There is a revolution around me. And I have nothing to say.
I never have anything to say. I can only stare at hands and teeth and feet rustling by. There are many things that we can never articulate. If only, articulation was easier. Somewhere, now, there is a man on an operation table. Those big yellow lights over his almost lifeless body. That red light telling others to steer clear of the area. That hospital smell makes me sick. I am not a flower person, I'd rather smell kerosene. Or burnt matchsticks. Not hospital, no.
But I should have been right outside that door, counting my steps and biding my time. Should. Really? A violent past is something that you can seldom avoid. And when everything is over, you are left with nothing but the strange uneasiness. There is a little fatigue and a little guilt, but there is never a going back.
Maybe a part of me is glad to imagine you like this. Helpless, sir. And scaringly alone. I am not alone, do you see? I can scream and tell you this. You are alone. Remember our last deal? You would not touch me and I would not look behind. I won. I won. I am the winner. You are dying to touch me. Literally. And I have not looked behind.
I will not look behind. You can die.
