60 :
What does she do?
She waits. She tried to pick up the pieces again, like we always do. Try to carry on, as if somehow this interruption, this moment of madness, the cutting off of this life is somehow normal, usual, as if this is the way that things always are, as if somehow things like murder, as if they are normal.
Everything else seems normal. As if everything else is normal, usual. Things carry on, sort of. Postmen still deliver letters. The sun rises, sets. The planet still revolves at thousands of miles, orbiting a ball of fire, spinning in endless rotation, gravity perpetually sucking us onto the face of the planet.
And in the space where I used to be there was nothing. Tides crawled slowly back over the sand, wiping away my footprints, and soon there was no trace that there was ever a me. In time, these things continue. One day she will go to the Supermarket, lost and alone and scared, but there she will go, buying for one. One day a corner of a smile will light up her face, a chink of light will punch through the night, one day she will go again to work, one day she will make a new friend who never knew her life with me in it, one day she will lean forward to a man and the air will be charged with the chemistry as lips meet for the first time, as hands and fingers curl inside others, and then one day, he will see her naked, and she will try to wipe away the memory that the last person who saw her naked died because of that fact.
And this is how life is.
Except one day, as she walks to the shops, her coat moving elegantly with the beauty of nature, and if I were a mere insect crawling on a wall I would worship her, this beautiful creature, this amazing feat of physical engineering that can prove that there is something beyond mere chance that brought us all, the woman who brought me to believe, and somehow something goes wrong.
And it goes dark. A shroud descends over the sunlight. And there’s nothing I can do. Nothing I can do. Except I know that I must do something.
Taking a shortcut after visiting the 24 hour supermarket. A momentary lapse of concentration. One that could cost you you’re life. It only takes a second to die.
I am not a hero. I am not a hero. I am an ordinary man in extraordinary circumstances, doing extraordinary things, not because I want to be extraordinary, but because I have to. And maybe once, maybe twice, in our lives, the moments when one saves a drowning child, where one saves the life of someone else, we become a hero for a moment. Maybe only a moment. But a moment is all that we need. There is no more that one needs. We are not heroes. We ar eordinary people in extraordinary situations.
And in that moment, the world changes slightly. The axis shifts. One good deed undoes all the evil and the grime and the shit. And the world is a better place, if only for a moment.
And it is in those moments I know that the time to act is now. There is no other time for me, to act, to do somefuckingthing. Time is through.
Inside the van, her legs screaming, panicking, kicking, her voice raised into the shrill type of scream, the kind of hopeless, desperate panic that those who know that life has changed forever and it can never be the same live with their every blood cell, there is no option, no choice, just one choice. Survive at all costs.
And how much more of this shit can anyone take? Some of us fight. Some of us surrender. Some of us would just shrug, play dead, wonder when exactly this bad joke called life would finally get it’s punchline. Tha last laugh. And he who laughs last laughs alone.
And, on a deserted street, the van starts rocking. Bodies panic. A voice, desperately familiar, barks commands. “Shut Her The Fuck Up!” And from nowhere, she is aware of something coming over her mouth, her desperately fighting, flailing limbs of blind panic, the smell of chloroform pressed deep over her mouth, her nose, and everything changes, everything goes white and black at the same time, her body struggles, fighting against the dying of the light, and the body sighs, the body relaxes, the muscles tense and unravel, go limp.
And that is how he kidnapped the woman I love.
She waits. She tried to pick up the pieces again, like we always do. Try to carry on, as if somehow this interruption, this moment of madness, the cutting off of this life is somehow normal, usual, as if this is the way that things always are, as if somehow things like murder, as if they are normal.
Everything else seems normal. As if everything else is normal, usual. Things carry on, sort of. Postmen still deliver letters. The sun rises, sets. The planet still revolves at thousands of miles, orbiting a ball of fire, spinning in endless rotation, gravity perpetually sucking us onto the face of the planet.
And in the space where I used to be there was nothing. Tides crawled slowly back over the sand, wiping away my footprints, and soon there was no trace that there was ever a me. In time, these things continue. One day she will go to the Supermarket, lost and alone and scared, but there she will go, buying for one. One day a corner of a smile will light up her face, a chink of light will punch through the night, one day she will go again to work, one day she will make a new friend who never knew her life with me in it, one day she will lean forward to a man and the air will be charged with the chemistry as lips meet for the first time, as hands and fingers curl inside others, and then one day, he will see her naked, and she will try to wipe away the memory that the last person who saw her naked died because of that fact.
And this is how life is.
Except one day, as she walks to the shops, her coat moving elegantly with the beauty of nature, and if I were a mere insect crawling on a wall I would worship her, this beautiful creature, this amazing feat of physical engineering that can prove that there is something beyond mere chance that brought us all, the woman who brought me to believe, and somehow something goes wrong.
And it goes dark. A shroud descends over the sunlight. And there’s nothing I can do. Nothing I can do. Except I know that I must do something.
Taking a shortcut after visiting the 24 hour supermarket. A momentary lapse of concentration. One that could cost you you’re life. It only takes a second to die.
I am not a hero. I am not a hero. I am an ordinary man in extraordinary circumstances, doing extraordinary things, not because I want to be extraordinary, but because I have to. And maybe once, maybe twice, in our lives, the moments when one saves a drowning child, where one saves the life of someone else, we become a hero for a moment. Maybe only a moment. But a moment is all that we need. There is no more that one needs. We are not heroes. We ar eordinary people in extraordinary situations.
And in that moment, the world changes slightly. The axis shifts. One good deed undoes all the evil and the grime and the shit. And the world is a better place, if only for a moment.
And it is in those moments I know that the time to act is now. There is no other time for me, to act, to do somefuckingthing. Time is through.
Inside the van, her legs screaming, panicking, kicking, her voice raised into the shrill type of scream, the kind of hopeless, desperate panic that those who know that life has changed forever and it can never be the same live with their every blood cell, there is no option, no choice, just one choice. Survive at all costs.
And how much more of this shit can anyone take? Some of us fight. Some of us surrender. Some of us would just shrug, play dead, wonder when exactly this bad joke called life would finally get it’s punchline. Tha last laugh. And he who laughs last laughs alone.
And, on a deserted street, the van starts rocking. Bodies panic. A voice, desperately familiar, barks commands. “Shut Her The Fuck Up!” And from nowhere, she is aware of something coming over her mouth, her desperately fighting, flailing limbs of blind panic, the smell of chloroform pressed deep over her mouth, her nose, and everything changes, everything goes white and black at the same time, her body struggles, fighting against the dying of the light, and the body sighs, the body relaxes, the muscles tense and unravel, go limp.
And that is how he kidnapped the woman I love.
posted by Mark at 6:53 AM
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