The Hill
Mark Coleman
My life’s as unsympathetic as a day spent under Filostrato’s reign. At the end of the day, I order myself to sing melancholic depression era songs on the street corner. Shaking and looking into the eyes passing by for something resembling a ducat. All I find is a penny, face up, on the curb. I wander out to the island- where no one thought to leave a dollar- and I lay in the road. Boccaccio knew the power that this thing could have on people.
She issues forth from Sicily with long legs and the resilience typical of Palermo. I eat pasta sans antipasto, every night, due to Fortune. I’m not the kind that The Decameron considers worthy of true love. I struggle like a thief, in a pocket not suited to me. Nothing beyond the foreseen response transpires:
“I love you.”
“Likewise.”
I flip a coin precociously, feeling very Wisecarver, while watching Old Kong climb. Gradually, the shooter becomes the shot. Coughing after an unprepared for swig of whiskey, I take a few more. Collapse is imminent. Once it hits the tongue, it doesn’t leave before the deluge.
Julie walks up, with fleas in her hair, and asks how I am. My response is along the lines of something like as good as to be expected. She smiles and asks if I want to fuck. To which I reply,
“Of course.”
“Drop ‘em. I’ll suck you off, first.” She runs her tongue up and down me, like a finger over a message delivering viol. She tickles the heart shaped monstrosity called the glans. Moistened and bucking, she takes me into her disease ridden cunt. There, I sow what I have no plans of reaping. Grows like a weed with my own proclivities. Budget restraints wouldn’t allow a cock cosy. Poverty can be very Catholic.
I pull out and start begging. Priapism forcing my fedora to shield my member. Took off quite a few caps in my day. Awful bloody mess. Swimming through geysers of pink ejaculate in search of a queen. I want to contemplate my reflection in a railway station more beautiful than the Quirinal. Main station offers nothing, but consensual rape.
So, I take what I can get on the bus to Boulder. Praying that Morselli will send the Count to me, advising a sojourn to Switzerland. Hunting in the Alps, before retreating to the Alder. She takes me in her, out by the frozen creek, before we pay a visit to my friend who’s drinking himself to death.
Opens the door, then does a stage into the living room table. We both pass on the food that he offers us with blood obscuring his vision. He suggests heading up to the hill. We hit up a frat party. Someone gives me his pot, when the police come, and I hide it in a vaseline jar next to the Playboys. The festivities resume after a handful of arrests. I retrieve the bag, and roll a joint, which I giddily smoke in the corner. She finds me, and I’m forced to share.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Mocking
Mocking
Mark Coleman
My friend lights up a Black Hawk, so I light up a Marlboro. I suppose that we’re trying to recapture our youth. If only I could relive my first kiss as sloppy and inexperienced, though it was. Still kind of beautiful. My hand in her hair. Her hand on my bald cheek. Our lips awkwardly locked, tongues dancing within our own mouths, wondering how uncouth their venturing out would be viewed by the other.
I inhale the smoke into my hurting lungs, and give a little cough. Nicotine greeting the liquor in my bloodstream. Little curtsy, little obeisance learned in preparatory school. She was so damn proper. Always standing on ceremony. I’m in my coonskin hat, hollering and raising Hell. She’s in a little pinafore, having tea with dolls.
Meet at the creek where I show her the craw-dads that I caught that afternoon. Tell her that she can play with my BB gun, but she doesn’t want to. So I content myself with shooting at the crows in the willows. Go wander around the dilapidated plantation house that’s supposedly haunted. Looking for signs of hoodoo, or ghastly faces peering out of the windows.
Don’t see a thing. She goes skipping through a field, picking forget-me-nots, which she carefully arranges in her basket. Places one willy-nilly in her bonnet. I just chew a bit of weed, and squintingly watch her prance about. Saunter out along the road, me with my craw-dads, her with her forget-me-nots. She tosses pedals along the way. A very picture of Hansel and Gretel.
Standing on her verandah. Munching her mother’s proffered corn bread. Her pops sitting in a rocking chair drinking mason jar whiskey. The moon bleeding all over everyone and everything. Pipes giving glimpses of the people’s faces who sometimes pop out of the house across the street. Music drifting along with the smoke.
A piano sometimes soft and jazzy accompanied by an air of melancholic silence, sometimes loud and boisterous accompanied by stomping feet and hooting. Must be throwing a party of some kind. All those women dressed for hooch drinking aren’t anything besides my girl dressed for tea drinking. I’d hold her hand, if it wasn’t for the watchful eyes behind us.
I bid her good night, and we make plans for the morrow. Slip into my house, then into bed, staring at the ceiling. Envision an old, wizened mockingbird mocking away. It’s song lulls me to sleep. The sweet slumber of young, if stillborn, love.
Mark Coleman
My friend lights up a Black Hawk, so I light up a Marlboro. I suppose that we’re trying to recapture our youth. If only I could relive my first kiss as sloppy and inexperienced, though it was. Still kind of beautiful. My hand in her hair. Her hand on my bald cheek. Our lips awkwardly locked, tongues dancing within our own mouths, wondering how uncouth their venturing out would be viewed by the other.
I inhale the smoke into my hurting lungs, and give a little cough. Nicotine greeting the liquor in my bloodstream. Little curtsy, little obeisance learned in preparatory school. She was so damn proper. Always standing on ceremony. I’m in my coonskin hat, hollering and raising Hell. She’s in a little pinafore, having tea with dolls.
Meet at the creek where I show her the craw-dads that I caught that afternoon. Tell her that she can play with my BB gun, but she doesn’t want to. So I content myself with shooting at the crows in the willows. Go wander around the dilapidated plantation house that’s supposedly haunted. Looking for signs of hoodoo, or ghastly faces peering out of the windows.
Don’t see a thing. She goes skipping through a field, picking forget-me-nots, which she carefully arranges in her basket. Places one willy-nilly in her bonnet. I just chew a bit of weed, and squintingly watch her prance about. Saunter out along the road, me with my craw-dads, her with her forget-me-nots. She tosses pedals along the way. A very picture of Hansel and Gretel.
Standing on her verandah. Munching her mother’s proffered corn bread. Her pops sitting in a rocking chair drinking mason jar whiskey. The moon bleeding all over everyone and everything. Pipes giving glimpses of the people’s faces who sometimes pop out of the house across the street. Music drifting along with the smoke.
A piano sometimes soft and jazzy accompanied by an air of melancholic silence, sometimes loud and boisterous accompanied by stomping feet and hooting. Must be throwing a party of some kind. All those women dressed for hooch drinking aren’t anything besides my girl dressed for tea drinking. I’d hold her hand, if it wasn’t for the watchful eyes behind us.
I bid her good night, and we make plans for the morrow. Slip into my house, then into bed, staring at the ceiling. Envision an old, wizened mockingbird mocking away. It’s song lulls me to sleep. The sweet slumber of young, if stillborn, love.
Muslims and Christians
Muslims and Christians
Mark Coleman
“Muslims nullified the Christian decree against sex before marriage. The Christians postulated that you would be divided amongst your partners in Heaven. The virgin aspect of the Muslim’s Heaven made this an ideal.” He says as he draws on his cigarette. The mouths of the group turn either up or down. Mine stays neutral. I take a swig from my bottle and walk out.
On the street, they’re all on their soap boxes too. Even if some of them do not realize it. Everyone thinking in their own way that they’re geniuses. Right, no matter what challenges are leveled at their insolence. They stand tall, even when they’re dope sick. I turn into an alley, and sit on a mattress forgotten beside the dumpster. Good as place as any to think and drink.
My mind turns over and over. One minute with a commercial jingle, the next with a profundity under-minded by very human uncertainty. I pass my eyes over the darkened windows of the tenement directly before me. A few shady characters exit the building, and walking to the end of the alley, enter the back entrance of a strip club. I take another swig, the warmth spreading through me as though my veins were blanketed in pocket warmers.
I stash my bottle behind the dumpster, and follow the boogies’ example. Inside, after paying the cover, I walk to the bar with a mouth full of breath mints. Order a scotch on the rocks and lean against the bar. The gyrations of the girls on stage remind one of the snake charmer’s cobra in some distant bazaar. The important spots are accentuated by search lights to which the moth-like patrons flutter. Waving coke residue bills in sweaty, greedy hands. An ocean of sun spot bald pates and silver spoons.
I finish my drink, and dance-strut to a chair at the stage on which a particularly nubile one is spidering. The deliciously precocious fiend’s lips are covered in that glistening balm that is designed to make a man think of but one thing. My cock bucks, hoping that it can force the zipper in a way that is contrary to its nature. I can almost hear the Baby Jane scream of the top heavy monstrosity. I could free it, but if I did I would run the risk of never allowing it this pleasurable setting again.
The girl crawls over to me, at the same time that a topless cocktail waitress approaches. Subconsciously, I reach up and grab her breast. At least, that’s what I think I do, because the next thing that I know I’m belting out of the alley on stilted, but adrenaline heavy, legs. I’m drenched in sweat, and out of breath as I enter my apartment. Collapsing on the bed, I realize that I forgot my bottle. Cursing myself for ever entering that damned place, I walk down to the neighborhood liquor store.
I figure I’ll retrieve my bottle after closing time, but after a few gin and tonics, it completely slips my mind. By the time that I remember the next morning, I imagine that the hobo, on whose bed I had sat, probably had found it. Besides, who knows when the bouncer pops out for a smoke. I resign myself to the loss, and contend myself with a shower of gin. It sticks on my throat, when I cough a bit up. The first shot can be the hardest, but its all smooth sailing from there.
Mark Coleman
“Muslims nullified the Christian decree against sex before marriage. The Christians postulated that you would be divided amongst your partners in Heaven. The virgin aspect of the Muslim’s Heaven made this an ideal.” He says as he draws on his cigarette. The mouths of the group turn either up or down. Mine stays neutral. I take a swig from my bottle and walk out.
On the street, they’re all on their soap boxes too. Even if some of them do not realize it. Everyone thinking in their own way that they’re geniuses. Right, no matter what challenges are leveled at their insolence. They stand tall, even when they’re dope sick. I turn into an alley, and sit on a mattress forgotten beside the dumpster. Good as place as any to think and drink.
My mind turns over and over. One minute with a commercial jingle, the next with a profundity under-minded by very human uncertainty. I pass my eyes over the darkened windows of the tenement directly before me. A few shady characters exit the building, and walking to the end of the alley, enter the back entrance of a strip club. I take another swig, the warmth spreading through me as though my veins were blanketed in pocket warmers.
I stash my bottle behind the dumpster, and follow the boogies’ example. Inside, after paying the cover, I walk to the bar with a mouth full of breath mints. Order a scotch on the rocks and lean against the bar. The gyrations of the girls on stage remind one of the snake charmer’s cobra in some distant bazaar. The important spots are accentuated by search lights to which the moth-like patrons flutter. Waving coke residue bills in sweaty, greedy hands. An ocean of sun spot bald pates and silver spoons.
I finish my drink, and dance-strut to a chair at the stage on which a particularly nubile one is spidering. The deliciously precocious fiend’s lips are covered in that glistening balm that is designed to make a man think of but one thing. My cock bucks, hoping that it can force the zipper in a way that is contrary to its nature. I can almost hear the Baby Jane scream of the top heavy monstrosity. I could free it, but if I did I would run the risk of never allowing it this pleasurable setting again.
The girl crawls over to me, at the same time that a topless cocktail waitress approaches. Subconsciously, I reach up and grab her breast. At least, that’s what I think I do, because the next thing that I know I’m belting out of the alley on stilted, but adrenaline heavy, legs. I’m drenched in sweat, and out of breath as I enter my apartment. Collapsing on the bed, I realize that I forgot my bottle. Cursing myself for ever entering that damned place, I walk down to the neighborhood liquor store.
I figure I’ll retrieve my bottle after closing time, but after a few gin and tonics, it completely slips my mind. By the time that I remember the next morning, I imagine that the hobo, on whose bed I had sat, probably had found it. Besides, who knows when the bouncer pops out for a smoke. I resign myself to the loss, and contend myself with a shower of gin. It sticks on my throat, when I cough a bit up. The first shot can be the hardest, but its all smooth sailing from there.
American Rush
American Rush
Mark Coleman
I hurry to my room with a glass of ice and my handle. Down it with some cola, cause I’ve been vomiting blood, and I can’t handle straight whiskey yet. I quickly pour myself another. I don’t slow down until the shaking subsides, and I can manage to tilt the bottle without half of it ending up on the carpet. I sit and stare at the un-wall papered white through a disappearing glass of light brown.
The melting cubes question me, as I switch to my cheese ball Vegas shot glass. Plenty of people count down before sinking a shot; I count all the fucking shots I take. I try to find some imagined reason in the undulating lines to convince me to not put a gun in my mouth. The hinges creak blasphemy, and the wind’s a semen thirsty whore. They’re equally sickening.
I just walked to the liquor store on legs that felt like they were permanently attached to stilts. Real slow over the ice. I’ve split open my brow, and broken a lot of teeth lately. I’m half way through the booze that the greenbacks allotted to me, and I’m slurring at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror. The bastard looks like someone that I’d like to get in a fight with. You know when you see someone, and whimsically wish them nothing but harm. The asshole in you kicks in, and you’d love to see a stranger get pummeled by a revolving door. That’s how I feel.
Punch the mirror, and wrap my bleeding hand in toilet paper. Pieces of glass are standing proud in my knuckles. For a minute, I think that I’m an asshole. But than I realize that assholes get laid, far more often than me. All of a sudden, I feel strangulated by an overwhelming sense of guilt. Pulling the glass out of my knuckles, I try to put the mirror back together, but it’s a no go. I wrap my hand tighter, and resume my drinking.
The world swims around me. I stare at the fish tank, and I’m sure that by some witchcraft, I’ve been transported into the plastic pirate’s body. Maybe my hiccups are producing the bubbles that are emerging from his helmet. I do about ten double takes, before I realize that, maybe, I’m being slightly ridiculous.
Mark Coleman
I hurry to my room with a glass of ice and my handle. Down it with some cola, cause I’ve been vomiting blood, and I can’t handle straight whiskey yet. I quickly pour myself another. I don’t slow down until the shaking subsides, and I can manage to tilt the bottle without half of it ending up on the carpet. I sit and stare at the un-wall papered white through a disappearing glass of light brown.
The melting cubes question me, as I switch to my cheese ball Vegas shot glass. Plenty of people count down before sinking a shot; I count all the fucking shots I take. I try to find some imagined reason in the undulating lines to convince me to not put a gun in my mouth. The hinges creak blasphemy, and the wind’s a semen thirsty whore. They’re equally sickening.
I just walked to the liquor store on legs that felt like they were permanently attached to stilts. Real slow over the ice. I’ve split open my brow, and broken a lot of teeth lately. I’m half way through the booze that the greenbacks allotted to me, and I’m slurring at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror. The bastard looks like someone that I’d like to get in a fight with. You know when you see someone, and whimsically wish them nothing but harm. The asshole in you kicks in, and you’d love to see a stranger get pummeled by a revolving door. That’s how I feel.
Punch the mirror, and wrap my bleeding hand in toilet paper. Pieces of glass are standing proud in my knuckles. For a minute, I think that I’m an asshole. But than I realize that assholes get laid, far more often than me. All of a sudden, I feel strangulated by an overwhelming sense of guilt. Pulling the glass out of my knuckles, I try to put the mirror back together, but it’s a no go. I wrap my hand tighter, and resume my drinking.
The world swims around me. I stare at the fish tank, and I’m sure that by some witchcraft, I’ve been transported into the plastic pirate’s body. Maybe my hiccups are producing the bubbles that are emerging from his helmet. I do about ten double takes, before I realize that, maybe, I’m being slightly ridiculous.
Kentucky Deluxe
Kentucky Deluxe
Mark Coleman
She invites me up. I have no cigarettes for afterwards, but she says that we can just stink up her place with week old refries. I wish that I could have afforded something other than a jug of Carlos Rossi. As it turns out, watching the sun rise makes up for this.
When it decides to show up, it turns her cheeks crimson and her hair gold. Just like that, I forget that she’s a whore. I take her hand in mine, and she gives it a “hello” squeeze.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a half crescent of lip. It’s more beautiful than watching every building come to life, and I tell it so with a kiss. She bears into me with all the weight in her eyes and I feel overwhelmed. But I don’t break away.
The irises are so green that the pupils start to recede. Vertigo takes charge as she lowers herself onto my lap. I can feel her sex pulsating, and respond accordingly. As her tongue moistens my beard, I grab her ass, and pull her closer.
I can’t tell which one of us is trembling. It continues unabated as she takes off her shirt, and I clumsily try to unhook her bra. She takes my hands in hers, and shows me how it’s done.
At this point I know that I’m supposed to do something, but I can’t remember what. Her eyes won’t let go of me. I’m looking into someone’s soul. She smiles, and says something that I can’t hear. I realize that I’m inside of her.
The thing bucks a few times, and it’s over. She informs me that it’s the longest she’s ever gone as I go soft between her thighs. I can’t find words for what I just experienced. For the first time in my life, I didn’t fuck. I made love. She lays down on top of me, and remains there in my embrace.
It must be going on an hour, before she gets up, and tells me that she has to go to work. I feel like crying. I ask her if she would like to have another glass of wine, first. She says that that would be nice.
We sit there, sipping our wine, and don’t speak. What just happened is bad for business. I open my mouth but the words won’t come. After that, I drive by her place a few times. The shadows in the window are like knives in my side.
I pick up more girls than I can handle, but afterwards I just sit on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands. If I hadn’t told her that I didn’t care what she did, and started to take her out every night, I wouldn’t be in this mess. I could be drunkenly stabbing at cunts. Not wanting a person beneath me.
I can’t sleep at night. I know that someone undeserving is peeling off her clothes. Perhaps, making a few sarcastic professions of love over fine wine. I win a few hundred on a scratch ticket, and dine alone in the best restaurant that I can think of. I order for two, and sit there waiting. I get stood up by a dream.
Afterwards, I buy another scratch ticket. Nothing. I ask what their cheapest pint of whiskey is, and polish it off in the alley. I go back to my house, and pretend that it’s a home. Then draw the shades, and get into a cold bed.
Mark Coleman
She invites me up. I have no cigarettes for afterwards, but she says that we can just stink up her place with week old refries. I wish that I could have afforded something other than a jug of Carlos Rossi. As it turns out, watching the sun rise makes up for this.
When it decides to show up, it turns her cheeks crimson and her hair gold. Just like that, I forget that she’s a whore. I take her hand in mine, and she gives it a “hello” squeeze.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a half crescent of lip. It’s more beautiful than watching every building come to life, and I tell it so with a kiss. She bears into me with all the weight in her eyes and I feel overwhelmed. But I don’t break away.
The irises are so green that the pupils start to recede. Vertigo takes charge as she lowers herself onto my lap. I can feel her sex pulsating, and respond accordingly. As her tongue moistens my beard, I grab her ass, and pull her closer.
I can’t tell which one of us is trembling. It continues unabated as she takes off her shirt, and I clumsily try to unhook her bra. She takes my hands in hers, and shows me how it’s done.
At this point I know that I’m supposed to do something, but I can’t remember what. Her eyes won’t let go of me. I’m looking into someone’s soul. She smiles, and says something that I can’t hear. I realize that I’m inside of her.
The thing bucks a few times, and it’s over. She informs me that it’s the longest she’s ever gone as I go soft between her thighs. I can’t find words for what I just experienced. For the first time in my life, I didn’t fuck. I made love. She lays down on top of me, and remains there in my embrace.
It must be going on an hour, before she gets up, and tells me that she has to go to work. I feel like crying. I ask her if she would like to have another glass of wine, first. She says that that would be nice.
We sit there, sipping our wine, and don’t speak. What just happened is bad for business. I open my mouth but the words won’t come. After that, I drive by her place a few times. The shadows in the window are like knives in my side.
I pick up more girls than I can handle, but afterwards I just sit on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands. If I hadn’t told her that I didn’t care what she did, and started to take her out every night, I wouldn’t be in this mess. I could be drunkenly stabbing at cunts. Not wanting a person beneath me.
I can’t sleep at night. I know that someone undeserving is peeling off her clothes. Perhaps, making a few sarcastic professions of love over fine wine. I win a few hundred on a scratch ticket, and dine alone in the best restaurant that I can think of. I order for two, and sit there waiting. I get stood up by a dream.
Afterwards, I buy another scratch ticket. Nothing. I ask what their cheapest pint of whiskey is, and polish it off in the alley. I go back to my house, and pretend that it’s a home. Then draw the shades, and get into a cold bed.
Taaka
Taaka
Mark Coleman
I’m interrupted from my thoughts by a knock on the door. My friend stands there, slightly shaking, with a bottle in his hand. I grab the grapefruit juice, and we have the vodka equivalent of a salty dog. His girlfriend left him after he had a seizure.
I talk about who I’ve fucked, and who I might actually love. Smiling seems like a task. We discuss escorts, but it comes to nothing. Instead, we decide to spar with copies of Keroauc and Hemmingway strapped to our fists.
I can’t remember who wins. I think that an uppercut from Death in the Afternoon took him down. He thinks that a clock from Desolation Angels dropped me. He starts crying. I pour him a shot, and tell him that it was probably Jack.
We remember our individual pasts. At first, it’s all Vegas and bar fights. Then the conversation takes a turn, and it’s no longer ill conceived bets and broken noses. All of a sudden, I’m confronted with the image of my ex-girlfriend with a needle in her arm. I picture her turning tricks so that she can stay high.
Now, I’m the one in tears. I’m informed that it was probably Ernest. We compromise by establishing that it was a good fight, either way. On television, people without any visible scars tell their hard luck stories. Disinterested, our eyes try to unearth as much as a stretch mark.
We pass the bottle back and forth, watching in silence. Next door, my neighbor’s pulling his own stash out of the water tank. His wife patiently waits as he downs a pint on the toilet. I walk to the bathroom, and stand pensive with a cigarette in my hand. As always, it doesn’t flush right. I try to plunge all the tears that I’ve dumped into the goddamn thing.
I walk out, and find that my living room is empty. Simultaneously, I let the boob try to revive me, and I let the shot try to sink me. I’m paralyzed by the knowledge that most of the girls that I’ve been with were raped. Usually, told everyone around me, first. Then shamefaced and under pressure, admitted it to me. They always convinced me to take the bullets out of my gun. I wish that they hadn’t.
I muster up the energy to retrieve the thing from it’s hiding place. I lay it on my lap, and let one world after another tear into me. Lifting it to my head, I say a prayer to someone else’s god. My finger trembles on the trigger. I bite deep into my lip and taste blood. It makes friends with my chin as a single tear rolls down my cheek.
I realize that the only thing loaded is me. I throw the gun against the wall, and get another drink. It tastes like shit, and I yell myself into detox. Surrounded by cowards, I collapse.
Mark Coleman
I’m interrupted from my thoughts by a knock on the door. My friend stands there, slightly shaking, with a bottle in his hand. I grab the grapefruit juice, and we have the vodka equivalent of a salty dog. His girlfriend left him after he had a seizure.
I talk about who I’ve fucked, and who I might actually love. Smiling seems like a task. We discuss escorts, but it comes to nothing. Instead, we decide to spar with copies of Keroauc and Hemmingway strapped to our fists.
I can’t remember who wins. I think that an uppercut from Death in the Afternoon took him down. He thinks that a clock from Desolation Angels dropped me. He starts crying. I pour him a shot, and tell him that it was probably Jack.
We remember our individual pasts. At first, it’s all Vegas and bar fights. Then the conversation takes a turn, and it’s no longer ill conceived bets and broken noses. All of a sudden, I’m confronted with the image of my ex-girlfriend with a needle in her arm. I picture her turning tricks so that she can stay high.
Now, I’m the one in tears. I’m informed that it was probably Ernest. We compromise by establishing that it was a good fight, either way. On television, people without any visible scars tell their hard luck stories. Disinterested, our eyes try to unearth as much as a stretch mark.
We pass the bottle back and forth, watching in silence. Next door, my neighbor’s pulling his own stash out of the water tank. His wife patiently waits as he downs a pint on the toilet. I walk to the bathroom, and stand pensive with a cigarette in my hand. As always, it doesn’t flush right. I try to plunge all the tears that I’ve dumped into the goddamn thing.
I walk out, and find that my living room is empty. Simultaneously, I let the boob try to revive me, and I let the shot try to sink me. I’m paralyzed by the knowledge that most of the girls that I’ve been with were raped. Usually, told everyone around me, first. Then shamefaced and under pressure, admitted it to me. They always convinced me to take the bullets out of my gun. I wish that they hadn’t.
I muster up the energy to retrieve the thing from it’s hiding place. I lay it on my lap, and let one world after another tear into me. Lifting it to my head, I say a prayer to someone else’s god. My finger trembles on the trigger. I bite deep into my lip and taste blood. It makes friends with my chin as a single tear rolls down my cheek.
I realize that the only thing loaded is me. I throw the gun against the wall, and get another drink. It tastes like shit, and I yell myself into detox. Surrounded by cowards, I collapse.
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