I’m sorry. He chokes. I’m scared. I will hurt you. I know it.
It’s my birthday. Her voice is. But a whisper.
I’m an. A**hole. I know. I’m sorry.
You try to stop it. Will it with your mind. To not hurt you. But the words come at you. Hurtling through the air. To pierce through the quiet.
And break your heart.
Before you can even say.
No. You’re not. You’re a f@cking bastard.
Words hit empty air. Thoughts in endless ribbons.
Fall to the ground. And the stench of his fear. Fills the void. Struggles to engulf you. But let not. The fallen drag you down. With them. Feed their fear. With your faith.
You knew. You had known all along. Yet you allowed. Tonight.
Thirty-five. Two fifty. Five ten twenty fifteen. Numbers now. Nothing more.
The story writes itself.
But you never wanted. Forever.
And all he had to do. Was ask.
I have no ego. He states.
Alas. The gods do not believe you.
So today you allow. Your heart to bleed.
Her tears to flow.
The silence to fall.
Not yesterday. The day of. An unforgettable birthday.
The day they broke. A heart.
The day the demons slew. The wolves howled. The banshees wailed.
How dare they.
But in that darkness. Was clarity. And an angel said to you. Look after yourself.
So you took it as a gift. From the gods. Your wings returned. Your freedom reinstated.
And all you feel is.
And nothing else.
But some days we are gods.
And other days. Mere mortals.
Who write. About a random incident. Called number thirty-five.
Copyright © whoisannawatts 2015