A Slab of Granite and a Cigarette
The wind blows across the desert, kicking up the sand and whipping at the coat of the last man. His wide brimmed hat keeps the sun from his face, his coat, collar up, keeps the hostile earth from his body. His boots have taken him on the longest and the last journey across his world. At the finish he stands head down, hands burrowed down deep into the empty pockets of his coat. He has finished in the same place he had begun, standing at a gravestone under which no body is buried.
We built ourselves a home of this place. We built ourselves somewhere to belong and to live out all of our days in peace. We gave no thought to what would become of it when we were gone. The empty shell of the greatest mistake of all time. The box it all came in.
The corners of his mouth turn up into a smile. The last man raises his head to the scorched sky of the desert and closes his eyes against the sun.
There never was such a thing as the norm. Nothing unique enough to be the same, only things that fit together and things that did not. There was no possible way for us to fit the jigsaw together without seeing the picture, or the pieces. Different parts of the same puzzle laid out in the wrong order, a myriad of tones and shapes. There were always some pieces that needed to be twisted and bent to fit. Some that broke. We were broken from the start.
The last man opens his eyes and a hand emerges from his pocket to distract the sun long enough for him to look at the sky. He remembers the others, the ones who didn’t fit. Not because they were different, at least not entirely.
Graham and his fires, the ones he set and the ones reflected in his eyes. The scent of ashes still lingers over me. That one is better off dead.
Alone in the desert, he drops his head back to stare fixedly at the grave. His hand reaches into his coat and pulls out a cigarette. He holds it in his teeth and the hand moves back into the coat and pulls out a lighter. He smokes quietly for some time.
Tony was so normal on the surface. He had the job, the wife, the children and the good life. It was all written clear as day on his smile. He worked his days to earn his life, ate his food, taught his children and made love to his wife, then would recede smiling backwards into his Anger room. The door only closed on one side.
The last man pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and examines it for a moment before flicking it out onto the grave. He puts his boot down and grinds it into the sand, blowing the last of the smoke into the wind. His coat flaps at his legs, he pulls his arms out of the coats pockets and folds them in front of him. His one hand resting on his shoulder.
Gloria. Long dark hair, sharp as a knife. The grave recalls, the name of it’s children still torn into its stone lips.
Dead, she was killed a long time ago. Run down and pulped against the road with a hundred people watching who saw nothing.
Richard.
He died too. At the end, they shot him until he just fell out of the sky.
Colin.
Dead. I locked him in the Anger room with Tony.
Marc.
Dead.
Dead.
He turns his back on the grave and starts walking away. He walks to the north were he could perhaps find another journey. Only pain waits for him at the grave, he’s not ready for it yet.
I will come back when I’m ready.
He leaves the desert alone with a slab of granite and a cigarette.
We built ourselves a home of this place. We built ourselves somewhere to belong and to live out all of our days in peace. We gave no thought to what would become of it when we were gone. The empty shell of the greatest mistake of all time. The box it all came in.
The corners of his mouth turn up into a smile. The last man raises his head to the scorched sky of the desert and closes his eyes against the sun.
There never was such a thing as the norm. Nothing unique enough to be the same, only things that fit together and things that did not. There was no possible way for us to fit the jigsaw together without seeing the picture, or the pieces. Different parts of the same puzzle laid out in the wrong order, a myriad of tones and shapes. There were always some pieces that needed to be twisted and bent to fit. Some that broke. We were broken from the start.
The last man opens his eyes and a hand emerges from his pocket to distract the sun long enough for him to look at the sky. He remembers the others, the ones who didn’t fit. Not because they were different, at least not entirely.
Graham and his fires, the ones he set and the ones reflected in his eyes. The scent of ashes still lingers over me. That one is better off dead.
Alone in the desert, he drops his head back to stare fixedly at the grave. His hand reaches into his coat and pulls out a cigarette. He holds it in his teeth and the hand moves back into the coat and pulls out a lighter. He smokes quietly for some time.
Tony was so normal on the surface. He had the job, the wife, the children and the good life. It was all written clear as day on his smile. He worked his days to earn his life, ate his food, taught his children and made love to his wife, then would recede smiling backwards into his Anger room. The door only closed on one side.
The last man pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and examines it for a moment before flicking it out onto the grave. He puts his boot down and grinds it into the sand, blowing the last of the smoke into the wind. His coat flaps at his legs, he pulls his arms out of the coats pockets and folds them in front of him. His one hand resting on his shoulder.
Gloria. Long dark hair, sharp as a knife. The grave recalls, the name of it’s children still torn into its stone lips.
Dead, she was killed a long time ago. Run down and pulped against the road with a hundred people watching who saw nothing.
Richard.
He died too. At the end, they shot him until he just fell out of the sky.
Colin.
Dead. I locked him in the Anger room with Tony.
Marc.
Dead.
Dead.
He turns his back on the grave and starts walking away. He walks to the north were he could perhaps find another journey. Only pain waits for him at the grave, he’s not ready for it yet.
I will come back when I’m ready.
He leaves the desert alone with a slab of granite and a cigarette.