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So if I escape, will my pain go away?
- Jun 22, 2022
- 71
[Trigger Warning]
I cannot even bring myself to write affectatiously.
It is difficult to believe myself as emotionless as I feel when I think of you lying there.
I'm in the car again. Where was I coming from? Where was I going?
There was me, in the car, and then a stop sign. I knew before I made it to the sign what had happened. No tears for anything but you, but I will not permit them; a soldier suffers in silence. They're near, all the same.
How long had you lied there? How many people including the person who did this to you continued on? I'm ashamed to know I am no different. I hate them you know. All of them, myself included. I don't deserve to allow myself a tear.
I turned at the stop sign and stopped in the middle of the road, illegally parked on the dotted lines between the lanes.
You lied there, still convulsing in the middle of the street, smushed by who knows how many tires before I arrived to witness what had become of you. An eye was hanging out of your socket, in the road next to your shaking body; still connected to you. The little paws with their little pads — your pretty fur discolored from whatever was on the tires of the people who continuously ran you over. I'm back there, you know. The night sky, not a star in sight. The air conditioning on my face, the windows rolled down with the sound of the rain. My breath from my gaping mouth fogging the glass. You had a collar; you were- are someone's friend. No I won't allow myself one.
How many kept going? How long did I watch before I noticed your convulsions had stopped? The blood, the smushed body, the —. Was your intact eye looking at me? I wondered if I should call someone, I wondered if I should do something. I wonder if I'd have had it in me to do what I wish I had done. I should have put the blade I'm so fond of carrying into the back of your little skull, in the middle of the road. In the rain, in front of the houses of which I'd assume one was your home. A death only I seemed to care about as the others must have kept driving. We keep driving.
The memories of you in your family's mind, only to be rendered painful recollections requiring conscious effort to be uncovered in comparison to the more traumatic experience of whichever one of them called your name looking for you; only to find you likely even more smushed than when I left you.
To think I laughed as I drove away, wondering if I should have taken a picture; only to be met with a deeper disgust in myself and conflicting inner dialogue of 'you are not your thoughts.'
You died alone, convulsing in a puddle of both yourself and the rain, as the beings who previously showed you love just kept going. But I know, It's no better than sitting and watching. What did you look like again?
We suffer more in thought than reality. Looks like I broke my promise little one. The irony of a single tear.
Mother's home. She's banging at the door; looks like I accidentally locked her out again. How many times now has she asked me to "please stop" as if I'm doing it consciously? I hope I can join you soon, little one. I find myself french inhaling menthols in the little room out back more and more. Suddenly wheels seem like weapons to me. A bulk of steel to hide what happens underneath. I never cared for expensive rims anyway.
I'm sorry. I should have killed you.
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