Run

The smoking gun. The killer always held the smoking gun in the movies, literally or figuratively. Now it was my turn; the gunpowder singeing my skin slightly when I shot at the approaching figure. When he or she attempted to grab wildly at the wounds, and fell heavily to the ground. As they dropped, I immediately hit my knees and crawled clumsily to my victim’s side. Oh God, what was I doing? The chunk of metal in my hands seemed to grow heavier and heavier and reaching the body was the hardest thing I had ever done.

A warm, thick liquid flowed over my hand in the darkness. I could not make out its color, but the strong metallic scent told me what I needed to know. My heart thudded as my eyes rose to meet the face of the prone figure before me. It appeared to be a woman. I held my breath, waiting, watching in vain for a sign of any kind that would prove to me that I wasn’t a murderer.

What do you do after you take a person’s life? Was there some requirement I needed to fulfill? Surely it cannot be this simple. Pull the trigger, and they are gone. I did not know her, her name, her occupation, whether she had a family, or an apartment full of cats. But the life I never knew, her life, quickly escaped from between her lips with a final breath as my bullets entered through her chest and stomach. Watching in agony, I slowly stood, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the night to truly see her face. And suddenly, I was remembering a history lesson from my school days about one of the Indian tribes in the old west. When one of their arrows or spears hit their deadly mark, the young brave paused over the fallen prey; knew it, thanked it, and asked for its peace and forgiveness. I needed forgiveness.

My hands still shook, clenching the gun, at my sides. I felt the blood drip from the end of my fingertips, more of her life force hitting the ground like raindrops. Wasted just like water from a leaky tap.

And I decided to do what I had grown so talented doing in my 20 odd years, the only talent that I had ever truly cultivated and perfected. I ran.

Oh and By the Way...

Just as a disclaimer, from the myriad of private comments I have received today, I am not suicidal.

Thank you, that is all.

Peace

This week had tested her. So much to do, so many different people to please; it had been way too much for anyone of normal human parameters.

On the drive home she rolled down her windows in the car. The wind whipped her hair about her face, and she could smell the crisp beginnings of spring taking hold. The radio blasted a familiar tune, one that took her back to a happy past, and she sang along with the melody. Slightly off key, but no one else was there to hear her and to comment and critique. She let the wind carry her voice and muffle out the sounds of the traffic.

Soon she was pulling into her complex, neighbors bustling around, preparing for the coming spring, ready to throw away the cumbersome clothes and attitude of winter. So was she. It was time for peace and rest.

Her dog was barking as she made her way inside.

"You look about to burst! Let's go for a walk, doll." Once again outside, her dog fighting the leash to run after a squirrel every now and again, she smiled up at the sky with her eyes closed. Yes, peace and rest. It was time.

The walk was long. Much longer than usual. She left the apartment complex and did not return until the sun was starting to sink below the tree tops.

Inside, she fed her dog in the kitchen, scooping her up in her arms for a slobbery kiss and furry hug.

Walking to her bedroom, she closed the door and sat on her bed. Here it was - peace and rest.

She laid back, closing her eyes. It was heavy in her hands.

The gun blast was inaudible to everyone around her. Her mother and father could not hear it. Her friends could not hear it. Her room mates could not hear it. She did not even hear it. She just felt the crushing pressure for a moment then... nothing.

Peace. At last.

Vulnerable

I have torn away and sent pieces of myself all over the countryside. It is painful as they are able to inspect my soul and know me most intimately.

I am vulnerable and open.

My manuscripts are currently in the hands of various judges, editors, publishers, and literary magazine owners. Nerve wracking does not even begin to pinpoint the emotion I am feeling.

I just hope that all of my return letters are not entirely REJECTION.

Food Journals

I've been through this routine before. And it is unbearable and embarrassing.

The psychologist I am seeing has insisted I keep a food, exercise, and purging journal. Anytime I do any one of those three things I have to record it in my little notebook. I hate showing this to people. I hate people seeing what I eat and when I eat. What if they think I am eating too much? I always assume other people are judging me and my habits. Yes, paranoid crazy. But I cannot control it. Yet.

I like this new girl though. My past therapists would talk about the journal. But it was just food and exercise. This girl was smart enough to tell me to record my purging habits. And when I started to balk against her suggestion, she said she would keep her own journal with me. Which is slightly helpful. I can look through her journal as she looks through mine.

I am not sure how or if I will ever get past this eating disorder. But I hope so. I am really trying. Its slow going and tedious. And painful. And embarrassing.

One day.