posted on Oct, 2 2005 @ 04:14 PM
The old man sits at the table, far from the land he used to rule. Where once a King he is now outcast, an outlaw in the land of his grandfathers,
betrayed by his own kin.
On the table in front of him are there are three things, Whiskey made by his own hands, a bottle of pills the doctors said would "make it all
better" and his last possession, a Colt 45.
His body is wreaked with pain form wounds suffered fighting other peoples wars, the same people who named him outlaw. His dreams at night are haunted
by the faces of those he has killed in the service of those others. His days are haunted by the happiness of those that betrayed him. Those who
couldnt wait a few more years for their payday, when it would have been all thiers anyway.
He has tried the Whiskey, its dulled the pain for a few moments. He has tried the pills which made nothing better. He has tried BOTH the pills and the
whiskey which earned him a trip to the Intensive care unit where they forced him back to a world filled with pain.
Ocassianally he picks up the gun, smelling it, tasting it, feeling its weight and wondering why he hasnt the courage to send himself to the place he
has sent so many. It would be so easy, a light tug, a blast he would never see or hear and the pain would stop.
Maybe its the Priests telling him that was the road to hell, although it seems impossible that hell could be worse than what he feels now.
He puts down the gun and puts his hands togather in prayer, for his soul, for the souls of those who betrayed him, for the souls of though he has
killed and for God to give him the streanth to make it through one more day.
Then he says another, for the happiness of these strangers who have made him one of their own.
[edit on 2-10-2005 by Amuk]