Lost Riffs - Day Four - when I'm 64
Dark. Bitter. Hate filled. Take my advice - don't read it. I tried to exorcise a demon, and it wouldn't budge. I hate a character and there is nothing on God's green earth that I can do about it. I tried, but it just didn't work.
For the Lost Riff Day Four prompt,
UNTITLED
He had escaped from the island over thirty years ago, and never a day went by that he wasn't haunted by that place. Bad memories and horrific nightmares plagued him, no matter how much he cried or drank or prayed. He spoke about his time there only once, confessing to the only family that he had, ten years after the fact; told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but not so help him God, for God had abandoned him long ago, on the day that he pulled the trigger and then pulled it again.
He looked at the phone in his hand, a thing dead and black and cold, listening to the conversation re-play on an endless loop in his head. Trying one last time to make his boy understand, to make him see that there had been no choice, that he had only done what any parent would have done to save their child. I'm dying, he had said. There was silence on the other end of the line, as there always was, and he cried, then begged forgiveness, as he always did.
Who will mourn me? he sobbed, and finally, finally there was an answer.
"No one."
For the Lost Riff Day Four prompt,
UNTITLED
He had escaped from the island over thirty years ago, and never a day went by that he wasn't haunted by that place. Bad memories and horrific nightmares plagued him, no matter how much he cried or drank or prayed. He spoke about his time there only once, confessing to the only family that he had, ten years after the fact; told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but not so help him God, for God had abandoned him long ago, on the day that he pulled the trigger and then pulled it again.
He looked at the phone in his hand, a thing dead and black and cold, listening to the conversation re-play on an endless loop in his head. Trying one last time to make his boy understand, to make him see that there had been no choice, that he had only done what any parent would have done to save their child. I'm dying, he had said. There was silence on the other end of the line, as there always was, and he cried, then begged forgiveness, as he always did.
Who will mourn me? he sobbed, and finally, finally there was an answer.
"No one."