Marseille
I’m sure you’ve noticed by the postage stamp, that I’ve already left the place of my agony. Everything is over – I’m free. Free as a bird: burnt nest, baby birds killed. I’ve chucked away the chains, but my arms remain shackled.
This explanation won’t be chronological, and I don’t even know how everything was exactly. I only know I was as cold as a politician, that I started with Madmoiselle”, and that, many times, I mentioned “deeper reasons” and that “I can’t only think of myself”, how “I would never make her happy”, “my restless character”, “family obligations”, my heart knows how I feel”.
Pale like her white blouse, she was looking at me with eyes widely open - eyes in which the flame had been extinguished. When I was almost
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Her voice was so different, that a cold chill ran through my entire body.
She collapsed into the chair, banged gently on the keys of the piano, and rested her head in her hand. The strings sounded disorderly, much like the thoughts in my head. The lampshade cast green light over both of us. It was dark in the corners.
I stood there like a condemned man. “Suffer criminal!”, I told myself, “You deserve much worse!”
Maybe five minutes later, she lifted her head and looked at me in my sad state, no dignity, no pride, no manly honor. Her eyes were wet, cold like the first winter rain. And behind her eyes was an emptiness where/in which there was no place for me anymore. I realized that our relationship was over, that all ties were severed, and that I couldn’t go back. I came close to her, knelt down, took her cold hand in mine, and pressed it to my lips; again I blurted out something clumsy, something like: “God is my witness, I’ve never loved anyone the way I have loved you and I never will again. But do consider, maybe these reasons of mine are meaningless, and I’m a person to be despised, unworthy of the light that you shone on me. Can you forgive me?
She didn’t pull her hand
Ashley briefly looked away, the sudden eruption too powerful to look upon. But it dulled, and her eyes once more, and the blaze before her took shape.
Famous author Don DeLillo once made a comment about writing and said, “Writing is a form of personal freedom. It frees us from the mass identity we see in the making all around us. In the end, writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some underculture but mainly to save themselves, to survive as individuals”. Having the ability to write is a privilege that majority of Americans have and still to this day take this privilege for granted. While an average American may think writing is an unbearable task, there are prisoners who consider writing as a form of freedom that helps them escape the harsh realities of prison. According to “Criminal Justice In America” by George F. Cole, Cole discusses how the incarceration quota is regularly increasing while the reported crime rates are decreasing. This is due to the amount of crime that is not being documented and that is called the dark figure of crime.
Strutting through the familiar, gate worn by time, I spread my arms, taking in the saccharine aroma of the fresh grass. The remaining glimmers of the sun glisten on every blade that peeks through the moist soil, composing a sea of sparkling beauty, only comparable to a poem. The meadow is breathtaking this evening, as the sun sets behind the trees in the distance, leaving a glow of pinks, peaches, ambers, and crimsons behind as if a bowl of fruit had exploded in the sky.
You used to think the philosophy 'you only live one' is the most ridiculous excuse for justifying everything you've ever heard of - if you're meant to be reckless and live as fast as you can, 'there's a million and one ways to die' sounds much nicer. Explore them. Investigate them. Enjoy them. Cherish everyone of them, especially that split second between when you lean back in your chair and it hangs midway in air so close the the ground that the only thing you can think of is 'that is it.'
Tears burst forth from her swollen eyes like water from a dam. They spilled down her cheeks like rain in a storm. Her tear soaked face trembled as she spoke to me.
She lifted her head up and looked me in the eyes for the first time tonight. Her large, dark eyes captured me like a fish on a hook. Her eyes cried out pain and loneliness and seemed to see through my superficial persona.
I was broken. I had nothing left inside of me, my life was slowly disappearing and I couldn’t stop it. As I lied on the cold wooden floor of my room the pain from where he had hit me was erupting inside of me. Every part of my body ached in agony, I struggled to suck in air. As my eyes flooded with tears and I looked at myself in the mirror I was horrified at the person looking back at me. Blood was running off my face and onto my nightdress. Deep purple welts had already started to form across my fragile body from the forceful impact of his rough fists that consistently made contact with my small figure. But living day and night in this torture couldn’t hurt me anymore than it already has, but what does is that it was him that did this to
My heart sank, sadness engulfed me yet the tears never came. I bit my lip until it turned white in an effort to mask my quivering lips. She turned and saw me, kindness evaporated from those brown eyes, as the verdict was confirmed with that cold icy look, she walked off
“I don’t see this getting any better,” I stated blankly. I watched as the words pierced through her eyes and into her heart. I knew exactly what it had meant to say that, and so did she. I had basically said “There’s no chance i’ll stay together with you, and now we are over.”
“I’m sorry, I just couldn’t do it anymore. You made me the happiest woman on Earth, and you were the world to me. For now, we must part ways, I’ll see you again soon, your loving wife…” I read aloud.”No!” I wailed, “Don’t be gone! Don’t leave me…” I held her close, unnoticing of the blood that now stained my shirt. All that was there was the feeling of my wife’s cold, limp body in my arms, and the hot tears that streamed down my face in rivers.
"Wake up, partners," the trail boss, James called. I sleepily looked up , shivered, and saw I was the only one not up. "Here," James said, giving me the horses' bridles and saddles. "Take these and get the horses ready. We have a long day today." I groaned in reply and set up the horses for the day's long drag. I was the horse wrangler and this was my everyday job but I still couldn't get use to the idea of waking up before the sun and working. We drove the cattle into open plains against the winter's cold wrath.
She wasn’t impressed, her tear stained face and puffy eyes, not even a cake of makeup could hide her disgust. She hated me. The minister turned my way. There was a clutter of thoughts in my mind, then he managed to put my worst nightmare into words, my reply would
You’re on your knees now, sobbing. How ironic was it that the place you feel in love would be the place you lost it, too. The broken, empty wind brushes you, not to comfort you, but to taunt you and your misery. It felt so much like that dreaded night.
My Patient is Larry Johnson a high school junior come up on his senior year. He is also a top prospect in the high school football. Larry is expected to do big thing on the colligate level. Since he’s such a big football star my first question for him was how popular are you. He chuckled and said “everybody loves Larry” which I could imagine so. Then I began to ask him about his expectation of his senior year. Though he is great on the field Larry has struggled in the classroom. As of right now though he has the talent to play at the next level he has a 2.2 GPA but also needs need 200 more points on his SAT which means he doesn’t have any room for comfort. So since he isn’t able to have some freedom like most High School students. I asked him what his plan was in order to meet the meet the expectation and stay on top of his GPA. He said “that he signed himself up for SAT prep classes and that in order to stay on top his grade he had to not apply himself on the field but also in the classroom. And that he applies himself there isn’t anything he can’t do.
Orange heat burned on her cheeks, red and yellow flickered in her eyes as the flames danced across the wooden boards. Why didn't she listen...But she had listened. She had learned. She had made mistakes.