There's still a chance. Best guess worst case scenario not enough time to stop what'll amount to a few scars down the line, harsh reminders of a story well worth telling but better off forgot, branded forever after victim of an event people will want to know about even if they have the tact not to ask, saving the observation of the obvious for their own private speculations, telling more about themselves than what occurred by how far off the mark they are -- the strangest people being those who land closest. There's still a chance. Surviving makes the tale well worth confessing because in the end that's what it becomes: a confession of weakness when another was needed to save and the crack in the armor came straight from the heart, though some would argue otherwise, "It isn't weak to love or need salvation," because they don't understand the humiliation of desperation, of thinking if only I could... stop this then I'd never have to answer the questions concerning where those angry red lines came from (as well as when the knife writing eventually pales changing the inquiry to how the white lines originated) and knowing the answer all too intimately. It isn't like an accident where a person can lay claim to a blackout excuse for not remembering the screeching tires, rending metal, confused cries, and drip drip drip of blood onto the roof turned to floor. No, this is notches made in bone personal, a part of the forever after stories avoid. Meat is malleable. That's the simplest explanation. Offer it to silence the inquisition. That's how it'll be after all is said and done because there's still a chance to get out the door, run to wherever the knives are just proving their sharpness, cutting so quick, clean, and deep with barely any pressure or force it seems like the skin is opening up to hug the blade. A little carved, but that's not so bad. Move those legs. Pump till battery acid burns through every fiber because it's two miles to the house the voice on the phone said to hurry to, "Hurry, hurry little friend. You can have what's left. The longer you take the less you get." The news calls him the Speed Freak, not because he likes the drug but due to the m.o.: snatches a loved one, phones along the heart string, and it's see how long it takes to realize you went running down the block to make it to a house in the nearby neighborhood when really you should have dashed to the car, key stabbed&twisted the engine to life, and flew two miles in barely a minute. But it's too late now. Legs like pistons pounding the pavement go into a whole other gear never knew you had realizing the car is faster than you. Pumping to prove yourself wrong, "I can run faster than a car." Sure you can. Never doubt. Never: should have, could have -- there's still a chance something will be left -- salvageable. It doesn't have to be pretty, just save the day.
RSS Feed
