Shaking limbs, cold sweat, night terrors. Symptoms, symptoms. I know these symptoms. I’ve seen them in others, read all about it. There he is. Jack. Bleeding from his stomach. Bullet wound. I can save him. I can staunch the bleeding. He doesn’t have to die. …I’m in my kitchen. I’m not in Kabul. What is that? Something on my face. I slap at it but it doesn’t go away. No, this was a long time ago. Jack’s not here. He’s dead. I wasn’t able to save him. I’m going in shock, I reach for the scotch and the music stops.


I’m a hurricane. A hurricane. The spinning inside me. I feel so good. Want to touch, have to touch. Gotta grab whatever I can, whatever he’ll let me grab. No, wait. I’m sick so sick. Get away! I wanna be alone, gotta be alone! Don’t look at me! Ah! Don’t leave! Touch me. Touch me there. Yeah. Love that feeling, I’m spinning again. Do whatever you want, I won’t fight. Out comes my soul, blinking in the sun like a mole from his hole. Suddenly the cold. I’m ready to rock, I reach for his cock but the music stops.


All the time this downward facing swirl. Never up, never again. No hope for tomorrow. No love for the past. Who would I even call, drowning in this pool of alcohol. The clock on the wall tick tock my life away. Gotta say I never thought it would end this way. One click, one clack and the bang I never hear. Found in the kitchen with a bottle of pills that couldn’t cure my ills. I Meet and I greet the old familiar cold. One last look at the clock, I reach for the glock and make the music stop.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 09.06.2012

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Widmung:
To The Black Swan in all of us. And to Mary Walz, whose dabble inspired me to write my own.