God, Forgive Me
One
He curled up against the sofa like a dying dog, whimpering. No one was there, nothing was there, and everything was empty, even him. He felt the salty liquid leak onto his cheek, then leap to his shirt.
"Don't go!" he screeched, suddenly piercing the deafening silence. "I can't do this on my own..." He whimpered and dug his short fingernails into his own palm. No one came and no one left.
He began to slowly sing, slowly remind himself with someone else's words that he was okay, "Don't go, I can't do this on my own, save me from the ones that haunt me in the night... I can't live with myself, so stay with me tonight..."
He whimpered again, feeling a grief that he couldn't place, one that he couldn't explain. No one came and no one left, but every moment was a struggle for a grasp and a breath. No one came and no one left, but still he felt broken.
He couldn't grip the material of the sofa, it was sewed down so tight. He couldn't dig his fingernails in for life.
He choked as he sputtered a small, "Don't go!"
His fingers slipped out of the sofa's suede, ungraspable grip and slithered to his room. In the night stand lay the shiny metal bullet and a pistol beside it. He was reminded of tenth grade English and reading a poem about a man named Richard Cory.
He put the gun to his temple, taking in a breath...
BANG!
The bullet hit like a tiny pellet in his brain, penetrating only the inner most cores of it and shooting a stream of blood out the other side. Even as he fell, it continued. Even though he was dead, it ran like he was alive.
No one came and no one left.
No one came and no one left.
"Don't go!" he screeched, suddenly piercing the deafening silence. "I can't do this on my own..." He whimpered and dug his short fingernails into his own palm. No one came and no one left.
He began to slowly sing, slowly remind himself with someone else's words that he was okay, "Don't go, I can't do this on my own, save me from the ones that haunt me in the night... I can't live with myself, so stay with me tonight..."
He whimpered again, feeling a grief that he couldn't place, one that he couldn't explain. No one came and no one left, but every moment was a struggle for a grasp and a breath. No one came and no one left, but still he felt broken.
He couldn't grip the material of the sofa, it was sewed down so tight. He couldn't dig his fingernails in for life.
He choked as he sputtered a small, "Don't go!"
His fingers slipped out of the sofa's suede, ungraspable grip and slithered to his room. In the night stand lay the shiny metal bullet and a pistol beside it. He was reminded of tenth grade English and reading a poem about a man named Richard Cory.
He put the gun to his temple, taking in a breath...
BANG!
The bullet hit like a tiny pellet in his brain, penetrating only the inner most cores of it and shooting a stream of blood out the other side. Even as he fell, it continued. Even though he was dead, it ran like he was alive.
No one came and no one left.
No one came and no one left.