Dilated Pupil

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

When life looks pointless, and when it seems like its all the same

Chapter 1 (v.1) - Dilated Pupil

Submitted: January 27, 2007

Reads: 247

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Submitted: January 27, 2007



Cameras all around they say, funny, make sure one ain't looking at your exposed arse crack, and you pull up your trousers and pants just to be sure, all the people walking in the opposite direction to you, all faces fixed on what their doing, not a fucking blink in the opposite direction, dulled senses you could drop down dead and they'd walk over you.

Walk around like no one can see you, cameras can flash your face, and still you must walk on, toward the home, the flat, push past the bastards in the way, who seem to make it a chore none the less.  Reach into my pocket and find two little red pills marked H in black on each side, and I swallow them quickly, using my own saliva to wash it down, feeling calmer through the walk, I make to the quiet sub-urban house I call home.

I open the smooth wooden door, solid oak made me feel grander all of a sudden, looking to the clean clear carpet, and fresh wall paper lining the walls, a low tread as I move through the hall into the living room. My beautiful wife and lovely girls, both so small you fear you'll break them, all like russian dolls, assembled in the room I enter, the girls hugging me, and my wife smiling at me, after lifting one of my daughters and kissing her forehead, I place her down, and move to the kitchen.

The kitchen window heralds a freshly mown lawn, sunsets dying sun lays a glorious light upon it, and it all screams "American Dream" bang in my face, My wife speaks from the living room asking me to chop the carrots on the board, sure as shit carrots lay on the counter infront of me, perfectly enough. Begin cutting, while looking out to the garden again, looking at the swing set, the slide, all things of fun daddy can't do anymore, in the end growing up is all about what you can't do, rather then what you can.

Finger slips and the knife cuts the skin of my index finger, fuck, cursing loudly, blood slowly flows from the gash, I realise I wasn't angry with the knife or my stupidity, it was my life I was so angry with, my house, my job, my car, my fucking green grass! My family even, my lovely wife, my little kids, that small cut on my hand brushed off the cobwebs, I saw my life with no changes, just the same thing again and again, no chance of difference, and dying slowly, alone. The family at this point were inside in the kitchen, staring at me staring at my blood laden hand.

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