wow, writeclub
The concept of “can’t” disappears; all you know is “must". Coherent thought has become a luxury unknown to you. On the surface, love. Dig deeper, loneliness.
Already she’s close. The city street surroundings have all but disappeared in your focus. Nothing but a long column of colorless nothing, what the universe was before the universe existed. At the back end of this tube of nothing is the girl. The girl, the one you know can’t exist, because perfection like this is only possible in your mind. Now another figure appears. This tumor of a man, a malignance growing out of her left hand, walking on it's own hideous feet, synchronized with the angel's pace. You know it isn’t possible. Exquisiteness like this cannot, must not have any connection to this….thing. A lover she cannot have, not while you can still move of your own volition. Of course, this won’t last for long. On the surface, love. Dig deeper, jealousy.
Still on course for Heaven, you avert slightly towards where the disease joins your muse. New plan: separate at all costs. Already, in your head, you’re writing your eulogy to him.
With ferocity
You revise your haikus to
Include this man’s death
You feel an unfamiliar protrusion against your hip. A divine intervention, a miracle. Reaching back you feel the smooth grip, the arch, the barrel. This enchanted pistol, confirmation that the gods are on your side. Removing the weapon from your jeans, you start your slow breathing exercises, the ones the shrink recommended to calm you down. A lot of good those sessions did. But hey, at least you were calm as you crept out of his office with blood on your hands. Maybe he was right. On the surface, love. Dig deeper, anticipation.
Gun in hand, murder in mind. The bastard is wearing a grin, aware of nothing. It’s time. You sprint the remaining distance, the last remaining yards of the tunnel of everything and nothing. The grin becomes confusion, becomes terror, as his gaze travels from your panting face to your wrathful eyes, to your recent miracle gift from above. On the surface, love. Dig deeper, a purpose.
As you soar through the air in a flight of feet-first rage, the soon-to-be-in-remission cancer braces itself with useless hands, the hands of a crash victim, protecting against speeding glass shards and shrieking metal. Foot connects with stomach, driving his formerly protected face into your knee. Your beauty cries out, rejoicing in your attempt at her salvation. On the surface, love. Dig deeper, satisfaction. You tower above your catch, your foot on his windpipe, as the monster wheezes out curses, the vulgarity disclosing his low status. You raise your weapon, finally ready to take your prize. Starting at his knee, you squeeze the trigger, his screams silenced by the onset of tinnitus from the gunshot. You anxiously turn to look at your new queen, and see her lips moving, tears in her eyes. These tears of joy, tears of such passion and thankfulness. Her words, while incomprehensible over the ringing, most certainly ones of ardor, not anguish. On the surface, love. Dig deeper, elation.
She reaches out her hands to meet yours, you reach back. One hand connects. She recoils, and quickly reaches for your other hand; the one holding the gun. She looks at you intently, and removes the weapon from your hand. More delighted than ever, you grin as you realize she wants in on the execution, wants to have her own closure with her former sickness. She raises the weapon, but in the wrong direction. Staring down this new tube, one that most certainly has color and substance, your grin becomes confusion, becomes terror. On the surface, love. Dig deeper, betrayal.
As you noiselessly fall on top of your botched sacrifice, terror gives way to smells of sweat, piss, and fear. The scared bastard, he doesn't deserve her. No one does. Haikus flood your mind.
As your eyes roll back
Ringing replaced with sirens
You think your last thoughts.
The bitch, she hit you with a bullet.
Already she’s close. The city street surroundings have all but disappeared in your focus. Nothing but a long column of colorless nothing, what the universe was before the universe existed. At the back end of this tube of nothing is the girl. The girl, the one you know can’t exist, because perfection like this is only possible in your mind. Now another figure appears. This tumor of a man, a malignance growing out of her left hand, walking on it's own hideous feet, synchronized with the angel's pace. You know it isn’t possible. Exquisiteness like this cannot, must not have any connection to this….thing. A lover she cannot have, not while you can still move of your own volition. Of course, this won’t last for long. On the surface, love. Dig deeper, jealousy.
Still on course for Heaven, you avert slightly towards where the disease joins your muse. New plan: separate at all costs. Already, in your head, you’re writing your eulogy to him.
With ferocity
You revise your haikus to
Include this man’s death
You feel an unfamiliar protrusion against your hip. A divine intervention, a miracle. Reaching back you feel the smooth grip, the arch, the barrel. This enchanted pistol, confirmation that the gods are on your side. Removing the weapon from your jeans, you start your slow breathing exercises, the ones the shrink recommended to calm you down. A lot of good those sessions did. But hey, at least you were calm as you crept out of his office with blood on your hands. Maybe he was right. On the surface, love. Dig deeper, anticipation.
Gun in hand, murder in mind. The bastard is wearing a grin, aware of nothing. It’s time. You sprint the remaining distance, the last remaining yards of the tunnel of everything and nothing. The grin becomes confusion, becomes terror, as his gaze travels from your panting face to your wrathful eyes, to your recent miracle gift from above. On the surface, love. Dig deeper, a purpose.
As you soar through the air in a flight of feet-first rage, the soon-to-be-in-remission cancer braces itself with useless hands, the hands of a crash victim, protecting against speeding glass shards and shrieking metal. Foot connects with stomach, driving his formerly protected face into your knee. Your beauty cries out, rejoicing in your attempt at her salvation. On the surface, love. Dig deeper, satisfaction. You tower above your catch, your foot on his windpipe, as the monster wheezes out curses, the vulgarity disclosing his low status. You raise your weapon, finally ready to take your prize. Starting at his knee, you squeeze the trigger, his screams silenced by the onset of tinnitus from the gunshot. You anxiously turn to look at your new queen, and see her lips moving, tears in her eyes. These tears of joy, tears of such passion and thankfulness. Her words, while incomprehensible over the ringing, most certainly ones of ardor, not anguish. On the surface, love. Dig deeper, elation.
She reaches out her hands to meet yours, you reach back. One hand connects. She recoils, and quickly reaches for your other hand; the one holding the gun. She looks at you intently, and removes the weapon from your hand. More delighted than ever, you grin as you realize she wants in on the execution, wants to have her own closure with her former sickness. She raises the weapon, but in the wrong direction. Staring down this new tube, one that most certainly has color and substance, your grin becomes confusion, becomes terror. On the surface, love. Dig deeper, betrayal.
As you noiselessly fall on top of your botched sacrifice, terror gives way to smells of sweat, piss, and fear. The scared bastard, he doesn't deserve her. No one does. Haikus flood your mind.
As your eyes roll back
Ringing replaced with sirens
You think your last thoughts.
The bitch, she hit you with a bullet.