The knife lies with him now, and he holds it and loves it with all his being. He forgave its sins against him, wishes for the pain it caused him. Where are the little boy’s parents? He longs for their beatings. Joining them is simple, easy as slicing butter, he knows. All it takes is courage; they have left him the tool. So he decides, they miss him, he’s so sure. And he takes the knife and does what his parents taught him, cuts. The ravishing glacial silver bights the boy; deeper and deeper, until the blood pulses from his wrists, until the pain is such that he can’t feel it, until he is gone and he falls to the ground like a toddler, unable to get up. Even in death he cradles the knife. And his parents laugh, cackle from he** as they wait for him to join them, to torture beyond life, to add to the fires below and toss them onto their little boy, their little foolish boy, and watch him burn. He is right, they miss him, they miss having someone to hurt, but they don’t want him anymore.
To be so Wrong
October 23, 2011