A Haiku

Two Chasms Collide

Silk flowing through my branches

Life's apex approaches 

Cherry Blossom

 In the fields of bloodied roses

Trampled stems, Stolen thorns 

Wilted petals that can never grow back.

Under the splattered cherry blossoms

Lies a lone tulip 

Left to witness the burning corpses

Of all those who have passed its place

Nothing left of them to remember 

But congealed stains of black

Scabs on blades of Grass

Its bell hangs far too low

Dragging its head through the dirt

Its color fading with each cycle of the moon

The cherry blossoms trunk never falters

Its roots entwined with the tulip

Trapped forever within its grasp 

Slowly pulling the bell out of the dirt

Unfolding all the creases in my petals

Finally accepting the nurture of the sun

Rain washes away the scabs

The Blossoms trunk grows ever stronger

Hidden along its loving shadow

A second bell sprouts anew

Lonesome no more

For Tulips there will be two

"Lei"

The human mind is all too powerful. It is nature's super computer. Capable of creating this hydron collider of emotions that cannot even be analyzed. It is the very thing commanding this mechanical calcium that runs on hemoglobin oils in order to create this very binary sequence you read. 

Is that what all this boils down to? Just a bunch of meaningless bits of data controlled by an otherworldly figure. Sometimes I feel like my harddrive is being overwritten. And only fragments of past recordings linger. Is this enough to prove they exist? This uncertainty haunts me. 

I've been having these... Strange dreams lately. I wake up barely knowing who I am. A bed soaked in sweat and my body filled with imaginary emotions of people that never existed. The average dream is only 5-20 minutes. In span faster than your daytime telenovelas I have manifested an entire separate existence that feels completely familiar to me. Even now that I'm awake it still does. 

Usually You're supposed to forget your dreams once you rise but a day has passed and yet I still feel everything I felt at the time. 

Now that I'm awake I feel empty. Disappointed that my creations are no longer real. How can I miss a feeling I manifested? Let alone these imaginary people I find in my dreams. 

I remember every last sensation. 

I remember feeling the boredom required to randomly go to Walmart. I remember feeling my erection pulsating in the palm of my hand as I walked down the street as though this is completely normal. I approached the storefront calm and flacid. I walked through the aisles playing with the odds and ends on the clearance shelves as I passed by. I eventually came to a storage area with cubic meter sized crates set like stairs. On one of the crates was a young woman working on her laptop as if that was normal. Enamored, I decided to sit behind her, perhaps engage in a conversation perhaps more. I remember feeling the butterflies. I noticed under the flap of her gray quarter zip her phone stuck out of her back pocket— barely hanging on as its corner is smothered between the perfect curve of her jeans and the crate. God how I wish that were me. I curiously pick the phone out of her pocket and examine her lockscreen. It had a group photo of her and her friends all around the same age. Her battery was at 52%. Next to the battery Icon there was an email notification which told me her name was Lei. "That's cute" I thought. 

As I mentally prepared to start a conversation I mindlessly shoved her phone in my own front pocket. "Hey" I said. 

"Uhm.. hi?" Lei scowled

As if starting a conversation on top of a Walmart crate wasn't entirely normal to begin with. 

"So.. you come here often?"

"No." She said. "And no to anything else you're about to ask me" as she looked me up and down. 

"From the moment you sat behind me I knew you were interested, no one fucking does that."

I remember feeling embarrassed

I do my best to hold my composure. "I'm sorry- I just- I saw you and-- okay I'm sorry you're just pretty" I promptly exited the store as her friends from the lockscreen began approaching to 'rescue' her from my presence. 

I remember feeling so fucking stupid 

I was a good few blocks from the Walmart now, "Only a few more until the bus stop home" I thought. 

Just then I felt an unfamiliar buzzing in my pants. Then I noticed both my front pockets had a rectangular bulge. "FUCK" I accidentally stole her phone. 

I make my way back to the Walmart. I see the girls from the lockscreen scouring the front of the store but they pay no attention to me. They're just looking for the phone. I weave my way around to the storage crates in hopes of running into Lei again. I just want to return it to her personally. 

Making my way back to the front of the store I found her again and said. "Hey, uh sorry to bother you again but is your name Lei by any chance?"

Frantically still searching the floor she answers "Yeah why?" 

"Oh then this must be yours." As I hand her back her phone I explain that I found it on the floor near the storage crates. "I've been trying to find you again to return it". She buys my bullshit and thanks me. She stands up and says "Hey, you wanna go out sometime?" 

I remember feeling the explosion of joy

Then... I woke up. Nothing was real. I felt all of it. Even though it's all just dream nonsense... Why is it so indistinguishable from reality. It really makes me question everything I've experienced up to this point. I'm terrified that the next time I lay down I'm simply going to wake from the last 20 years of my existence.

Brittle Fragments

The weight of this screaming flesh ails me
Inflation further decreases my value.

Bones set in place, built to carry
not meant to bend.
So they shatter,
not meant to mend,
undone by the mortar and pestle
of gravity.
Arrowheads of calcium--
lodged in meaty fiber.

We are inefficient creatures,
yet to make our fourteenth lap around the sun.
Plato would mark us unfinished
unfit and unfixable.
It takes so long for them to heal.
No stitch makes us whole again.

This is our destiny. Only left to break.
Human beings, born to be brittle.

Funerals on a Spectrum

I remember systematically breaking down a brick of Styrofoam to its individual beads making a plastic blanket in the Living Room.

I remember organizing my foods by texture and colors until high school, I cooked for myself so I wasn’t a burden.

I remember coming home from school to see my mom crying, I didn’t know what to do.

I remember being told “You walk like fucking a fairy” by my dad. Luckily I was incapable of understanding metaphors as a seven year old.

I remember being told I had a funeral to go to tomorrow. I couldn’t get over the fact that I had to miss school to go.

I don’t know, what to pay attention to, there’s a thousand people here I have never seen before.

I don’t understand, why everyone is crying. Why am I the only one not crying?

I don’t know her name, I was told it on the drive here but I forgot it when I realized how squash shaped the minister was.

I don’t know why my mother would ask me to go look at a stranger’s formaldehyde ridden corpse. I guess she’s Mom’s Grandma

I don’t even recognize the majority of the emotions that these geriatric patients are wearing.

I think they call is somber or something it wasn’t in the emotional chart that they used to show me as a kid.

I think I can replicate it, sure. But what would the point be? I shouldn’t stand out when the table being used for her body is going to be a part of a buffet line later this week.

I think my older brothers are crying now too. Now, that’s a little unnerving. They shouldn’t be, they don’t know her either.

I think I should be crying, but only because a hundred others are. I don’t feel anywhere close to it.

I think it might be disingenuous if I were to sit here and pretend to cry over a dead woman solely because our DNA matches to some capacity.

It’s just a stutter— I have no physical memory of ever having one, yet that’s the only symptom my family reminds me about

It’s just a stutter— at two years old calculators were my favorite toy. I was never informed that that was atypical.

It’s just a stutter— I grew to like fish because they were one of the few silent pets. I would sit. Any sudden noises made me cry on instinct.

It’s just a stutter— I even organized a funeral because I considered it disrespectful to put something I loved down the toilet. This was the only funeral I’ve cried at

It’s just a stutter— I was kept in standardized classes because they said I was “Gifted”. It wasn’t until I was 16 when I learned the actual diagnosis I was given.

Now the world past and present makes a lot more sense to me. I still can’t perceive somber emotions though.

Now I have avoided Styrofoam out of fear that I’ll be unhinged and ravenous spreading beads across the globe.

Now I still don’t know if my ignorance to my differences was a gift or a curse. It’s difficult to trust my own perception still.

Now I blend in, no one really knows except the special education majors that know how to snuff out the specific signs.

Now I realize that I am simply lucky. There are millions and millions of people that were given the same title as me, but they are incapable of forming a voice.

Doomer Heart

Time continues always moving further

Flowers wilt and decay without nurture

Stuck in place as this stone rolls over me

My Flesh melts liquidized into the sea

My bones fall further beneath Earth's dirt crust 

Motivations stop, stuck with Mars-like rust 

Sunflowers planted around our tombstone.

Only one left it lives on now alone.

Rain bleeds through enough to break her dead skin

It walks away; the flowers decay sets in

She goes home and in my spot puts Band-Aids

All of them too small to fit where I laid

Rising from the dirt I shed my scales through

As my blood gets cold I feel more like you

Unfinished brains made fresh out of clay

You are not a person, just a delay.

A hole in my chest and it's shaded black 

Dead or alive I just want my heart back 

This lack of pain makes me feel distressed.

So much is missing that can't be expressed.

If you never felt it, could you miss it?

Sisyphus, you new god of love, I quit. 

T.H.C: Tearing Holes in Clouds

Smoky winds smother, slashing at your lungs

The Guardians above growl, rowing ever closer

Barricades bud with armaments, Bullets fly on the horizon

 Limbs lag behind, leftovers to feed the guardians

Dionysus decrees our celebration must be displayed

Hung up by the winds that howl, you  hold on to that sour breath

Reluctantly release your tension, Rest your mind to be consumed

You look up as light dims, losing connection to the guards above

All feels lost, he fuel in your lungs has yet to fade

Even as clouds constrict And the sun is choked out of the sky

Grass still glistens, this is where your glimmer of hope grows

Fires flare in the distance. Smoke forces its way through.

The winds no longer wail. The weeping from above will calm.

For the blades that now burn. They breathe only peace

Malice melts away. Making the Guardians decompress.

They shrink back to size. Soundly you may sleep

Relaxed with pale red eyes. Reassuringly,

Shackles are shattering from your soles  the light returns

Freedoms flood your new world Let the sky fill with smoke

Barrages of brightness surround the eyes with blinding joy

Colors now cascade with rhythm carrying the dark away

An Outlaw's Promise

     Clint had been bartending for the last uneventful half of his 65 years in this world. He smiled just enough at work so that anyone who happened to pick his brain would feel that he was interested even if he really wasn’t. On his face and hands were obvious wear and tear marks from the countless days of being a nomadic ruffian throughout the early rising sun of Nevada desserts. He found it a lot less stressful to pour drinks and pretend to be interested in the gossip of the locals. The townsfolk considered a Clint a local at this point but he would always say his home was somewhere else, lost to him in his old age.

            Just after all the clocks struck noon a new customer found his way walking through the double waist doors that continued to swing behind him. He was the first man in a long time that Clint had seen that just might be older than he was. The normal rustle of human life in the bar came to a stop for all but 2 seconds until he tipped his hat and let out a soft but audible “Howdy” as he walks up and sits down at the center barstool. Having such a visible pistol when walking from place to place had gone out of style. Margaret, the owner had almost dropped her entire tray of glasses to the ground after being startled by the newcomer.

“Hey there stranger, what can I get ya? The name’s Clint. Don’t see much of old folk out here these days”. Despite the skin slowly losing grip on the new customer’s body the way his jaw moved as his spoke made Clint’s stomach sink through the floor.

“Name’s Anton. I’ll take a Number nine, thank you. Y’know I could say the same thing about you ya wrinkly bastard.” He chuckled to himself as he spoke. “Haven’t seen an old soul in all 3 days I’ve been travelin’”.

Clint seemed even more shocked surely someone older than him would end up gunned down or dried to death out of thirst in this hot dust pocket.  “At your age?” he chuckled. “The hell could you be searchin’ for out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Anton’s smile started to fade as he glanced at his drink then at the counter before picking his head back up. “I haven’t seen my son in over 50 years. He ran out on me back when he was just a scruffy little shit. But I loved him I did… I still do. I don’t even know why he ran. But I know he went out this way. He’s probably dead anyways. But I still want to know what happened to him before nature catches up to me and realizes I’ve been living for too long.”

“Well fuck, I’m sorry I prodded. I’ve been out across this whole cursed desert, if he was out here I’ve surely seen him at some point. What was his name?”

“Wilbur Jakobs”.

Clint nearly collapsed to the floor as he heard this name. It had been so long since he had heard it out of anyone other than himself.  Maybe it wasn’t the same boy. It couldn’t have been. “Did your son have a scar right under the curve of his left calf?”

This sparked a sharp breath in Anton as his eyes opened wider as memories flooded his brain. “He did! He really did. He got it from messin’ with- ”

Clint’s own excitement cut him off. “Messin’ with a wolf cub… right?”

“So you really met him then huh? Is he alive? Do you know where he is? C’mon just tell me where to go. ”

“Sir your son was one of the greatest men I’ve ever met in my life and I truly mean that. Unfortunately about thirty years ago he disappeared in the dead of night. Probably had a bounty on his head none of us knew about”.

The sadness returned to the forefront of Anton’s countenance. “Oh. I see… Well you were close with him right?’ Could you tell me what he was like? I suppose it’s all there is left I’ll be able to find until the reaper and I have our final shoot out.”

“I’m sorry I can’t do more for ya but tell our story, take a Pain Killer on the house. You’ve earned it.”

“I should be glad I get any answers at all. I appreciate the free drink partner.”

Clint pulled up his own stool and poured himself a drink before he began his own narration. “Let’s just start from the beginning. I myself was orphaned when a group of banditos killed both my ma and pa before I could even have my fifteenth birthday. We were just traveling to go see the real mountains that I had dreamed of at the time. I didn’t leave the wagon for 5 days. I fed off the rations we had packed and did my best to give ma and pa the respect their burials deserved, ain’t much I could dig by myself though.

Just as I hooked my father’s Big Iron onto my own waist— it didn’t have a single notch in it. Pa was never a man for violence, just for emergencies. Anyways, just as I hooked it to my own body a new round of outlaws had stumbled upon our bloodied wagon. I saw about 7 of them all still youthful with the oldest being about 26 years. The youngest looked about 19 at the time. That’s when I met him. Wilbur Jakobs looked at me with a certain kind of optimism in his eyes and a confidence in his jaw that I was in awe. My hands trembled and my knees were weak as I attempted to stand up. He reached out his hand to me and said ‘Ya didn’t kill these folk did ya? You look a bit too soft to do somethin’ like that.’

Shaking, I grabbed his hand and looked into his eyes. He was actually an inch or so shorter than me but his personality was seven foot four. I struggled to get out a response. ‘These are my parents actually. Couple of mule riders must’ve thought we was merchants by the way they gunned us down.’

            Jakobs looked back at the oldest of the outlaws and he nodded with a smile. Then he spoke again. “Yer gonna get yourself killed next if you stay out here much longer. Just come with us for a little while. If ya like it enough we might even just recruit you, pipsqueak.”

            They helped me bury my ma and pa properly and then we were off. A week turned into a few months. Then it turned into a year. Next thing I knew I was an outlaw for over 20 years alongside your son. We mostly tried to steal from rival outlaws but a proper train heist every now and then was always invigorating. Over the next couple years I got to know your son more than any other man may have before me. His stare was hypnotizing. In a time where I was left with nothing your son took me in and taught me how to love even without my parents. The way he carried himself was my life’s breath. He truly was a good man at heart”.

 Clint took a short breath and looked at Anton to notice he was gripping his glass rather hard and no longer looking directly at him. He didn’t continue his story. He just watched and waited.

            “So that’s why he ran away” Anton said to himself. Clint seemed oblivious to what he even meant by that. Then it struck him.

“You didn’t know did you, Anton?”

“That he was… different? No. I had no idea. He must’ve been too afraid to tell me. Scared that I’d have him shipped to Siberia or somethin’ huh? Did he ever talk about me?”

“Only on very rare occasions, I may have loved him but that doesn’t mean I paid attention to every word he said. He did talk quite a bit.” The silence of the last three decades was started to weigh on Clint’s mind.  “Maybe he just didn’t want to embarrass you.”

“Did you know you were different too before your parents died?”

“Not exactly. We were pretty isolated for most of my kid years. It wasn’t until I was looking up at the scruffy grin and saw the light behind Jakobs eyes that I knew who I was. We taught ourselves how to be comfortable in our own skin. The man was convinced you would have hated him. I don’t even know why he believed it but he thought you wouldn’t love a son like him.” The grip on Anton’s glass grew stronger as he started to weep.

“I would have loved him just the same. He still would’ve been my boy. He still is…”

“Jakobs would have loved to hear you say that, truly. After our gun running days were over, most of our time together was actually here in this very saloon back when it was a dustier place. He loved the atmosphere. Especially Margaret over there, she was one of the first to support us despite being criminals. She knew we were virtually harmless.

            When he disappeared I decided to work here for the rest of my life in hopes that he’ll turn up one day. Death’ll catch up to us both soon enough, Anton. Should we just move on?”

A new voice chimed in “Death won’t be catching up to anyone until I get my hands on you again Pipsqueak.” Neither Anton nor Clint had noticed a third elderly man enter the saloon. Clint looked up from his glass of grief to find that very same jawline just a bit more wrinkled standing still an inch too short just as he used to right in front of him once again.

Breeding Aku

          Katagawa and Naoko were in their third year of boarding school. It was a private high school for those with an abnormal intelligence. An intelligence that can easily come off as abrasive or intimidating.  Naoko was a gentle soul. Her academics were her focus, they became her coping method as a distraction when their grandfather was found dead with “悪” carved into his chest. Her brother Katagawa got the word tattooed on his chest last year. Naoko never bothered to learn Japanese Kanji since they were adopted into an American family when she was four.

Her brother was forced to restart his academics when they moved to the states which is why he’s stuck in the same grades as her even though he understood more than she did. He always hated being in comparison to her. He believed it made him look like an ignorant fool with delays. He was six years old when his grandfather was murdered. Both of their parents were deemed unfit by the Tokyo Family Court granting his paternal grandfather custody by default.

Their adoptive parents were just lucky to get the chance at adopting any kids at all. The last eleven years of their life has been fairly easy living with Katagawa being taught how to hunt and clean his kill properly. He would often get scolded for leaving corpses unskinned, wasting the meat. Katagawa simply found it fun watching the slow rhythm of a deer’s breath as it stops. His new father was actually never the type to hunt. He only learned because Katagawa asked to be taken after he had killed a bird in the backyard by himself.

Both siblings received psychotherapy as soon as they were adopted in order to help them adjust and learn to deal with the trauma. They eventually stopped once they started middle school. Naoko had learned how to put all her energy into school while Katagawa learned to keep to himself and his sister. When they first moved she was the only one he would talk to and he was the only person she could trust for a long time— Katagawa wonders if that’s still the case.  Any time that the two of them were apart for long Naoko would panic. The night their grandfather died, Katagawa stayed awake with her in the cell keeping her company. He couldn’t sleep with the adrenaline. Since then, the two of them cannot be separated. Usually, their boarding school keeps genders segregated but they were the only exception, allowed to share a small apartment together.  

They were two weeks into the semester. Katagawa had finished preparing dinner for the night.

“What’re we having tonight Kata?” She was so soft spoken he barely heard her.

“You said you didn’t care, so just made Mac ‘n Cheese for the both of us.”

“You usually love to cook. Is everything okay?” When she spoke Katagawa didn’t even bother looking up from his plate. Nothing she ever says was worth the time.

“Hey” Naoko spoke more clearly this time. Reaching her hand out to touch his. “We are in this together. I know it’s stressful keeping a secret but I lov—“

“Don’t say it. I’m not going to say it back.” Something about the way she sulked made him hyper.

“I understand Kata. I forgot you were in charge” A smirk traveled across Katagawa’s face.

“That’s right Naoko. And what does that make you?”

“Your sister and therefore your property. I’m in love with you regardless”

“As I taught you to be. We may be stuck in this same place together but I am your superior”

“Yes Sir.” Naoko excused herself to wash the dishes. Then Katagawa snapped his fingers and she turned into his bedroom and vanished behind the darkness that loomed in the door frame.

After he cleaned his mess from dinner he entered his room to find his bed already made with Naoko quietly sitting at the edge of it.

This was the only excitement Katagawa felt all day. Watching her genuinely follow his ever command brought a sense of fetishized pride within him. Knowing that she loves him, and her believing that he cared at all was almost enough to make him laugh. If he was capable of such a thing. The way she squirmed and waited for commands as he dominated her was the only force able to pull his mind out of the past. But not with passion. He felt pure entertainment and love for what he accomplished.

When she orgasmed for only the second time in her life, the first being the night before, Katagawa imagined  it was almost like the same liberation he felt when his first bird died in his hand with its last breaths bursting out in a violent mess the same way his grandfather’s genitals used to before he was killed. It was his first step of letting go. He felt no shame for what he did, not to the bird, not to his grandfather, and definitely not to Naoko. She would remain his puppet until the day he dies himself.

The taboo was part of the adrenaline he felt. He’s been trying for the last twelve years to recreate the rush he felt as his grandfather’s dying breaths were siphoned out of his body by the Kami of death that seemed to possess Katagawa’s hands. Nothing has ever been as exciting since. As the night draws to an end, Naoko curiously runs her fingers across his tattoo. She thought it was masculine and attractive.

-“Kata... May I ask you something?”

He stared blankly into the ceiling as he barked “What is it?”

“What does the Kanji in your tattoo say?”

“It’s more like a brand. It’s pronounced ‘Aku’.”

“What does it mean?”

“Evil”

            “Evil? Wait why would that be carved into Grandfather, his death ruined our lives in Japan”

            “You don’t know what you’re talking about. It was beautiful and liberating. The man got what he earned”

            “Kata… what are you—”

“Shut the fuck up Naoko before you ask something you’ll regret. Nothing in our existence is more contagious than ‘Aku’. You’re just too naïve to know it.”

            She sat back in what Katagawa could only guess was shock. She stayed silent for the rest of the night. And never asked him for an answer. Katagawa no longer knew what she felt. But he didn’t care because she still obeyed him; now even more so. He was entertained for the moment.

Gloves

         The sun was falling but it was just high enough to still find its way into your eye at the wrong angle. I got sunburned today. There will be no trace of it, living out here under a bus stop I never get to find much shade. When you have everything, time goes by the fastest. When you have nothing time barely has any meaning.
        “Hey, you got a lighter?”  I jumped at the sound of her voice as I wasn’t expecting company. I hadn’t even noticed when this woman sat down. Her eyes were blank. Not filled with disgust or any sense of joy. Only boredom.
    “Only if you’re willing to share”
“Deal” she said. “What bus are you waiting on?” As the menthol coats my throat in nostalgia I gesture to my small pack and convenience store vodka.
“I live here. I’m just waiting on life.” I can barely feel the sliver of Clover Black® between my fingers.
“How does a bum like you even get to live on city property?”
“If you behave yourself they just pretend you don’t exist all together.”
She nods with a sense of familiarity. “My phone is dead and I’ve got thirty minutes to kill. I assume you have stories if you’ve not gotta house. Name’s Marla by the way. Do you remember yours?”
“It was probably Joe or something like that.” Her name put a pit in my stomach for some reason.
“Alright then Joe, watcha got?”
“A Divorce, debt and scars the sun can’t burn away”
“Tragic, Go on.” She smirked                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     
|“Well, back in ’84 I got married right out college to a woman named Stacy. We met in an Architecture program. I was one of the least patronizing men there. Love was easy when all your needs are taken care of.  She and I had spent most of our marriage trying to have children. After five years of failure we weren’t exactly the most stable couple. Nothing like a night of running mascara and broken furniture. We decided to separate after the neighbors had us both arrested for dragging one of our fights outside. Once the divorce was finalized I kept the house and she kept everything else. All just so she could go wind up dead in the end”. My cigarette went out as I rambled
“Your wife was murdered?”
“No, cervical cancer. I don’t know why we didn’t catch it sooner.” Marla doesn’t look phased much. Just interested I suppose.
 “That’s rough. My grandma died of it a decade back. If you had a house what are you homeless for?”
“Gambling and drinking. I had nothing better to do. I vowed never to find love again after her funeral so I sold the house and downsized for an apartment that was in worse condition than my emotions were at the time. Eventually, I just stopped going to work. I stopped talking to her family and isolated myself. It was simply an easier way to live. When the bubble popped in 2008 all my debt caught up with me since I lost our savings in during the divorce. And so from my apartment was evicted and I was reduced to a beggar with a Bachelor’s Degree. Might as well be the road you kids are headed on at this rate”.
“I’ve been a bum and whore myself a few years ago” I saw no regret in her eyes as she said this. “It’s still pretty tough but at least I got a place to sleep, shit and eat”.
“Enjoy it while you can” I chuckle.
“So what’s with this crochet glove you got on? It’s the only part of you that doesn’t look homeless.”
“It’s not really mine. There used to be a little girl who would go across the street every week and get herself one of those cheap pre-made ice cream cones with dark chocolate at the bottom. She would wave sometimes. Occasionally she’d drop her change in my bag if she had any. All her gloves were hand made. You see, I got this glove from her the last time I saw her. She’d walk past with different patterns every month. Turns out she does them herself. Often to match the pink tips in her hair. It became one of those silent bonds which almost filled my desire to have a child. She was young enough to not be so self-concerned as to put my existence in the background as almost all citizens do.
As she got older I grew more ragged and recognized as the drunken mess that I was— that I am. She didn’t shop as often and when she did there was always men with her. On the last day I saw her she was with this Louie Viton of a person. Certainly not worth the price he thinks he is. I could smell the insecurities and disappointment from his presence. He was certainly going to taint her good soul. She didn’t even look in my direction that day.
After they left the store, wannabe Louie gave me a $20 bill. It was folded into four and wrinkled at the ends. A vending machine’s worst enemy. Clearly it was pocket change to him. I felt an uncomfortable tension between the two of them as I thanked them. When they got to the corner I could hear them arguing over something on one of those smartphone apps. She was starting to cry as she got louder and angrier with him, He tried dragging her across the street but she wouldn’t budge.
Suddenly the two teenagers disappeared and I saw my wife and me again. I began to approach my past-self trying to warn him of what would happen. Trying to tell him of how little time she has left. As I hit the ground I was jolted back into reality. With ‘Louie’ standing over me screaming.
“Go back and mind your own fucking business you crazy bum”.
In my hysteria, I didn’t back down like I should have. When I got back into his face she tried to break us up. I shoved her out of the way. Within seconds I felt ash fill my lungs. She slipped off the curb and fell right into the path of a Jeep Grand Cherokee going 50 in a 35. I remember the way Louie’s voice cracked with despair as she put a skull shaped dent into the hood of the car.”
“So it goes” Marla chimes in.
“So it did. I lost the second most important person I’ve met by my own hands. It was like watching your own appendix get removed without anesthesia. As the tires ceased to move her body hit the pavement like a pile of towels soaked in blood and bone fragments. At this moment, I felt mine burst. I could almost hear the faint whistle of her punctured lung before she even hit the ground.
Just like that the driver nor her boyfriend payed any more attention to me. Now I was not only a bum but a murderer. In a panic I picked up one of her gloves and stayed a few blocks away for a while. It went down as a lover’s quarrel last I heard. Haven’t ran into ‘Louie’ since.”
I look up just to see Marla staring at me with the same bewilderment an infant has the first time they see their own reflection. I can’t tell if she’s sickened yet by my actions. The sun was setting. Now fully in dusk.
“Well thanks for entertaining me. What an unlucky man you are Joe.” She was cut off by the engine of the bus whirring as it came to a halt. The screech of the tires still makes me flinch.
“Enjoy your five fingered Albatross.” she says as she steps up to the lowered entrance. The bus doors shut and there goes the last of Marla I will ever see.