courtesy Wordpress Blog Random_Michelle
“Don’t shoot me”
he had said
eyes uncommonly lit with fear
her vacant stare
informed him
of the fact
that she couldn’t really care less
she had become separated
within her self
she no longer felt
she no longer wept
Tears were for little girls
her playground days were over
ever since
she saw his eyes
drink her in while resting on
her mother's shoulder.
Truth be told,
a 5 year old could tell
the difference
between sincere fatherly love
and perversion's feigned candour
but she was too weak to fight
and so was her momma,
who wanted love so bad for herself
-
stability she called it
-
she said sometimes you have
to prepare to suffer
but suffering did come at a high price
one day she woke up
and she saw someone she had forgotten
to recognise
she was 4 feet 2 inches
had dishevelled hair
and an unforgiving, vacant stare
she had held her hand
and led her
straight to the sofa-bed
in the large living room
that her momma wished
to renovate into a den.
to renovate into a den.
Time for new memories she had said.
Index finger raised
pointing out a small,
hardly noticeable tear
that she pulled away to find
plated steel, with barrel loaded;
lightweight handling.
Then they laughed and spoke
to each other of death,
a quite laid back affair.
But when she woke up,
the little girl had disappeared
and she was left alone
with a gun in her hand
and the smell of food
burning on the stove;
time jumping in sections
never really flowing
to any specific motion
but somehow it was like she had never moved.
And there she was
on the sofa bed...
in her lap a small box of ammunition.
First one to go was momma,
soon as she closed the door
she never had time
to scream,
she turned to the left
a singular bullet entered
her chest
and she was left
to die slowly on the carpeted floor.
She had rubbed her forehead
wondering why momma
had chose to lay beside the groceries
so she had to move her
to the kitchen
and clean the mess she made
and clean the mess she made
while she cried whimpering softly,
saying she was sorry
but her failing speech
was met with a confused
'Momma, I burnt the fries, are you hungry?'
Fast-forward then flashback
to another time...
when french fries was the
cure all
to maintain all the sickening lies.
Pacing back and forth
she wondered why momma stopped crying,
why she was so still?
Why did she suddenly become silent?
But the little girl
came back
and told her to sit
on that sofa-bed
and close her eyes and think of something nice,
just like when it first happened.
When the key turned in the lock
she expected the little girl to
disappear,
but she took the gun from her hands
and told her
to be quiet, with that coldly vacant stare.
Then he came inside
.handsome.
corporately dressed;
when he condescendingly asked
'What are you doing?'
the barrel in his face
served as an answer to his stupid question.
He never moved past that door.
She shot him 11 times.
Starting with his shoulders
then every other joint
the last bullet
aimed
aimed
close range
in between his thighs.
The neighbours heard the screams,
she never even tried to hide.
They found her catatonic on that sofa-bed;
lounging in the afterthought
of suicide.
She told them later
each bullet was for every year
he thought he had won.
The Corporal looked at this 16 year old girl,
vacant stare, dishevelled hair
locked in the holding cell,
lost with time.
Then he turned away in guilt.
He couldn’t help but think of his son.
My Inspiration: 16 Days of Activism & Photo Prompt by Random_Michelle
© KohylahPiper 2015
