Status: Frozen.
Crying Skies, Lonely Nights
Chapter 3-Panic Switch
Retard. Dumbass. Idiot. Hypocrite. Naïve. Words I could and should use to characterize myself at that time.
It’s wasn’t that same old cliché crap of “I fear nothing.” It was my admiration for those fictious heroes I saw on television, my obsession to be like them that drove me to jump on the thief. What could have been different if I didn’t do it? Did my dumb acts save me? Or could I be dead right now? If I didn’t change my mind and decided to run away with my mother, what could have happened? This very line could change my whole life forever. Now, let’s cut the Butterfly Effect crap, please. The point is, I abandoned my childish fantasies and ran away, period. I’d bet it was because of our primitive instincts, putting survival first, but I’m damn me, unfortunately.
I carried my mother’s body like every mother deserves to be carried when they become decrepit old ladies: dragging her through the room like she was some sort of cheap, heavy package. Now tell me I’m a nice son. I have a certain felling I’m straying a lot from the point here, since I’m doing nothing useful. This looks like a diary. I hate me.
I dragged my mother with a lot of effort, towards the fragile ray of hope that appeared in that room: The moon.
The wind had pushed the curtain away for a second, showing me the way.
The senseless shooting was the soundtrack for my heroic act. I could feel the wind being ripped by the bullets, coming without direction close to me.
I reached the broken window and let go of my mother’s hand for an instant, so I could break the rest of the glass.
Job done, I grabbed my mother’s hand once again and slowly left the building through the window, with my other hand bleeding.
The fire stairs were our salvation, as we slowly went descending them: The little boy, leaving a track of blood and his mother, her unawake body being dragged by her son, hitting against every step of the stairs.
Down there, far away from the shooter, the street was serene. No light was seen. Nothing was heard, except from the faraway noise of the bullets. The unavoidable cape of death did not cover us. Or so I hoped.
It’s wasn’t that same old cliché crap of “I fear nothing.” It was my admiration for those fictious heroes I saw on television, my obsession to be like them that drove me to jump on the thief. What could have been different if I didn’t do it? Did my dumb acts save me? Or could I be dead right now? If I didn’t change my mind and decided to run away with my mother, what could have happened? This very line could change my whole life forever. Now, let’s cut the Butterfly Effect crap, please. The point is, I abandoned my childish fantasies and ran away, period. I’d bet it was because of our primitive instincts, putting survival first, but I’m damn me, unfortunately.
I carried my mother’s body like every mother deserves to be carried when they become decrepit old ladies: dragging her through the room like she was some sort of cheap, heavy package. Now tell me I’m a nice son. I have a certain felling I’m straying a lot from the point here, since I’m doing nothing useful. This looks like a diary. I hate me.
I dragged my mother with a lot of effort, towards the fragile ray of hope that appeared in that room: The moon.
The wind had pushed the curtain away for a second, showing me the way.
The senseless shooting was the soundtrack for my heroic act. I could feel the wind being ripped by the bullets, coming without direction close to me.
I reached the broken window and let go of my mother’s hand for an instant, so I could break the rest of the glass.
Job done, I grabbed my mother’s hand once again and slowly left the building through the window, with my other hand bleeding.
The fire stairs were our salvation, as we slowly went descending them: The little boy, leaving a track of blood and his mother, her unawake body being dragged by her son, hitting against every step of the stairs.
Down there, far away from the shooter, the street was serene. No light was seen. Nothing was heard, except from the faraway noise of the bullets. The unavoidable cape of death did not cover us. Or so I hoped.
♠ ♠ ♠
The name of the chapter is the name of a song I like. Simbolizes the panic D felt and stuff. It took me a while to write this chapter, and as you can see, on this one D expresses himself more, like a diary, which somehow was my intention.