02-05-2008, 11:52 PM
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indent Each night, he dreamt. Each night, the dream was the same. Fire, the screaming, and the hatred he had seen in her eyes. It had been over a year—he had, of course, lost track of time between then and now. The drugs played no small part in that. Each night, he staggered in a daze, watching the world spin around him. He faded in and out, waking in places he could no longer recall. This had happened before. He knew the pattern. It did not shock him that he would find himself covered in blood (whose blood?) or smelling like gasoline (the car, you burnt the car) or half-buried in the rubble of some still collapsing building.
indent They were all gone. All of his children were gone, or hated him, or no longer recognized him. He didn’t recognize himself. Each time he saw his reflection in some dirty glass, some broken window, he had to break it. Something was breaking inside of him, and he didn’t know what it was. All he knew was that (you fucked up) he didn’t know what to do (when have you ever?) and that maybe this was all a mistake.
indent So he walked, no longer realizing what he was doing, walked into that church because he didn’t know where else to go. It wasn’t until he was there that he felt his hands moving, felt the subconscious mechanical reaction, and had drawn the blade. He stood there for a long time, listening to the soft sound of rain outside, smelling the water in the air. Vaguely, he could hear those thousand voices rushing at him, babbling, until finally he heard himself as clear and loud and deadly as the dawn.
indent Everything you’re doing is wrong.
indent The knife went to his arm.
indent They were all gone. All of his children were gone, or hated him, or no longer recognized him. He didn’t recognize himself. Each time he saw his reflection in some dirty glass, some broken window, he had to break it. Something was breaking inside of him, and he didn’t know what it was. All he knew was that (you fucked up) he didn’t know what to do (when have you ever?) and that maybe this was all a mistake.
indent So he walked, no longer realizing what he was doing, walked into that church because he didn’t know where else to go. It wasn’t until he was there that he felt his hands moving, felt the subconscious mechanical reaction, and had drawn the blade. He stood there for a long time, listening to the soft sound of rain outside, smelling the water in the air. Vaguely, he could hear those thousand voices rushing at him, babbling, until finally he heard himself as clear and loud and deadly as the dawn.
indent Everything you’re doing is wrong.
indent The knife went to his arm.