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Friday, November 24, 2017

Time Is Not My Friend...

by gt281 (writer), State of Denial, January 03, 2013

I regret most of the things in my life, the way things turned out...

I regret most of the things in my life, the way things turned out. I don’t know why I did those things. Perhaps it was just youth, my wild youth, everyone goes through that stage I think, wild, uncaring, don’t tell me, no barriers for me. I regret my actions, how cruel I was to my mom and sisters. I do. I don’t know the why, all I know is I wish I could take it back, and start again. Try again. Another chance, perhaps, perhaps.

I can see them you know, wandering in and out. Buzzing around me, their voices garbled and blurring into one. Strange, I really don’t feel anything, just hard to breathe that’s all, just a numb feeling. In my mind I can clearly see what happened. Kind of like one of those old black and white silent movies, it’s all in slow motion. One frame at a time, it keeps repeating, I can’t think of anything else. The light above me keeps flickering, flickering to stay alive, just to stay alive. It’s getting cold now, silence creeps in around me. I think back. What have I done?

“That’s it, what time is it?”

“11: 47.”

“OK…time of death 11:47. Let’s bag em and get out of here.”

“Stupid kid, getting himself killed for two packs of cigarettes, some beer and 43 dollars, what a waste.”

The sirens are quite on the ambulance, just the rotating strobes of red, blue and white, reflecting off the liquor store’s front windows. The sirens are all quiet. Police cars with their lights joining the neon of the liquor signs, creating a surreal gay, circus like atmosphere. Henry T. Garcia’s body, in its black body bag shroud, is wheeled up to the back of the ambulance, then lifted into the back of the vehicle, a couple of taps on the door, and it drives away silently into the night.

A small crowd stands behind the yellow police tape, they’ve seen this all before. Just another night, just another death in the wrong part of the city. That part of every city, were despair grows, and weeds fill the cracks along the sidewalk ……….



About the Writer

gt281 is a writer for BrooWaha. For more information, visit the writer's website.
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