Maybe you don’t see it when I push you down,
Maybe it’s invisible to your eyes,
Maybe when I laugh at your tears,
Maybe you can’t see behind my lies.
I know that I’ve hurt you,
I know you’re in pain,
And I know you can’t see round
The smile that I feign.
Every time that I break you,
Every time you fall cause of me,
I see my own pain reflected,
And her bottle of whiskey.
Maybe you never noticed,
When i walk home at night,
The bruises and cuts,
From the previous fight.
The smell of the alcohol ,
Fresh on her breath,
The swing of a fist,
Curses wishing my death.
I hate her, i hated her,
Now she lies in her grave,
I never had time to,
Return what she gave.
Now you chain me up,
Lock my door with a click,
Hate me forever,
Think I’m so sick.
This anger i feel,
It’s not my own,
It’s what she’s never given,
Is the love I’ve never known.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Pull the Trigger
In my experience, those who beg for mercy rarely deserve it. It’s criminal, the way human emotions are so easily swayed by the merest glimmer of a tear in an eye, or a dry sob of fear. Anger can so easily be turned to pity, hatred so quickly turned to fear. And all because there is that part of us that is so innocent. So wanting the world to be a perfect place. And yet some people don’t see the fear.
As I stood above him, my gun trained on his forehead, the cold weight of the trigger so reassuring in my hand, I saw the fear in his eyes. Those horrible little squinty eyes and crooked nose that fell slightly to one side of his ugly wrinkled face. I hated that face. I hated the way he breathed so raggedly, the way he licked his dry lips and the way the muscle under his left eye twitched out of control.
His eyes quivered, the black pupils dilating in fear. He shuddered under the point of my gun like a little girl, in no way a man. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his wrinkled, sun marked skin.
“Please,” he whispered under his breath, barely able to create the words, “Please.”
I drank in his fear. It was beautiful, his horror and distress. I loved it. Was this how he had felt when he had turned his gun on her? Did he feel this great rush in his body when he had pulled the trigger of the gun? When she had hit the ground, had he felt satisfaction?
I shook myself mentally. The street around us was dark, the glow of distant headlights too far away for him to run. I knew that, and he knew that.
I shrug my coat closer to me, the rain dampening my clothes and drenching my hair. I know I’m stalling for time, know that he can see it too.
“You don’t remember me do you?” I say, trying to distract him from my own reluctance.
He squints at me from under his mane of grizzled dark hair. I can almost see the cogs turning in his head, working hard to place my face.
I hadn’t expected him to remember. It had been almost a year now, and we’d only seen each other for a fleeting glance. I imagine he’d not thought of me for more than a moment as he had run from the train station, fleeing from the oncoming police. I remember the cold of the cement floor when my knees had hit it. I remember the blood staining my jeans as i reached for her limp head, covered in her own blood, already drying. Her new dress was ruined with the red tide that spread across the floor.
Ben had been crying. I remember not being able to lift my hands enough to take him from her lifeless arms. He continued to cry, confused by the sudden absence of warmth from her body.
“You didn’t even have to kill her,” rain poured down my face and into my eyes, running down my cheeks, “She didn’t have to die.”
I could see the sudden realisation rising in his face. He would remember now, the day he’d run through the station in that black leather jacket and wool cap, the gun hidden under his arm.
“It was an accident,” he stuttered, rising a little from the seated position he had taken on his heels, “I didn’t mean to kill her.”
“It was her birthday,” I whispered, the memory of the golden locket I had saved up for, put aside money every payday till her birthday.
“Hey, man, I didn’t know,” he scooted forward, arms still raised in surrender, holding his head to the side of the gun.
I turned the gun back on him, holding him at bay. But my hand was shaking with rage.
“You didn’t see the baby, did you? My son. What’s he suppose to do without his mother? Did you think of that?” I screamed, my anger getting the better of me.
He fell back again. I could see my own face, contorted with rage, in his large fearful eyes. I looked older, darker then I had a year ago. Now my cheeks looked gaunt and pale, my eyes haunted with a wisdom that I could have done without. It had been so long since I had looked in a mirror, I didn’t recognise myself.
“You will pay,” I narrowed my eyes, composing myself once more.
“Look, man, this....you don’t...,” he stuttered, trying desperately to find a way to talk himself out of the situation.
“You have to pay,” I repeated myself, taking another step forward.
I could feel the adrenaline rising up in my heart, making it pound loudly in my chest. I had been waiting so long for this moment. I’d hardened myself, planned for so long, searched far and wide and now I had him, under the point of my own gun, begging me for mercy. The same mercy he’d denied her so many years ago.
I took a deep breath, my hand tightening on the handle of the gun. This was it, the moment i had been waiting for, breathing for, living for for the past year. This was it.
Suddenly headlights shone in my eyes. Blue and red lights flashed brightly in the darkness, blinding me and throwing his shadow across the ground.
“Drop the gun,” a magnified voice boomed around me.
“I sentence you to eight years for attempted murder,” the bang of the gavel rang through my head.
My eyes fell to the ground. The chains around my wrists were cold and hard.
I felt his breath on the back of my neck, the stench of his sweat stinging my nose.
“Someone has to pay,” he whispered, before turning and heading toward the door.
As I stood above him, my gun trained on his forehead, the cold weight of the trigger so reassuring in my hand, I saw the fear in his eyes. Those horrible little squinty eyes and crooked nose that fell slightly to one side of his ugly wrinkled face. I hated that face. I hated the way he breathed so raggedly, the way he licked his dry lips and the way the muscle under his left eye twitched out of control.
His eyes quivered, the black pupils dilating in fear. He shuddered under the point of my gun like a little girl, in no way a man. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his wrinkled, sun marked skin.
“Please,” he whispered under his breath, barely able to create the words, “Please.”
I drank in his fear. It was beautiful, his horror and distress. I loved it. Was this how he had felt when he had turned his gun on her? Did he feel this great rush in his body when he had pulled the trigger of the gun? When she had hit the ground, had he felt satisfaction?
I shook myself mentally. The street around us was dark, the glow of distant headlights too far away for him to run. I knew that, and he knew that.
I shrug my coat closer to me, the rain dampening my clothes and drenching my hair. I know I’m stalling for time, know that he can see it too.
“You don’t remember me do you?” I say, trying to distract him from my own reluctance.
He squints at me from under his mane of grizzled dark hair. I can almost see the cogs turning in his head, working hard to place my face.
I hadn’t expected him to remember. It had been almost a year now, and we’d only seen each other for a fleeting glance. I imagine he’d not thought of me for more than a moment as he had run from the train station, fleeing from the oncoming police. I remember the cold of the cement floor when my knees had hit it. I remember the blood staining my jeans as i reached for her limp head, covered in her own blood, already drying. Her new dress was ruined with the red tide that spread across the floor.
Ben had been crying. I remember not being able to lift my hands enough to take him from her lifeless arms. He continued to cry, confused by the sudden absence of warmth from her body.
“You didn’t even have to kill her,” rain poured down my face and into my eyes, running down my cheeks, “She didn’t have to die.”
I could see the sudden realisation rising in his face. He would remember now, the day he’d run through the station in that black leather jacket and wool cap, the gun hidden under his arm.
“It was an accident,” he stuttered, rising a little from the seated position he had taken on his heels, “I didn’t mean to kill her.”
“It was her birthday,” I whispered, the memory of the golden locket I had saved up for, put aside money every payday till her birthday.
“Hey, man, I didn’t know,” he scooted forward, arms still raised in surrender, holding his head to the side of the gun.
I turned the gun back on him, holding him at bay. But my hand was shaking with rage.
“You didn’t see the baby, did you? My son. What’s he suppose to do without his mother? Did you think of that?” I screamed, my anger getting the better of me.
He fell back again. I could see my own face, contorted with rage, in his large fearful eyes. I looked older, darker then I had a year ago. Now my cheeks looked gaunt and pale, my eyes haunted with a wisdom that I could have done without. It had been so long since I had looked in a mirror, I didn’t recognise myself.
“You will pay,” I narrowed my eyes, composing myself once more.
“Look, man, this....you don’t...,” he stuttered, trying desperately to find a way to talk himself out of the situation.
“You have to pay,” I repeated myself, taking another step forward.
I could feel the adrenaline rising up in my heart, making it pound loudly in my chest. I had been waiting so long for this moment. I’d hardened myself, planned for so long, searched far and wide and now I had him, under the point of my own gun, begging me for mercy. The same mercy he’d denied her so many years ago.
I took a deep breath, my hand tightening on the handle of the gun. This was it, the moment i had been waiting for, breathing for, living for for the past year. This was it.
Suddenly headlights shone in my eyes. Blue and red lights flashed brightly in the darkness, blinding me and throwing his shadow across the ground.
“Drop the gun,” a magnified voice boomed around me.
“I sentence you to eight years for attempted murder,” the bang of the gavel rang through my head.
My eyes fell to the ground. The chains around my wrists were cold and hard.
I felt his breath on the back of my neck, the stench of his sweat stinging my nose.
“Someone has to pay,” he whispered, before turning and heading toward the door.
Am i getting old?
I've been doing a camp this week with Whizzkids in NUIG. The camp starts at the age of ten and it goes up the fifteen. So i am the oldest. At first i thought, damn it, this is going to be like really awkward. but since its started, i've felt like i've actually gotten younger. i really wish i was that age again, even though i spent those precious years wishing i was fifteen.
Youth maybe wasted on the young, but age is wasted on the old. i spent time after time wishing i was fifteen, thinking how great it would be to date guys, get my first kiss, go to discos and what not. But now i'm on the otherside of the curtian, how much i wish i could go back to not caring about these things, to believe that they would all be so wonderful, when to be honest, not that great. Teens involve a lot of drama, and i can tell you, fifteen ain't no walk in the park. There's hormons and rejections, rejecting suitors and loosing friends you thought you'd never loose.
And i watch these eleven year olds running around, playing rounders or soccer, not caring who's a guy and who's a girl, and i gotta tell ya, seems like more fun to me then the drama of the teenage years. And I'm only half way through it. It only gets worse from here. More responsibility, more drama, more heart breaks. what did i ever see in being a teen?
Youth maybe wasted on the young, but age is wasted on the old. i spent time after time wishing i was fifteen, thinking how great it would be to date guys, get my first kiss, go to discos and what not. But now i'm on the otherside of the curtian, how much i wish i could go back to not caring about these things, to believe that they would all be so wonderful, when to be honest, not that great. Teens involve a lot of drama, and i can tell you, fifteen ain't no walk in the park. There's hormons and rejections, rejecting suitors and loosing friends you thought you'd never loose.
And i watch these eleven year olds running around, playing rounders or soccer, not caring who's a guy and who's a girl, and i gotta tell ya, seems like more fun to me then the drama of the teenage years. And I'm only half way through it. It only gets worse from here. More responsibility, more drama, more heart breaks. what did i ever see in being a teen?
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