Death of a thousand cuts

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
The importance of family and how easy it is to turn a good man bad.

Submitted: December 26, 2011

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Submitted: December 26, 2011

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Death of a Thousand Cuts

His only link to reality had vanished as quickly and quietly as a snowflake does when it lands in your palm. You only wanted to see what it really looked like in detail, the significant shape of it. But no, its form is no more, or in this case it is in the form of a coffin being lowered into the ground, six feet under. All around him stood people in black, crying as if they had lost their own father. They had not, but he had. Still, he seemed to be the only one not to shed tears. Although his eyes portrayed a picture of pure emptiness, he looked collectedly calm. Like he found some sort of meaning behind the tragedy they had gathered to stand before and say their farewells of, though it may have been because of the fact that he had been here once before. The same rendevouz had occured, the same black-suited people had stood around a hole in the ground and cried, just a few feet from where they were now. That time the mother was the one who were the subject of sorrow because she had fallen victim to a heart attack. It was unexpected, she was a lively and vivid woman with no indication pointing towards a heart failure. This was three months ago. His dad, who couldn't cope with the sudden loss, turned to alcohol. A temporary medication to his pain and suffering, for he never saw a light at the end of the tunnel. Without her, darkness would conquer, and so it did. They didn't call it suicide but he was sure that this was the fact. His father was a smart man, he wouldn't go out for a drive in the middle of the night under severe inebriation, not to mention that he wouldn't do it in his Pontiac GTO, which he hadn't driven for years. He knew that he wasn't knocking on death's door; he was banging on it with a battering ram. It was suicide, that he was certain of. Oblivious people, whom he felt nothing for surrounded him. The two persons who had always been there for him had now left. Even though it may seem unfair and selfish, he blamed them for leaving him. So he returned the favor, and left. Watery eyes were watching him, with strong strides, leave the tragedies which seemed to follow him like a shadow.

He considered his childhood ordinary. Although he was kind of a lonewolf no one thought of him as odd or weird. Growing up as an only child he never were the one to lead a group, that; he passed on the alpha-male. He preferred it that way though, entertaining a group wasn't his cup of tea and he saw it as an encumberance to always be the one to provide entertainment and guidence. He was a voice of sotto voce, rather quiet and innocent. Rarely offending anyone and was reluctant to break rules although it, on occasion, happened. However, he was one of strict judgement, but expressed his thoughts on the matter at hand very rarely, thus making him illogical in some ways since his holier-than-thou style of thinking didn't go hand in hand with the person he appeared to be. Of course, he was a non-believer when it came to a religious stand-point. To him, religion was a made up fiction for people that can't stand on their own legs without a rail to hold on to. The rail didn't bother him but the color of the rail was fake to him, hence the distance in belief. But none of this really mattered because his future was bright, but yet to be laid out. He saw a sea of possibilities.

Things didn't begin to go wrong until the death of his parents. Maybe they were to be blamed for this outcome. Maybe if it hadn't been for the faulty heart of his mother, maybe then he would face a different world. Maybe even his father's heart was to blame, since his death was directly connected to grief. Maybe, just maybe, was it his own fault. His own fault for dropping out of school, for gambling his money away on poker and investing so much of it in alcohol. Despite all of these bad habits he managed to do well, money-wise. Not a rich man per say, but a Manhattan apartment was in his possession. Once upon a time he was proud of it, but now it was just an apartment in which he slept and drank. Once agian he headed up those stairs with that commonly seen brown bag under his arm. Another night on the balcony, accompanied by José Cuervo and a blank piece of paper.

"Like someone shouldn't be able to see the dead. Dark shadows shouldn't appear in one's head.", he witnessed himself write as he guzzled down another glass of plain tequila. Tragedies had infested his brain, and he wondered why he only saw decay. A once beautiful world had turned into a living hell. The poems that he wrote was his levee which protected him from the cruel and melancholy world that he walked upon. Was it fate that had brought him here or was it just plain bad luck? He would never now but truly believed in the latter. Was it one wrong turn that led him here or were there multiple mistakes combined that had led to such a melancholy outcome? It was a matter lacking in answers.

So there he sat, reflecting back on his life. Wondering where and why everything had gone so wrong. He didn't find understanding nor logic in it. But did it matter? -No. Because he unscrewed another one of those bottles as he looked out over New York. Never before had it looked so bleak. He could see the beauty in things no more. The air was polluted, homeless people roamed the streets and all famous sights were just hoaxes. Times Square was an epeleptic advertisement fair, and The Empire State building was merely a structure just like any other. Nothing had meaning but all the opportunities he had lost on his way here. This place; a balcony filled with loneliness and the smell of liquor. With that bottle in his hand he felt empty, just like that bottle was destined to be aswell. Was this it? All his life he had fought through the struggles because he always believed that one day it would all be worth it. He didn't believe that anymore. He studied the label for a moment then put that bottle to his head - and pulled the trigger.


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