How we had gotten ourselves into this mess, I was
already planning for the escape. My parents had not come by; they had no
intention in supporting a defiant son, let alone loving one. His movements were
none existence, twirling my brown hair around my index finger. Who knew what a
calamity this would provide my unwilling guardians, it was what they were, were
they not? Guarding us from harm, pain, from life.
The execution
was confirmed and we had no verdict to object to it. My father signed and
declared his first born son as mythical as his mistakes. They didn't stick
around long after that; he was already deceased in their images.
The
town would not forgive the patrons involved; his best friend was a cast away as
he would have been. Drinking and driving in a community that had no tolerance
for the first one, let alone the second. Remembering that night only brought up
anger and frustration towards the victim that became my brother. Did he somehow
realize he was alone to blame for this? Were we all flashing guilty cards with
the victims’ names?
I
turned back to what the weather had caused for us today. She seemed to roam
over the individual county lines, making promises of better wishing times and
novelty practices of where we could go from there; no promise was ever kept. I
remark on the notion of this delicate place, the times we’ve spent here wishing
the cuffs would be loosened or dissolve altogether. We were prisoners of our
own time. Not the time they stamped into these metal bracelets they called
love.
My
hand print comforted his; he had been estranged for a week now, his hand
already tingling to the beneficiary of its fate. I pressed firmly into his
palm, imprinting on it more than love. The radiance of the moon quickened by
his window as the machine took he's last breath for him. I sat gallantly among
the stars as the white sheet covered his mercenary head. Tears trickled down my
white cheeks as if for some reason, I had been the one claimed for death's
plate. I questioned myself what the point of this was, why the long trial had
run dry and I was sitting alone in a room with a corpse who had been my
brother.
S.M. Bjarnson
No comments:
Post a Comment