. He had gotten a patient, and though this was normal, it was the patient who wasn’t normal. It was his cheery nurse, his little side-kick, his smile.

And he tried so hard, so, so, so hard to save her. But she died anyway, whispering to him, still trying to give him reassurance, her last words being, “People die everyday..I’m no exception.” She had a smile on her face, and it had sent him over the edge.

Because the hospital was still the same; cold, unforgiving..Merciless.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He was sick of it, he wanted to save lives, he wanted to be able to say the words, “It’ll all be okay.” Life just turned around and slapped him in the face, leaving him to be a drunken mess at the end of the day.

Tonight would be the end of it all though, because in times like these, he didn’t feel anything. He walked through the now slightly less populated hospital, heading for his locker, grabbing his stuff. He would walk out to his car, drive home and do what he always did..with a small twist.

He would take his shower scrubbing of her blood, then he would go grab the vodka, drink, and grab a pistol he kept in his bottom draw of his dresser. He would sit on his bed, and put the gun to his head, because he didn’t care. Because he didn’t feel a loss when his patients died, because he didn’t love her.

Because in times like these, he didn’t think there was a God…But he supposed he would soon find out as a loud bang echoed through his home, his body dropping back gracefully onto his pillows; a note falling from his hands..

“I’m no exception.”

Cupid Gave Her Cancer

She doesn’t quite know why she’s there, or why he even allows her to be there, for that matter. She loses her breaths and skips more than a few heart beats. He brings her so off course, that she forgets where her destination was. He doesn’t notice, or he pretends not to. She’s alright with that, because she would probably turn red if he knew and then she’d be all sorts of funny.

He makes her realize, without ever saying anything, that she is still tolerable to the world, and that, for the most part, is good. She thinks slowly, speaks quickly, and stutters often. She wonders where her mind went and when did she become so silly? He talks to her, speaks softly, and she hears nothing. She watches his lips move and his eyes shine, but she does not register anything he says.

The whole time she can only think of a few things. How beautiful he is, how bad it actually is to be within a few feet of him, how she shouldn’t even be here…and what would happen if anyone found out? He seems less nervous and even calm about the situation. So cool and smooth, just like when he holds her hand.

She is jumpy, she realizes this when he touches her arm gently, forcing her to recline, laying on the soft grass. He kisses her slowly and she is hesitant at first, but she returns it and loses her worries as she begins to kiss back hard and desperate. His hand wraps around her hair, scrunching it between his fingers, devouring her mouth. She doesn’t think anymore, and for a moment they are meant to be together and no one will condemn them for being from different worlds. It was like Romeo and Juliet, without all the dying.

But later, when it is time for him to leave, because someone she refuses to believe exists–calls. He has a new job to do, a new murder to commit. She touches her lips gently, debating on whether or not to cry or smile. She chooses smiling when he leaves, waving good-bye and giving her yet another kiss that lasts a little too long.

Right now, it is enough, but later–She knows she’ll want more. He’s always burning her, filling her lungs with smoke and cancer, like a cigarette. …and she thinks that perhaps…she’s addicted.

Throw Up & Call It Hot.

It’s a Friday night and I really don’t know why I am here, in this nasty “club.” Multiple bodies are dancing around me and I can’t breathe. The lights keep flashing and plastic barbies dance on poles, but who am I to judge? I’m here just the same. Clothes really aren’t a factor.

The smoke that floats through the small building burns my eyes and lungs. I can’t really see that well, just blurry faces of men behind women– simulating sex. Pushing my way through the crowd I wonder if I’ll make it out alive. I see my friends in the sea of people and I don’t understand what they find so fun.

Something was not right with these people, the way they let go so freely. They get into groups of two (sometimes more) on wobbly legs because they’ve had too much to drink, and they throw up, only to kiss each other shortly after, calling it sexy. Sometimes I think about how awkward it must be to wake up in another bed with someone you met the night before, naked. I wonder if they still feel hot.

I finally get to the bar counter and sit on one of the old, rickety stools. My feet hurt from the high heels my friend made me wear and I want so badly to kick them off and rub my feet, but even if I am among animals, I refuse to act like one. So I keep my feet on the foot rod on the stool and tug my (friend’s) mini skirt down. I grieve that I do not have my jeans on, and wish that I had my sweater. I take my hand and run it through my hair, trying to push it out of my eyes, which is proving to be very difficult do to the sweat and mist that contaminated my hair. None of it being my own and I resist the urge to vomit.

I look up and across from me there is a mirror behind the liquor cabinets and even though my image is distorted I know I look rough. My eye make-up is slightly smeared, my whore red lipstick has faded (thankfully), and my hair is in all sorts of disarray. I want so badly to go home. Away from the drugs, the sex…

And the violence as a fight breaks out behind me. I don’t know who is fighting or why, just that there is fighting, I can see it in the reflection of the mirror in front of me and I resist the urge to turn around. If I don’t look, I won’t be in it, but as I subtly observe, I realize I am about to be put into a very painful situation.

The bar rings out with loud bang, a stool falls over, clanging to the ground and I am just short of catching myself as I hit my head on the edge of the counter and tumble down in a very undignified and very revealing heap. I close my eyes, bite my lip and try to count to three, willing the pain and the blood I feel flowing down my forehead to go away. Just go away.

But it doesn’t, and it’s like everything stopped. The music was no longer playing, the lights were only slightly flashing, and everyone had stilled. Silence over took and I couldn’t really move. I let out a moan of pain, opened my eyes and suddenly the world is in fast forward…

People are scrabbling to help me, the two guys are trying to get out of the club, but the bouncers have stopped them. Someone is calling the police and maybe an ambulance. Really, cracking my skull open is not that big of a deal. It’s a side effect of coming to this place. I try to fight off the hands that reach for me, as I struggle to get up, my friends…unsurprisingly, aren’t there to help me. I look around as I stand on shaky legs and see a good majority of the group passed out in the booths, and wickedly I hope they drank themselves to death.

With my hand pressed up against the gash that had decided to take up residence on the hairline of my skull, I feel someone’s warm and latex covered hand grip my wrist. I can’t see that well still, but I can see the sudden appearance and disappearance and repeat of a light. I try to pull my hand away but a voice stops me.

“Hey, heyyy!!! Relax! I just need to look at this. Seems pretty deep…Can you hear me?”

I assume, by that time, I looked pretty damn pitiful. Wild eyed, bloody, and barely focused. Even though I heard him, I couldn’t really answer, I was too worried about how much of me was covered, how much people had seen and how much I really just wanted to cry from embarrassment. A fun night indeed. I think, briefly (but not for the first time within the past 20 minutes) about how I really need new friends. Ones who are safe and like to play scrabble. I pull at my skirt once more.

“Ah, you don’t look like the type to be in here, ya know. Here, take this jacket.”

I feel something fall across my shoulders and it covers my arms, which gives me a bit of comfort. More comfort than I’ve had in the passed hour or so. I feel hands and cotton swabs and alcohol gently rub away all the blood, but I wince because really…a gash that deep is going to burn. I feel the breath of the guy blow onto the wound, trying to ease the burning. I feel like I’m 5 again and my mommy is trying to sooth a boo-boo. I also feel that perhaps that’s a bit unsanitary and wonder where he had his training.

“So, tell me, what’s a girl like you doing in a shitty place like this?”

My eyes are finally focusing and I’m able to see this man’s face. He’s in a paramedic uniform (surprise, surprise), messy, dark hair, scrawny, pale, brown eyed. Everything that screamed indie high school stereo-type and I wanted to half way slap him for it. I realized, though, that would be kind of childish and perhaps a bit psychotic. So I don’t and he continues to clean the gash.

“My so-called friends, brought me here…”

My answer seems to satisfy him as he gives off a smirk that says he knows more than he lets on. When he finishes cleaning the wound he decides that I should go to the hospital anyway, because it was really hard hit and from the looks of it, it might be a bit more than a gash. I agree to get into the ambulance only because my ride is passed out and really, I just want to leave. As I go to walk away, I slip slightly in my own blood and again, I resist the urge to vomit. The blood was extreme and I realized that it was probably the reason for my dizziness. The paramedic gripped my elbow tightly to steady me and I continued on to the ambulance.

The ride is silent, except for the sirens that wail all around me. I go to poke the gash, but a hand slaps my own away and I make a very unladylike grunt of disdain. I really don’t have the patience for this guy to keep touching me, even if I do think he is kind of cute.

I suddenly feel very sick to my stomach, the paramedic notices and quickly puts a bucket in front of me where I empty out the booze and food of the day, and I think I even see my breakfast from earlier in the morning. He gives a chuckle.

“Throwing up, now that’s hot,” he says sarcastically, while laughing at my expense.

We arrive at the hospital, he disappears as my doctor shows…They fix me up, four stitches in my forehead and I stand outside in the cold trying to figure out what to do next. A man stands beside me, but I can’t make him out. He breaks the silence, “Need a ride?” It’s my paramedic. I look over to him and suddenly I think that perhaps…I should have gone clubbing earlier.

Turns out, he likes scrabble.

Seducing Satan

Many people coated the floors of Francis J. High that mid-afternoon in May. Only one girl and boy stood, standing tall among the deceased. He was Satan and she convinced him.

It began with a simple hello at a park bench at the beginning of July a year prior. With gold locks that waved and tumbled around her, she could catch any eye– and with her own deep sea-green eyes, she could keep it.  She was sixteen going on seventeen and nothing in the world could stop her from getting what she wanted and she wanted him.

Why she wanted him, she wasn’t sure. He was just a plain boy, perhaps even a momma’s boy. Dark brown hair always neatly combed over, silvery-hazel eyes downcast, and pale skin that had never seen the sun do to the study and sleeping habits that had taken him over.

Despite the lack of time spent in the sun, she found him at the park on an old creaky bench that had fading paint, old chewing gum on the sides and underneath, and carved in I-love-yous. It is there that she approached him, extended her slender arm, reaching her delicate hand out and waiting.

“Hi, my name’s Renea.”

The boy at first did not, or simply could not, respond. He sat dumbfounded and nervous, putting the book he had in his hand down into his lap, staring at the girl with suspicious eyes. It is then he found his voice, stuttering all the while.

“Uh. Hi, m-my name is T-Tyler.”

The girl gave a cute little giggle and sat down next to the boy without invitation and proceed to play a game of ask-and-tell. That moment, he fell into everything she was. He never thought he’d meet such a beautiful girl who was so willing to converse with him without making mention of his flaws. It was liberating in that subtle way, to know that not everyone ignored him.

Soon after they were friends or lovers, no one could ever tell which.

Over time, the girl had dropped hints that perhaps the boy was worth more. That there was more to him…That he was God. She whispered words and gave small touches, her cold hands pressing against his heated flesh, and he had forgotten the morals his parents had worked so hard to hammer in. All of the hard work peeling off in little strips, the girl ripping it away as if she were opening a gift. She told him that she was.

The boy had no chance, he was so lonely and broken as was and as far as he could tell, she was something that fell from the heavens to glue him, fix him and remind him…He had power. The power to give or take life. The power to command. The power to be worshipped. The power to cause prayer. When he told the girl this, she gave a devilish smirk and kissed him on the lips, he returned the kiss willingly and happily. This was the moment the girl knew she had him.

She made a suggestion one night in April, one that made the boy’s eyes slightly widen by surprise and then narrow in excited glee.  “Perhaps…” she whispered into his ear, “you could prove to the world…” Her hands trailed up his chest, to stop at his shoulders and gripped them tightly, staring into his eyes. He stared back, a grin starting to form then bursting into a smile that spoke in volumes of corruption.

During the time from then to now, the boy sat at his desk planning with the girl whispering in his ears about power, violence, and maybe a dash of love. The boy’s hands would shake with such excitement that sometimes he couldn’t write and he’d have to grip the girl under him, under sheets, on his bed, sometimes to tell himself that he was the one with all the power, not her. Never her. She was just the push that needed to shove.

When the day came, that very sunny May, they went to the school, as they did everyday. The girl walked with confidence and a mini skirt, the boy had an air of proud surrounding him. People suspected nothing and knew nothing until the first bullet flew, prematurely. Things did not go exactly as planned, because of an incident with another student who ran into the girl. He did not apologize and after the gun was pulled out, neither did Tyler.

So began the massacre of Francis J. High. Renea bounced with wicked glee as she helped pick off teachers and students alike, Tyler spun around in his own little dance routine, laughter beginning to bubble in his chest and spew out into violent fits, while the guns he held let out explosive rings and bangs.  Soon there was no one left aside from the two and a shaking girl in the corner.

Renea stood in the middle of the hallway, her last kill slumped onto the ground and bleeding on her new shoes, but she didn’t really mind. Tyler moved, though, towards the little girl. Sirens just beginning outside, a passer-by calling in the kills.  He stood in front of her, blood on his face and clothes and hands and shoes. She sat, big hazel eyes looking up at Tyler, her brother. He knelt in front of her, reaching out his hand, she flinched, not wanting to touch him. Not wanting to know him, not wanting anything to do with him.

“Take my hand…” He whispered out, his voice slightly husky from all the laughing and yelling he had done.

“No, no…No…You’re Satan. You’re evil. I hate you, I HATE YOU!”

The girl screamed out shoving Tyler away, yelling furiously. Tyler, allowing his younger sister to push him, fell back into a pool of blood, soaking the back of his pants. He stood up and stared at her. Something clicked in him and he turned to Renea. Renea stared back, her eyes narrowing at the little girl, aiming her gun and it clicking as she readied it. The girl let out a whimper, knowing her end was coming. A Shot rang out…

Renea fell.

Tyler’s sister stood, staring wide eyed at him and slowly walked over, as he came towards her. Men with guns and black suits and helmets suddenly came into the doors of the school. They turned towards the men, Tyler in tired defeat, and his sister in sad relief.

Tyler and his sister stood tall among the deceased. He was Satan and she convinced him.

He Was God, If Only For A Moment

People are people and habits never change. So I really don’t know why I was surprised when the man came into the store and began to pick off the people one by one. I know that I didn’t really react, that I stood and watched and thought to myself, “How beautiful…”

Beautiful, gorgeous, perfect. The shades of red splashing across the counter tops and shelvings, splattering uncaringly onto the glass doors. Everyone is dead, except me. I can feel their blood oozing down my face and it doesn’t repulse or frighten me. They are already gone, what would I be able to do at this point?

He takes cold, calculated, slow steps towards me. I stay standing, shivering from the cool air coming from the open door of the cooler that one man forgot to close on his way down. He looks at me, almost as if he were questioning my existence. I see his eyes, there is no guilt.

When he stands directly in front of me, with the gun to my face, I stare straight ahead, into his. He gives a smirk and goes to pull the trigger, but I speak first. My curiosity needing to be fed before I leave this world.

“Do you….feel like God?”

My words strike him, hit him with such a force he becomes angry and shouts at me, waving the gun frantically, still pointing it towards me, as if making a point.

“I AM GOD! DON’T YOU SEE!? DON’T YOU SEE!?”

I do see, but I do not see God. I see magnificence and anger and power. I inform him. His face unscrews from it’s angered position into a more calmed and amused one.

“But isn’t that close enough?” he asks me, his voice slightly shaking, as if he were to cry without an answer.

“It might be close, but you are still not God.” I say quietly, looking away, seeing a man laying against a chip stand. Doritos and blood spilled onto his belly. I think absently that maybe he had a wife or someone waiting for him. I wonder if they’ll be sad.

I realize the man is talking to me, screaming in all actuality.

“LOOK AT ME! LOOK!” and so I do and I think about how he repeats himself.

The gun is steady, back between my eyes. He asks me if I had any last words, speaks his thoughts out loud of how he really shouldn’t grant me any…He had been letting me live for too long as was.

“You didn’t answer my question.” I let annoyance slip into my tone, because if I’m going to die, I want to die with answers. So I repeat myself, slowly, clearly.

“Do you. Feel. Like God?”

He let’s out a noise that is a cross between a snarl and a laugh. A sound I didn’t know humans could make. “I don’t have time for this.” He says this to me as if he’s helping me learn something. Briefly, I think he is.

So he pulls the trigger, but no bullet escapes. There’s a blasting sound, glass shattering and the thud of his body falling. It’s then that everything catches up with me. I wished that he hadn’t been shot and that it had been me. That I would’ve died.

He is breathing still, but barely and I know he’s about to die. So I kneel beside him, emotions in me that I didn’t feel just a second ago. I feel bad for him…I feel sorry. All he wanted was to be God.

So I whisper in his ear as he chokes and sputters on his own blood filling his lungs.

“You were God…If only for a moment.”

Because A Personal Apocalypse Is Still An Apocalypse.

It’s raining when I get the call, coffee held in one hand, some melody floating through the air. This scene is familiar, comforting, but at the same time intense and frightening. I remember not breathing for a moment, just a moment. Time was still, my heart silent.

Rain then resumed it’s beating against the foggy windows of the kitchen I stood in. Water drizzled down in dizzying paths and I sincerely believed I could hear the rushing sound of it. The lack of breathing catches up to me and I gasp, coughing, choking, feeling wetness fall down my face. I look up dumbly, thinking perhaps there is a leak in the ceiling, but I remember I live on the second floor of a three floored apartment complex and this water is hot.

It’s then I realize I am crying and that I’ve fallen into myself, collapsing onto the unforgiving ground beneath me.  It’s a moment, a frightening one, a lonely one, a painful one. My only company being the newly spilled coffee making it’s way towards me on the apparently uneven floor.

This moment passes, like all others. I am in the same apartment, same kitchen, same cup in my hand. The phone, thankfully, is no where to be seen. Music is floating through the air, as my habit of silencing silence takes control.  It is classical music, full of piano and violins and sadness. The tune is not a remake or even composed of any artist, it is something my mind has come up with and composed, just for me. Just me.

I look to my left, slightly curious as to why I’ve let my kitchen stay so white for so long. It reminds me of things I didn’t care to remember. The table catches my eye, white wood and glass top. Delicate and sturdy, telling me I’m missing my support. There are two plates, two cups, two forks, a whole setting for two. Only one plate, one cup, one fork…was used. The other set, untouched, sitting beautifully, mockingly staring back at me.  I fill with undeniable rage and swing my arm out, everything crashing to the ground. Falling, crashing, breaking…like me. This is a moment, too.  I blink and calm and wish…That all moments would end. The coffee touches my bare feet.

The moments continue, and it’s the same setting. I’m more tired than before. My hair falls around my face, waving and curling, having a mind of it’s own. I am pale, my eyes are dull, and I am alone still. My chapped lips move, cracking, bleeding, hurting…Spilling words to nothing and no one, the air being the only thing to absorb my wasted breaths. Something about wishing and hoping and loving and dying and the pain of it all. 

I move, muscles protesting. I sit down onto the floor, tracing unknown patterns with my fingers, pretending I’m growing roses for someone. The white tiles are surprisingly clean. Bleached and scrubbed by my own hands. The blisters are between my fingers to show of it. I think of how silly it is of me to forget.

I hum and hum, trying to drive away the silence, even though the music is louder than ever. Blaring and shaking and hitting high notes of pure sorrow.  But it won’t go away, the silence. It’s louder than the music, hurting my ears, cutting through my mind. I scream and scream. I scream until my throat is raw and my chest hurts.

The music cuts and the silence laughs in my face. I remind myself how to breathe. Licking my lips, I stand, almost falling. My energy is worn, my soul mostly gone. I look to my right and there is a picture, one picture…Hanging on a plain wall. It is of a man, faceless, but something stirs within me when I see him and life rewinds and I feel the crushing force of everything once again.  Another moment lost to the oceans of the heart ache that I am drowning in. The coffee, though, sits on the table.

Life throws something new my way, the setting is different. I’m in my bedroom, which is all grey. Grey walls, windows, bed, blankets, desk, pictures…I am laying in my bed, staring at the ceiling. I’ve been doing this for hours.

Breathe in, breathe out.

There is no music, no coffee, no phone, no pictures of the man. I am comfortable, rested. Pain still swims through my chest, but it’s less stabbing, more numbing. The silence is suffocating, but that’s what I’m waiting for. To be smothered out of existence. My breathing slows and with it my eyes close. I feel the corner of my lips tug upwards. Last breath. The moments are over and gone, just like this one. The silence stays, but the pain doesn’t.

That’s when I bolt up from my bed, eyes wide, hand to chest, breathing and gasping and wheezing. I look around. I am in my bedroom of my house where I live with my family. My room is green, not grey, my home is a house full of people, not a cold, empty, white apartment on the second floor of a three floor complex.

There are voices and noises and the TV going. Silence is unable to find it’s way. I remember something a woman had said on a cheesy Disney movie and I hoped that it wasn’t reality…that, “dreams really do come true.”

Driving In Silence

It’s the kind of thing that happens a lot more often than one would think. You assume you are done with someone, you pull apart, you scream at each other, you hate each other…But there is always that pull that brings you together in a violent type whirl wind and you spin around, repeating words, phrases, behaviors…

& honestly, you don’t understand it. Perhaps you weren’t meant to. We fall into a habit, a ritual of despair and you can’t quite get a nice grasp onto reality anymore. You don’t know who is lying. You eventually do everything with a numbness that starts in your chest and spreads–like a disease. Your brain screams for you to stop, your common sense pounding on doors, trying to get to you. You ignore it, like the pain that is becoming less and less noticeable.

I understand, I understand, I understand…

It’s a broken record, really. The things you do. Wake up, get ready for the day, exist. Existing seems kind of silly, now that you don’t really think about the things you do.

Repeat, repeat, repeat…

Days turn into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, and years into your grave. Was it worth it? Living the same day over and over again?

I know my future, I see it everyday. I see it well…Five years from now, I’ll drive in silence with an equally silent partner…Because we’ll both realize–You shouldn’t waste your breath for words you’ll want to take back later.

Socialism

It seems like a good idea. I think I’ll look into it more.

“It’s good in theory.”

I want to test it.

Color Me Grey

It’s March 23rd when I have a dream. It is frightening but at the same time peaceful and everything I wish I could be brave enough to face.

The dream is hollow, like most are, but has a feel of reality to trick you and reel you in without your knowledge. Somewhere in the back of your mind, though, you know what is happening and you wish that you could get up and not finish the nightmare.

In this dream I am in my kitchen, I am the age of twenty or so, and somehow everyone in my home has died. Buried years prior; I do not remember the events, I just know that they have happened. Dreams give you knowledge of lies when you can’t see the truth.

The kitchen is dark, quiet, suffocating. I am wallowing in my own miserable loneliness, cooking a meal that I won’t finish. I hear something, and for whatever reason I react in panic; I know something is going to happen. I get a sense that I have been warned of this event by someone on the phone. This memory comes out of no where and I run to my door, my English-Springer Spaniel barking wildly, but doing nothing else.

I rush, trying to lock the door, but it only results in failure as the door is shoved violently open and I am pushed back into the wall, onto the ground—beside the fire place. I fill with dread and the intruder who barged in is a man. He is faceless, but I know who he is. He pulls out a gun, puts it to the side of my head and whispers something about love or lack of and I feel nothing, but I hear a bang, and I hit the ground.

I watch his feet as he walks out, and I watch as my blood pools around me. Eugene, the spaniel, lays next to me, whimpering but offering no help, and I want to reassure him, but I can not speak. I feel like I’m fading but not quite. I touch the wound on my head and let myself fall back into place.

I am dead.

Invisible Milk

Time has passed, like it always does. I don’t remember how long it’s been, but it’s probably irrelevant. I hurt myself maybe a day ago, but it wasn’t so much hurt as it was having a new and temporary flaw added to my skin. I didn’t feel it, but it was there, and it was bleeding, like most wounds do.

It had me thinking about how maybe being hurt physically is the same as mentally. It’s there and bleeding and obviously ruining what had once before been perfectly okay, but you can not feel it. Maybe this can explain so much more about people.

Being emotionally scarred on an obvious level and having it actually effect you is okay, because then you can target the wound and heal. However, when it’s something you don’t even realize or feel, it could begin to become infected and ruin you and you would never realize it until it was too late and you lost a piece of yourself.

It would be a little time bomb in the back of your mind that you never notice and even though something happened that everyone can see should have damaged you, it’s untraceable, you’ve been cleared.

Perhaps we should all be more aware of ourselves instead of each other, eh?