"FREEDOM"
TITLE: "FREEDOM"
AUTHOR: doppelgangerqaf
BETAED BY: positive_pat (edited)
WORD COUNT: 452 words.
WARNING: R for language and graphic description; suicide theme.
**********
A small crowd gathers in one corner of the cemetery.
I see familiar faces among the crowd; I approach the scene.
I guess it is true; right time, right place, creates the right mood for the event.
Must be a very chilly day; everybody’s all bundled up. I look up to catch the wind; oddly, the afternoon autumn air is quiet. The trees rest from their ritualistic-like dance and are just standing still.
I think of hugging myself, but I don’t.
I look around; nobody seems to mind my presence…
I suppose I can stay for a minute or two.
I walk up to the casket which is left open; the body that lies within can be viewed by everyone. The people that came don’t say a word when I lean in to gaze at the face I know so well.
Then I hear whispers…
How could a person do such a thing to himself?
Poor, poor soul.
He was a very, very troubled individual.
What a stupid, stupid thing to do!
He was a weak boy.
It was inevitable.
He was hopeless.
He couldn’t handle it.
Terrible.
Terrible…
I turn around and watch without expression the sorrowful faces that wear wicked, ugly masks.
The façade covers what truly lies within their thoughts.
I’d scream but it won’t matter.
They won’t hear me.
They won’t listen to me.
Even in death, it’s a fucking popularity contest.
If it’s not what you did or didn‘t do, it’s who and what you were or were not.
And if it’s not those things, it’s something else.
And fuck the reasons behind your actions.
If you’re doomed, you’re doomed.
Hopeless.
Helpless.
Poor soul?
I grin a painful, sarcastic grin.
Weak and stupid…
They don’t know a thing. They only see what they want to see.
I pick up the corpse’s right hand; a long horizontal line cuts through the hand’s wrist.
How magnificent the sensation the laceration caused…
To these people the cut looks ugly.
It looks horrendous.
Terrifying.
A pathetic way out.
Tragic.
A poet might see romance in this tragedy…
What do I see?
I see a lifetime of suffering between the open skins.
The unhealed tissue tells the pain of breathing.
Drowning pain of living.
But beyond all that, I see release from everything that makes up this so-called existence, which often makes a soul or two running for the door...
No, not for a way out.
But rather for something that makes more sense.
I ran my thumb across the cut.
Deep.
Angry.
The relief.
I lean in closer, mirroring the image of the lifeless body before me; his cold, thin white lips hold a peaceful smile.
He suddenly opens his eyes and whispers, Freedom…
-FIN-
AUTHOR: doppelgangerqaf
BETAED BY: positive_pat (edited)
WORD COUNT: 452 words.
WARNING: R for language and graphic description; suicide theme.
**********
A small crowd gathers in one corner of the cemetery.
I see familiar faces among the crowd; I approach the scene.
I guess it is true; right time, right place, creates the right mood for the event.
Must be a very chilly day; everybody’s all bundled up. I look up to catch the wind; oddly, the afternoon autumn air is quiet. The trees rest from their ritualistic-like dance and are just standing still.
I think of hugging myself, but I don’t.
I look around; nobody seems to mind my presence…
I suppose I can stay for a minute or two.
I walk up to the casket which is left open; the body that lies within can be viewed by everyone. The people that came don’t say a word when I lean in to gaze at the face I know so well.
Then I hear whispers…
How could a person do such a thing to himself?
Poor, poor soul.
He was a very, very troubled individual.
What a stupid, stupid thing to do!
He was a weak boy.
It was inevitable.
He was hopeless.
He couldn’t handle it.
Terrible.
Terrible…
I turn around and watch without expression the sorrowful faces that wear wicked, ugly masks.
The façade covers what truly lies within their thoughts.
I’d scream but it won’t matter.
They won’t hear me.
They won’t listen to me.
Even in death, it’s a fucking popularity contest.
If it’s not what you did or didn‘t do, it’s who and what you were or were not.
And if it’s not those things, it’s something else.
And fuck the reasons behind your actions.
If you’re doomed, you’re doomed.
Hopeless.
Helpless.
Poor soul?
I grin a painful, sarcastic grin.
Weak and stupid…
They don’t know a thing. They only see what they want to see.
I pick up the corpse’s right hand; a long horizontal line cuts through the hand’s wrist.
How magnificent the sensation the laceration caused…
To these people the cut looks ugly.
It looks horrendous.
Terrifying.
A pathetic way out.
Tragic.
A poet might see romance in this tragedy…
What do I see?
I see a lifetime of suffering between the open skins.
The unhealed tissue tells the pain of breathing.
Drowning pain of living.
But beyond all that, I see release from everything that makes up this so-called existence, which often makes a soul or two running for the door...
No, not for a way out.
But rather for something that makes more sense.
I ran my thumb across the cut.
Deep.
Angry.
The relief.
I lean in closer, mirroring the image of the lifeless body before me; his cold, thin white lips hold a peaceful smile.
He suddenly opens his eyes and whispers, Freedom…
-FIN-