One False Move

July 24, 2008
By Brenna Palen, Tucson, AZ

The rain spatters on the tin roof.
Ping Ping Ping.
He sits alone in the dark
staring out the window
into the never ending abyss called
the real world.
Ethan? A voice coos from Heaven.
Her voice holds destiny,
leaking the taste of her sweet perfume
with every word.
Ethan. A voice demands from Hell.
His voice is seductive and sensual,
like a fire’s crackle in the winter.

He pulls at his joint,
turning his attention onto a vial,
sitting upon the counter
near the rusting sink.
It looks so serene yet just as sinister.

He holds himself in the arms of Hell.
His heart possesses a tornado
its blackness shielding him from the light
of Heaven.
Hell whispers his promises,
tempting him with the sweet poison
of immortality, of no rules.

The choice is evident.
His soul had rolled in soot
long ago. She had done it
to him. Damn her for it.
Rather, damn him for it.
His eyes close, bleeding red.
One last pull allowing the smoke to
kill his lungs slowly.

He reaches for the vial
just to hear an angel cry.
He places the liquid on his tongue
and lets it slide back.
It warms his core, then tightens its hold.
Forever now and forever more
a prisoner of his own darkness.

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