Fiction

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The Street in my heart (part 2) (4-29-11)
by John Freeman

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I don't fully remember how I came to be here. It's like I was

just swept away.



I had been running from the terrible cobble stoned words that

were etched with failings of my past. I thought it might be over,

but the horror has just begun. For what lies before me is a

massacre.



Before lay dozens of bodies. Because of the shock, the stench,

and the brutality of this murderous scene, I convulse into vomiting.



Bodies everywhere! Twisted, mangled, and it was obvious that their

deaths were not an accident.

There was no way around them so I would have to trudge through

the carnage. It was inevitable so I began to stumble forward with attempts

to avoid eye contact with the these lifeless beings. I didn't make it four steps

without the face of my father gawking back at me with his hollow

mouth left agape.

Nausea hit my stomach like a cannon ball flying at lightening fast speed, but

now there was nothing left to offer the ground so I dry heaved.

My father lay in front of me dead. He was alive just hours ago, how could this

have happened. I gathered some guts and peered around and realized what this all

was.



I knew every single mutilated person that spotted the street. Some of the people

I've forgotten about over the years. Some were already dead by a few years and some

were great friends of mine who were alive and kisking just the other day.



This was a graveyard dedicated to all those I have ever hated. It didn't

matter the reasoning of my hate, the people that were the object of my

hatred lay here before me. Tears fell again and landed on the cobble

stoned street.



I surrendered to flow and fell to my knees. My hands landed on the

cobble stoned pavement and I let loose the cries that had been locked

deep within. I sat back on my knees and used the sleeve of my shirt to

wipe my eyes, but before I could I realized that my hand were covered

in blood. The blood of the people I hated. That I murdered with either

my words or the snide thoughts that would snap away at anybody, for

no real reason at all but to feel self-power.



The blood that stained my hands, the truth of the situation, my realization

that I am a murderer, made me crack and all I knew was that I had to get

out of here.



I jump to my feet and take off hurtling over the strewn bodies but also

not really caring about stepping on one.



I didn't expect relief as I ran from the second horror, but I figured it had to

be better than what I had just went through.



Wind, again, rushed past but brought no peace and freedom because I entered

into the third horror.............WoW....it's worse than ever before.

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