Wednesday, March 18, 2009

In my eyes

Bits of the ceiling fall to the floor, crumbling into dust at my feet. I shuffle the fragments all around trying to find reason for my action, but it's all microscopic. Through the smoke I see him trembling in the corner where I left him, his fat ugly silhouette refusing to run away as I moved towards him, readying the shotgun with a resounding click.

He shifts his weight back; it takes some time coz there's a lot to move but he does it eventually and manages to carve a corner out of the rubbish that he's collected over the years - the same years he left me and the family lost and starving in the streets, begging for scraps and eating cardboard for warmth.

Cupboard surrounds him. I make him eat some of it to see if it tasted better in an expensive house. Fragments of brown snow drift across the room, his teeth chattering trying to chew on the boxes.


And one day he came by, asking mum if she wanted to make him some money for all the gifts he bought her. I remember the things he gave her - two useless children, a whole truck load of bad luck, a huge mortgage payment, and the ugliest husband in the world. He gave shit to her every day, and yet he came back, taking her with him and turning into the street with bright neon lights.

The snow turned white, and sharp. The chandelier above sang the overture to his fate as it crashed down in between him and me. He pushed some boxes my way to worm further into the corner. I kicked some glass his way, wondering if he'd eat them if I pointed the gun at his balls long enough.

Turns out he will.


He was crying now, like the way me and my sister used to cry. He hated children; my friends always got toys and candy from their dads. I got to clean out his used condoms and dirty magazines before buying breakfast for him and the broads he'd bring back, using money stolen from mum.

He hated children. I made sure he'd never have em again.


And as he screamed out in agony the names of my dead mother and sister, I screamed back with all the tenacity I could muster, vent up from all the years of searching and wandering from city to city asking about the man I hate most - the one person I didn't want to see ever again but yet have to because I needed to tell him one thing.

"You got her name wrong."


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