Today I, page 4

Today I awoke and became anxious, pinned down by self-doubt and fear, excluded from my own self assurance, cast from my dreams like a leper from society. The wind rattled the window against it's frame as I lent against the bed post for a moment, trying to accumulate the energy to rise from my dank and squeeky matress.

The television was still on from last night, the sound muted like my inner thoughts; fuzzy pictures with no message, moving energy, yet no sound. Even though I had been staring at it for almost a minute it took that long for the image to translate into a meaningfull picture. A person was adressing journalists from the White House press room, the topic seemed to have something to with immigration.....or was it drugs or nuclear war? The camera angle changed from a shot of the whole room to a closeup on the face of the speaker. His words began to jumble into my head incoherantly as his eyes grew darker, "Fear...injustice....we will ensure justice...animals......across the border....deadly..be vigi...."

I turned away.

Walking out of my front door hours later I saw a large yellow butterfly on a bush next to the road. Adjacent to the bush was a rusting ford pickup parked on the sidewalk with two people inside, I stood still. The pair inside appeared to be arguing. The butterfly flew away as the man in the drivers seat opened his door, slamming it violently. He took one last sip from a can of millers then threw it to the ground. In his other hand was a medal. He calmed for a moment and stood still. The other passenger in the ford, a woman, was weaping. The man noticed me and began to pace in my direction.

"You see this?" he wailed, holding the medal up towards me, "You see this friend, this is the legacy of my son, this is all I have left of my son."

His words grew louder and more angered. The woman in the truck looked at me and stepped out, woefully pleading with the man to stop his shouting.

"You know why he went? You know what my boy went to war for," he continued, enraged.

I stood, motionless, transfixed on the his bloodshot eyes,

"He wanted to get money, moeny to get me into rehab....He wanted to save his family...from me...the pathetic monster I am."

He broke down, falling to his knees, and the second he did I noticed the pistol tucked into his belt on the back of his jeans. He raised his head and looked at me; I felt like I was looking through a transparent ghost, my vision penetrating the hollow shell of a broken being. I reached out my hand to him and the moment seemed to last for a decade.

Then in a second he was gone. The sound of the 9mm weapon echoed through the empty street, shattering the silence of the morning. I vomited as the woman began to scream, both of us reacting in a shocked slow motion to what had just happened. I fell back against my now blood specked door and looked towards the bushes on the other side of the street once more, vomit dribbling off my chin. The butterfly had returned, except now it was still, it's wings frozen together as it perched on top of a branch.

Waking up one morning days later, how many I am not sure, but now the police tape had gone. My sleep had been restless since I whitnessed the suicide of Diego Paz on the steps of my house. The TV was on, it was a cop show , and two officers were in a gun fight. I looked out my window at the thin layer of clouds that stretched the sky. For a split second I felt hope, and then it faded into the gunfire pouring from the television set.

I pictured the butterfly....as long as there is still beauty left in the world all is not lost, I though to myself as I emptied the last of my valium out of its pot and into my mouth, washing it down with stale beer from the side cabinet. The weather report was now on television. I thought about how much surgery the girl who was presenting had had done on her face. Winter was coming.

[edit on 20/9/2006 by earthtone]