Victim

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A discriminating sunrise hits the peak of the hills every morning. It hides behind a large tree, with branching limbs.  Now there is a cry in the night and a weary eye the next day. Now there’s a flash of emotion and a lost soul. It’s difficult to say when it will end or when it had begun. The world has diminished the very essence of life to a polarizing tool of destruction. A broken soul is now washed away because they have no comfort in the open. A young mother wakes one morning and drowns in toil, because she can’t feel the presence of the son she had held the day before. A father comes home from a long day at work, and has no idea what is happening. He calls for his son, and has that anticipation in his gut of the image of his face. He laughs and calls out for his son once more. A game of hide and seek, he assumes. Like always. He looks all around the house, through the pantry, around the corner, in the garage, in the laundry room. He’s smirking. “You’ve gotten good boy!” He decides to look in his room up the stairs. His shirt stained with the long work day’s work, and his eye’s wandering like a gracious young man receiving his first kiss, or his first car. The stairs heavy on his legs and back. He’s a young man, married just a year ago. When he sets foot at the top of the stairs, he smelt the perfume of his sweet wife. He heard commotion, and a clangor behind the closed door of his son’s room. He was now worried. He heard tears and felt the fear. He opened the door cautiously. On the floor by the bedside was his wife, the mother of his son, in tears, choking under the weight of the moment. “What’s wrong?” She closes her eyes and points towards the TV screen. The news channel running, he collapsed when he saw it. It was the name of his son, identified as the victim of a terrible destruction. He lay there next to his wife, holding her tightly. Hoping that he will come back. That maybe he will be given back from the heavens, like he is a stolen soul, a hopeful restitution that would never come.

Social media clammers, his son’s phone lays at the head of the bed buzzing. Facetious talk down newsfeed, some sympathy, some cruel tweets, and a revulsion amongst a majority. The father’s ears ring and his throat feels tight. A tear falls onto the bed sheets and slithers onto the newly installed wooden floorboards. The tears feel like a piece of his life escaping him. His arms grow heavy, as does his wife’s. They lay dead, void of life. Any more indication of their boy’s death would be superfluous, because they’ve gone through it all, but the TV, the men and women on the screen continue to discuss. Then in a matter of days, it passes over like a terrible storm. The heart still torn but now another story is out there, but there boy is still that constant missing piece. The deluge of raining fear settles within the household, and the tears now blood. The compatibility now gone between the couple. They gather their things, and burn down the past. The wooden panels crumble and the TV collapses. The screen of flames mask their emotions at the moment. They both feel empty, that is about the only thing they feel they share. The only thing they had taken with them out of that house, was the family gun. The morning was young that day, they stand before the burning house, gripping each other with envy of their past selves. A few tweets are sent out around the friendly neighborhood, and the clouds converge overhead. The man holds the gun to his wife’s forehead, and she tightly shuts her eyes. The slither of sunlight that slithered through the small voids of the clouds, had beat down on the outer coating of the weapon, exuding the morning heat onto the palms of the man. His palms now sweating, and his heart beating through his chest, he obliged with the inevitable evil that was to commence. A pulsing indention when he pulled the trigger and a recoil that turned the man’s wrist back, as his wife’s body propel backward. Birds fly from the foliage in the front yard. He blows out some air and swallows his fear and turns the weapon on himself. The end had come for him as well. His eyes fixated on the barrel of the gun, then he did it. Two dreaded, lost souls shredded to pieces, lay on the uneven pavement. The heart that was thumping through the man’s chest no more, and the tears that fell from the woman’s soul only hidden beneath the surface. It was only expedient now for the aid, the help to come, but they did not come for some time, only the bad weather did. The storm drew it’s sorrow onto the two figures down below. Their skin now wizened in the broken moment. They were buried by their son. Only a few attended their funeral, but many implied they would be there in spirit.

The grass lay still the next morning, as if it had some things to figure out, and the sun now seemed dimmer. The burned house was still as it was. It stuck out like a sore thumb, and the wind passed by it with no worry because life went on, or that’s what they say it does. It was difficult to tell if there was any remorse, any melancholy that was real. It felt real but nature did its turn as it always did, following its own schedule, and washing away any evidence of the past. The flames drew away, and the phone that lay on the head of the bed wash away with it. It now is set on the head of the tomb stone, gravely staring at its owner, waiting to be held, to be in a position of comfort. Dappled stains of blood lay on the curtain of society and everyone attempts to wash it away. Not all the scars are perspicuous, some are hidden. So riots fight, and things continue. Protests take hold of the moment, and take influence by history’s notions, but still it continues. An omnipresent guilt reigns supreme over everyones head, and a ominous eye watches the field of yielding crime. But here comes the sunrise again, and the moon hides behind.

 

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