The Boy Who Could Fly

:/

I’m so tired of feeling like I do nothing right sometimes. I try REALLY hard to be perfect, or at least somewhere close to good, and it doesnt matter. I just want to not worry about every little aspect of my personality and my life annoying someone. I want to be able to be ME and open up without getting on someone’s nerves. I want nothing more than a real opportunity to not be judged or put down by people that really don’t know me. It depresses me a lot that I have to worry non-stop about all of my nuances. Every piece of my personality bothers someone, for some reason, and it makes no sense.

Why let something completely ridiculous help form an opinion for you of someone else? Why would you harbor negative thoughts about someone over the smallest of things?

Let a person actually DO YOU WRONG before you jump out to judge them. That’s all I ask of people. Because that is how I live my life. I know its realllllllllllllllllllllllllly hard to expect people to get over their little, stupid, likes or dislikes. But in the interest of not coming off as someone who has problems with good people over childish (high-school level) reasons, here is my advice-

get. over. it. 

Empty Canvas

The blood quivered along his lips as it dripped down his cheeks and onto his lap, tiny puddles of life.

Art can be found in many forms. Whether it be painting, sculptures, music, sketches -hell, even sports are considered an art form. Art captures human interest. It has the ability to awe and inspire the public in ways that few things on this planet can do. The passion that a fine artist puts into their work is their love. The fluid strokes all coming together in a whimsical, finite form that portrays endless possibilities.

It takes a very special person to create something brilliant out of a jumble of ideas, colors, words, or objects. Artists minds are a revolving door straddling the border of insanity and pride. Pablo Picasso himself was a mad man. He was known to carry around an empty revolver, and threatened to murder in cold blood any man that asked him what his work “meant”. Da Vinci was so incredibly dedicated to perfection, he would often work on the “Mona Lisa” with one hand while writing new ideas down with the other. And sometimes, when a truly great artist teeters from prideful to purely insane, true beauty may follow. One of Vincent Van Gogh’s most highly regarded pieces of work “The Starry Night”, was created in full while he was staying in  an insane asylum in Saint-Remy-de-Provence, France. These relics, these magnificent spectacles of utter brilliance, have life. But what is the telling factor that separates regular artists from transcendent masterminds? It’s quite simple, actually - technique.

I stared directly into the sockets where his eyes once sat. His skin, bruised and pale, covered in his own charred red blood. He was sitting in front of me a tortured soul. I placed the tip of my blade to the point where his collar bone peaked and gently inserted it into his skin. His body clenched from the pain. Attempting to scream for help, or for mercy, but unable to. His mouth was left ajar, wearing a permanent sarcastic smirk that was due to his jaw being dislocated. A barely recognizable figure sat in front of me, surely praying with the last bit of energy he had to be put to rest. But I wasn’t done, a masterpiece cannot be rushed merely because of impatience.

Murder is art. Now, I’m not talking about the types of random violence that causes a majority of the murders on the news. I’m talking about the premeditated, predetermined, ingeniously thought up types of murder that cause panic. Thugs and gangsters don’t strike fear into the common public. They have a way of looking scared, even when they are taking a life. Their lack of confidence and fear of repercussion shows that their true intentions were not to murder, but instead to avoid it all costs. Serial killers, on the other hand, terrify people. They have mystique. They have a charisma and flair and a semblance to being quietly dramatic, yet mystifyingly horrifying simultaneously. A human life is precious, and a true serial killer understands that if you are going to take one, you must appreciate it. Every proud artist cherishes his work, and a serial killer is no different.

I felt the blood dripping down the shaft of my blade and onto my hand. His blood. His life. He begged through his moans and groans for mercy, yet I couldn’t concede. His chest was the centerpiece. A large X cut into it, barely skin deep, stretching from shoulder to hip in each direction. With each incision or amputation, the blood flows more rapidly. To keep him from bleeding out and ruining my work I was taking a scolding hot iron to each new wound. Stopping the blood and seering the skin so that he could live to die another time. His breathing hadn’t slowed since he woke up here, strapped to an old broken rocking chair in my garage.

I’m really just your average 34 year old male. I have a pretty basic job working as a Life Insurance agent. I sell people insurance for when they pass on. I’ve come to believe that this act of paying for something that in no way benefits your well being is one of the very few acts of pure human kindness. The people that come in, mortgaging their afterlives, they trust me. Each of them has a story to tell, and each of them has a reason for being there. I’ve learned to accept my role as a death therapist. I sit and listen to their fears and dreams. They tell me how much they love their families or how much they truly fear death. My most prefered topic is the one pertaining to what type of death scares them the most.

My first client was a recently widowed woman by the name of Felicia Gonzalez. She had come to me and our agency to get life insurance because her husband had just passed, and never had the insight to do it himself. She saw first-hand the amount of trouble it was for her family to put up the it took for a proper funeral. She had two children, twin girls, and they were just getting started in the sixth grade. She was 37, didn’t smoke or drink, had a low-risk job and no previous health concerns. She was a prototypical client, one that is accepted with very little belief that they would actually die out of the blue. During one of our meetings, Felicia and I were talking about types of death. She informed me that the worst type of death, in her mind, would be to be burned alive. Her rationalization was that she could feel it for too long. She didn’t want to feel her death happening, she didn’t want to smell her own flesh burning while she screamed, helplessly.

His eyes stared up at me from his lap. Sitting relatively where I placed them after their removal. His tongue and seven of his fingers sat alongside them. I had left him two fingers on one hand and three on the other. This was for effect, mainly. See, true torture is change. Yes, he was in incredible amounts of pain from various different parts of his body, but his hands were what horrified him. Your body becomes so used to having a certain limb or part that it sometimes forgets that you have it. And the loss of it can be enough to drive a man mad. Luckily for him, his level of madness mattered not, for he could only sit and wait. Sit and wrap his mind around the situation. Around his hands being mutilated. His left over fingers wiggling while his arms were strapped to the arms of chair, searching for that comfortable feeling of resemblance. A feeling that he wouldn’t have time to adapt away from. The finger thing was my trademark. It’s how I was known around the inner circles of serial killers.

Another one of my clients, a man named Marshall Mcgee, was acquiring life insurance because his wife was expecting a newborn. She was in her second trimester and he took the initiative to insure their well-being if he were to pass. He was only 23, around 6’5, and looked to be quite healthy. Marshall was an energetic guy, he continuously twiddled his thumbs and shifted back and forth in the black suede lounge chair. His eyes darted back and forth, as if he was innately suspicious of some unsavory event bound to happen. He had just married not more than 4 months before coming to see me. He told me that his soon-to-be child (it turned out to be a boy, named Ashton) was the reason that they rushed into marriage. Marshall was a very open person, he would chat with me non-stop as I questioned him about his lifestyle and habits. I was starting to become more ballsy when it came to asking about their least prefered style of death. Instead of leading up to it, I would just straight up ask. Marshall told me that his most hellish nightmare would be to be tortured. He said that the feeling of being completely dead, but still alive, would be his greatest fear. His eyes stopped darting back and forth for a split second when he told me. Because for just a moment, a small smirk broke the stone expression I had been wearing most of the conversation.

He really wanted this to end. The pain had evidently become too much for his heart to take, and he kept passing out. His breathing would slow and nearly stop, his kicking would cease, his moans would silence. Now this, this pissed me off. How dare he attempt to ruin my masterpiece. I grabbed the defibrillator and shocked him back into existence. I still had work to do. Once his heart kicked back into motion, I placed the tip of my blade to the lowest bend of his kneecap. A small incision and his legs jerked. His tried to kick me, but to no avail. I had forced two lawn shears, blade first, through each foot and into the ground, essentially nailing him in place. With each kick and leg spasm the wounds on each foot widened. The blades scratched his bones, a subtle, scraping sound.

Each client brought me new ideas. They helped expand my repertoire and gave me new materials to work with. These people had walked into my office for a reason. They wanted their families to be safe after they passed. But why pay for something for so long without collection? See, I wanted to help. I wanted to expedite the process and help them.

The blade pierced the skin under his kneecap as I searched for bone. I was looking for a guide down to his foot. A helpful hand, of sorts. I slowly moved the blade down from his kneecap, gliding along the shin bone as his skin fell apart. This wound, I would leave unburnt. He ripped his right foot out of the ground, blade and all, and tried to deny me my masterpiece. The blood flung through the still air out of the gaping hole in his foot. His kicked, searching for me but failing as I stepped back. He couldn’t see me, but he could hear me. I had left his hearing intact for a reason. I wanted him to feel the sounds reverberate through his body. The sounds of helplessness, of torture. He continued to kick with his loose leg, a bloody stump, lost. I walked behind him, placing my blade to the soft spot directly underneath the occipital bone. The final brush stroke on my “Starry Night”. I leaned in just close enough to his ear so that he couldn’t head bunt me and whispered “Mr. McGee, congratulations on your full life care policy.”

His head tilted back onto my hand, covered in blood and wet hair.

I miss my girlfriend so much. :/

Yesterday.

Dear Yesterday,

   How are you doing? I’ve been alright, I guess. Things just haven’t been the same without you here. For starters, my whole life is different. When you left, you stole my heart.  

I’ve never been without a heart, to be honest, I didn’t even know I could survive. I have no life support, I have no tubes twined throughout my body, all I have is my mind. A mind split in forty different directions, lost in thought, traveling from memory to memory. A pilgrimage of sobriety. A fragmented and plagued portrait of the perfection you confiscated. 

‘Perfect’ is a word that many use, and few understand the true meaning of. Some people will try and give meaning to the word, and fail miserably when they lack the passion for keeping that perfection intact. They stand by the wayside and watch as the smallest crack spreads out to shatter their perfection. 

And they fall apart. They always fall apart.

The difference between a perfection unknown and a perfection adored, is that the perfection adored is never let go. See, Yesterday, you may have temporarily taken my perfection from me, but you will never keep it. Because I truly adore my perfection. 

Moments and memories, those are what truly create perfection. 

Moments like a first kiss. My heart raced as she reached for my hand. The conversation slowed down, and transitioning from one topic to the next. She looked up in a moment of weakness. A moment of openness disallowed in most circumstances. I tried to play it cool and acted as if I had any idea of what was going on. The tension, the nervousness, my quivering hands and lips breaking down the walls of friendship. Her lips, soft to the touch, weary of treading into this uncharted territory. The both of us knowing that while nothing has changed, nothing would ever be the same. 

Memories like a fight. An argument about what seemed to be nothing, but everything. Happiness cracks at times. There is a reason that a smile can be broken into a frown. There is meaning behind the necessity for tears. When the tensions rose and the words became more than just words, they became feelings. Nothing hurts more than a feeling disguised as a sentence, nothing. But with her, the small fights never escalated. They stayed minuscule, a mere learning process as to how to make the happy more happy, and the sad less prevalent. 

Moments like a movement. The smiles on her face that would steal the souls of even the strongest men. When she was happy, the world was perfect. Everyone around her would know, and everyone around her would be. Her fake-sad-face, the way that her bottom lip stuck out just enough to portray unhappiness, but not enough to truly prove it. The way she would roll over in bed, and place her nose on my cheek, resting her head on mine. The comfort that having her hand on my chest would bring. The way that she would look up at me and smile -her big, cheesy smile- causing all of my problems to evaporate. The way that she would reach out for my hand while she drove. The struggle that she would put up every night before I left her house. Trying with all of her cuteness to keep me from going.   

Yesterday, I would really appreciate your return. 

Memories like her tears. As we said goodbye, her hand in mine and her head on my shoulder. Sometimes, sadness only comes from pure happiness. When she looked at me and said goodbye, it didn’t feel real. Her eyes, red, staring at me longingly, begging time to stop for even the fewest of minutes if only to halt what came before today. I kissed her forehead as her arms squeezed my sides, taking with them the last of my strength. She took a step back and said goodbye. And as I stared at her - this absolutely beautiful, flawless angel of a person - I tried not to break. She ran a free hand through her delicate brown hair, teased to perfection. I stared -not nearly long enough, and not nearly hard enough- at the perfection that you, Yesterday, have stolen. 

And she left. You took perfection, on her way to a far off land. But what you do not know, Yesterday, is that I love her. And no matter how far you take her, my adoration will never falter.

Perfection.

She is perfection. I understand that while you may never return again, Yesterday, that a future Tomorrow will bring her back.  

Sincerely,

Today. 

Decadence - Chapter 3.

- November 26th, 2011-

This same dream, again.  This time though, the figure that seemed to be “death” let out a much more masculine scream. His robe was tattered, slightly torn at the seems, and looked grayed- as if it had been worn for years upon years. It’s the scream that startles me and causes my skin to crawl; such a familiar sound, an acquiesced, bloodcurdling, gut wrenching scream.

My wife informed me this morning that I was talking in my sleep last night. She seemed frightened to tell me, as if I was saying something innate or insane. Her facial expressions spoke volumes as she tried to piece together the fragments of noises I let slip out. None of the sentences, when re-fragmented, made any sense at all. She kept saying that I was referring to her name repeatedly, and that I was speaking in a tongue that she failed to recognize. I’ve come to my own conclusion that it was mere gibberish, and that she was disproportionately scared about something completely irrational. Dreams are merely dreams. Nightmares are merely nightmares. She scoffs each time I shoo away her misconceptions. My wife is of the opinion that a persons dreams are the window to their truest wants and needs. She claims that the images we form while we are asleep are the places and people we truly want to exist in our lives, and that our subconscious souls dwell on these semi-controlled dreams which in turn form our goals and beliefs in our “awake” lives. 

She strives to hold on to her ambitions from years past, praying each day that “god” will help her achieve those goals. 

I can’t afford to have my wife suspicious of my nocturnal desires uncontrollably. She must be unaware of my intentions throughout the process that is on the verge of coming to fruition. 

-November 27, 2011-

Tomorrow, school begins again. The miniature break given to professors and students will come to a close and I will be reunited with my sheep… ahem.. students. 

I’ve lost faith in these generations to successfully commit to anything. They claim to understand love, life, passion, and regret, yet when adversity rears its head, they disperse in every direction like cowardice mice. The young men and women that I have the pleasure to direct disgust me. Each of them attempting to one-up the other in magnificent fashion. The men will question me about my office hours, or attempt to inquire about what secrets I may have for being a successful lawyer in their post-grad lives. I have never been an asshole professor. My job security is based upon these young men’s grades, so for the betterment of my financial stable, I give them the info they’re so desperately searching to obtain. 

The women are much more forward about their ambition and sacrifice all dignity for higher scores. 

I have had female students attempt almost everything with me. From directly asking if we had sex, would I pass them in this class, to sexual innuendo with very little secrecy. 

Between you and I, diary, a grad student that is spending hundreds of thousands of borrowed dollars will do absolutely anything that you ask of them. From S&M to threesomes, the female students who ask for this impromptu “grade forgiveness”, still have to work for those grades. 

The sex with them still leaves me empty. The void of unhappiness widening with each phony orgasm. I try to pretend that my wife is non-existent, that the ring on my finger is merely there for show or to ward off potential problematic females. 

Am I wrong for not caring about my wives feelings? Probably. She deserves better, but I cannot sustain. My ambitions go beyond that of love and feelings, I must be looked upon by these students as a professor that they can use. Someone that they are able to toy with and will play along with their “ambitions”. They think they have me in their hands, while all along I’m leading them towards a tunnel with nary a light at the finish, but an inferno. 

-November 30th, 2011 - 

FINALLY, my package has arrived. My wife texted me while I was “tutoring” two of my grad students informing me that a rather large box labeled “FRAGILE, DO NOT THROW” was delivered by three men in sharp looking black suits. I requested that they had told me that they would warn me before showing up and delivering, if for no other reason than to avoid my wife owning any knowledge of the container. I lied and told her that it was a large birthday gift for a friend, and that she was to place it in the garage to wait until I came home from work. Whimsically, she obliged. 

Office hours bore me, and at the moment I have no patience to wait for potential students to come and bitch to me about their problems, or ask purposeless questions about meaningless information. 

I have to get home. 

I must open this package. 

Decadence - Chapter 2.

-November 20th, 2011-

The citizens of this country disgust me. 

The movement “Occupy Wall Street” has recently been bombarding my newspapers, internet news arenas, and my television for what feels like months now. What are these people trying to actually accomplish? The money will never stop flowing, and therefore the people controlling it will never cease to stop working. I fully encourage all citizens to participate in any activity that helps bring an issue to the forefront, but  why not bring an issue to the forefront that can actually change? What a waste of energy and belief. The participants in these peaceful walks and sweeps aren’t changing anything, and it is mainly because the powers that be find it quite easy to ignore when the masses moan, instead of claw. 

The people who stand up must stop merely whispering while they stand. If they are unwilling to scream, then they are cowering under the pressure of the law. The world will not change because you held a sign up and picketed, the world will only change when that sign is lodged into the chest of the person or group that you were picketing in the first place. 

Murder. Illustrious murder. What better way to prove how much a cause means to you than drastically configuring the fears of the heartless fucks opposing you? 

I have, quite frequently, wondered what society would do if they were told that the only way they could continue living the life they live now was to end someone else’s. How many “upstanding citizens” would end a life just so theirs didn’t? I propose that nearly all would. People fear death almost as much as they fear ridicule, it promotes a constant subconscious effort to ensure that you place yourself in the right situations at all the right times. The thought of death rarely passes through a normal persons mind, it is a taboo thought -pushed out by the misconception that we are all, indeed, invincible. 

But we are not invincible, I know I’m not at least. And I understand to the n’th degree that my survival on this planet means more to me, than yours does. 

So why then, do citizens not revolt like they really want to? Why do they stroll around preaching about change, without ever making a real effort to change anything but what I’m being forced to watch or listen to? The leaders of this movement should radicalize it, weaponize it, and create an army that the government could not withstand. Something that has never been seen before, on this continent at least. The answer to that question is that those leaders, for lack of a better word, suck. 

If the world is going to change, it must be led by someone who understands the task at hand. 

Someone like me. 

-November 21st, 2011-

I had a dream last night -well, most normal people would classify it as a nightmare.

I was standing in a darkened room, waiting for someone -or so it seemed. I was holding Abraham Lincoln’s bleeding, dismembered head in one hand, and a lynch in the other. Before me was a mural of Jesus Christ, arms spread open and nailed to a cross, the everlasting symbol of self sacrifice.

The room was ablaze, and in the corner, standing above a bleeding corpse, was death. Wearing a long, cliche’ black robe, holding a cherry-red stained machete’ in his right hand. A hand that was half barren of any tissue, completely skinless, and steaming. His face was void of any skin, just muscle and tissue, but still carrying two cream-colored eyes. His mouth seemed to have been ripped in half. The lower mandible being torn completely off, leaving only raw flesh dangling, flapping with every slight movement. His eyes stared blankly into mine, his free hand reaching into his robe for something, slowly, timidly. 

Death screamed, the scream of a woman being burnt alive. His had slanted slightly to the left as he let out a horrifying laugh. The same laugh, in fact, as my wife. 

And just as he started to pull the object out of his robe, I awoke. 

-November 23, 2012-

Unreliable fucks! I was informed that my package would have been shipped by yesterday, and it still has not come. Patience is undoubtedly a virtue that I lack completely. The man (or men) who e-mailed me saying that it would be here already are now telling me that they couldn’t have it here before Thanksgiving, which is tomorrow. 

I hate Thanksgiving, so many bad memories. Between my mother being raped, or my family finding out that I was gay, and immediately kicking me out of their home at 17 (it turned out being a phase), this day brings me nothing but pain and headaches. I only celebrate this incredulous tradition because of my wife, she happens to love cooking almost as much as she happens to love me. 

Is it irony, or hypocrisy, that Americans -a State built upon “christian” beliefs- would invent a holiday that is in direct violation to one of the 10 commandments? 

Only in this god forsaken country, where obesity and laziness is running (but not really) rampant would we continue such a preposterous form of celebration. 

The only positive that I take from Thanksgiving is that it is one of a very select few that displays a certain love for murder. A relaxed ignorance aimed directly at the very pilgrims these imbecile citizens idolize. Murderers of free people, because of land and differences in culture. Murderers because of need. Murderers because of want. 

Murderers, and society overlooks it completely, all due to the fact that it was for the greater good. 

-On a side note, my wife is making enough food for forty people. Which basically means that I’m going to be celebrating Thanksgiving until Christmas. 

Decadence - Chapter 1.

Dear Vice President Lynch,
These pages are the diary of Preston C. McDowell, professor of Philosophical Law at Harvard Law School. Professor McDowell was found six months ago, on July 23rd, 2012, dead in his San Diego beach house. He hung himself in his den, from an upside down cross that he had previously had embedded into his ceiling. As of the writing of this book, I have yet to discover any truths or revelations regarding these pages, but if there is anything that can gain from this, it would truly be of great assistance to the current affairs in the Nation’s capitol.

The Professor, father of two and a loving husband as he is remembered, had a second life that nobody in his professional life had any knowledge about. As you will hopefully figure out in the coming pages, Professor McDowell’s actions have been classified by what is remaining of the United States Government as “Anarchically Terrorist Behavior”.

The words you are about to read, Mr Vice President, you must keep secret. I give you this diary begging that you err on the side of caution with how much information you allow to leak out. The fate of this great country is resting in your hands, and before your eyes. Please, I ask of you with the regret of a misinformed widow, never mention my name as the contributor of this information. In the memory of my late husband, my life would also end if his name was connected to these … events.

With faith and godspeed,
Eleanor Lillian McDowell

- November 18th, 2011-

What are we, as humans, if not masochists and murderers?

Norms and societal restraints protect us from becoming outcasts, prisoners, caged animals living but barely alive.

But what would happen if the world were to change? If suddenly, none of the laws and regulations that existed before were still in existence, would mankind still uphold those norms out of benevolence for their fellow man?

How many murderers claimed they were killing for a righteous cause? How many religious fanatics martyred themselves in the name of a god who may not even exist?

The majority of human beings are herded like cattle their whole lives, following a path of righteousness and passion towards a savior that, quite possibly, was merely a fictional character dreamt up by a courageous mind. Infallibly, these people will murder in the name of this celestial savant. They will scratch and claw and allow built in reasoning for all of life’s many hardships. They attach their morality to their beliefs, and act according to a written manuscript created, in totality, to keep them on the straight and narrow. But what if those rules weren’t expressly inscribed on those holy books as they are? Would humanity break down into a subculture of murder and destruction all because they were not informed of its tenacity and horrendousness.

We fight each and every day against the urges that flow through us, prickling our skin from the inside, creating maelstroms of anger and passion that must not be granted the ability to overcome our morals -morals that were etched into our personalities and injected into our blood streams. But why? Why do we cage the animal inside of us so timidly? Why do we fear the repercussions of the governing body, one that we - the citizens- put in place? Or better yet, why do we fear the repercussions of a holy spirit who, by nature, must forgive all that ask for forgiveness, sincerely?

The answer is quite simple - Humans follow the masses,and the masses follow the moral codes.

We fear the inevitability that the murder or immoral act we partake in will make us aliens to our own kind. The public frowns upon those who allow their animalistic instincts to get the best of them. The global media portrays those living in sin as mongrels or harbingers of the devils ideals.

Wrong and right are opinionated preferences, depicted solely by the word of another immoral caged monster who we will never meet, passed down through generations of murderers and sluts, and force fed to our children from hands covered in the blood of their pasts. We strive for a finishing point of perfection. An afterlife full of family and friends, happiness, everything that the word “perfect” symbolizes.

But what if there is no Heaven? Are we supposed to live our lifetimes here one Earth, striving to one day perish and have our perfection happen upon us, instead of capturing perfection while we are breathing?

According to the gospel, perfection is an impossibility only allowed to the great creator himself. But why?

I say that if God truly existed, he would give us perfection on a platter. He would strive to ensure that happiness reigned throughout the world and that tranquility wasn’t merely a time to plan the next war, it was an everlasting time of peace.

It is my belief that we are the Gods. The laws of morality and principal were written by man, not holy deity’s. The ideals of what is wrong and what is right have long been in our control, and it is in my humble opinion that it’s the opportune time to begin the process of rewriting the manuscript on existence. Humans have, throughout all of time, created the idea of a god or multiple gods to give us meaning for why we exist and what will occur after we cease to. This time around, we are the gods. We are equals. We are transparent through one another without aggression or inequality. The sexes, the races, the preference of lovers, the diseased, and the culturally diverse - we are all one.

To re-create a perfect world out of an imperfect mold will take time and drastic measures, but my ideals will be seen through. I’ve come to the conclusion that keeping a diary of my thoughts and proceedings would be a better fit to clearing my mind and leaving a blueprint for future societies to delve in to for inevitable remodels.

I must prepare to entertain the house guests that my wife, Elly, invited over for dinner. She is an incredibly loving soul, and I truly wish I cared for her like she deserves.

None-the-less, in four days, the first piece of my elaborate puzzle will take form. Until then, yours truly, PCM.

The Battle for the East.

Who would have thought that a player that few people ever knew existed could turn the Eastern Conference of the NBA into an uber talented three-way horse race?

All it took for Jeremy Lin to make people believe in the New York Knickerbockers again was five games. One work week. 15 hours of television time. Linsanity, raging all the while.

It’s quite possible to fill whole arena’s with players who appeared out of nowhere, capture the public eye, and then dissapeared into a fog of nothingness. And while I’m just one person, I truly believe that ‘Lin baby, Lin’ will not be sitting amongst them when it’s all said and done. Instead, ‘Lin or go home’ will be helping form the most exciting decade of basketball that the NBA has ever seen.

Excuse my hyperbole.

What I’m trying to get at is this, in the Eastern Conference, as of two weeks ago, there were two lock teams- The Miami Lebron’s and the Chicago Rose’s. They were destined to be atop the conference for years to come, keeping the other 13 teams hungry, angry, and jealous over their unfathomable talent and winning instincts.

The Miami Lebron’s, with their star trio of Lebron James, Dwayne Wade, and Norris Cole -wait did I say Norris Cole, I must have meant Chris Bosh… oops- who are the current “Eastern Conference Champions”- are only getting better playing together. It takes time for superstars who have always been so focused on being THE guy on their respective teams to transition to being a part of a team where there is no need for THE guy. They are athletically head and shoulder above any team the NBA has ever seen (there’s that hyperbole problem again). Two of the top five players alive, running the court together and wreaking havoc on any team who didn’t have size or a at least one legitimate defensive stopper (coughcough Deshawn Stevenson cough). How could anyone argue that this team will not be in the Eastern Conference Finals for years to come? Oh right, nobody can. It’s an impossible argument. Well… it was.

The Chicago Rose’s, with their all world point guard, Derrick Rose. Their big men who couldn’t care less if you’re trying for the rebound or not (Joakim Noah and Carlos Boozer), and their jel players who know exactly what it takes to win (Luol Deng and Rip Hamilton). This group defines the word team. They feed off of the energy that Rose brings to the table each and every night. And who knows, maybe later this year they’ll couple the most exciting guard in basketball with the best center in basketball (Dwight Howard). We can only dream. The only question regarding this team is this; can they win with one star and many upper level role players? It didn’t work for Allen Iverson in the early 2000’s when he was D-rose version 1 for a Philadelphia team that looked amazing - until it really mattered. But maybe this Chicago team is different. Maybe they’ll prove to the sports world that winning is done through team work, and great defense. And IF they are able to bring Dwight to town, then watch out, because if this team is already leading the league in defense now, they will be numbers 1 and 2 after adding the reigning two time Defensive MVP. How could anyone argue that this team will not be the Eastern Conference Finals for years to come? When they are right there with the Lebron’s, destined to form an amazing year in and year out rivalry? Oh right, nobody can. It’s an impossible argument. Well… it was.

Enter Jeremy Lin.

Now I understand that one player cannot change the fortune of basketball (unless his name ends in Johnson, Bird, Jordan, Russell, Robertson, Jabbar or Bryant) but sometimes the emeregence of the perfect player at the perfect time in the perfect situation can create a barrage of events that were totally unforseen.

The pieces just came together in a way that nobody ever saw coming.

-Carmelo Anthony is one of the best players the league has seen in the last decade. His ability to penetrate, draw fouls, shoot from outside, shoot from inside, shoot when it matters (second only to Kobe Bryant in shots made in the last 10 seconds of games since 2003), and size all point to a player who should be considered unguardable. And he is, when he wants to be. Melo has one fatal flaw though -since his trade to New York, he has played primarily the Point Forward position. This would be okay, but Mello is a shoot first player with very limited passing ability. To be fair, hes much more Kobe Bryant than Lebron James. When Melo was at his very best in Denver, he was working alongside Chauncey Billups, who would create space and give Melo the perfect position for his near flawless shots or soul crushing drives to the hole. Mello is the closer. He’s the scorer who you want on your side in those waning seconds. Melo is the superstar that teams game plan for.

-Amare Stoudemire has long been seen as the most offensively gifted power forward in basketball. His array of post moves and ability to drop out and hit the 15-foot jumpers make him a mismatch to damn near everyone. His uncanny ability to score at will, matched with his near-unparalleled athleticism makes it easier to understand why the Mike Dantoni wanted him so bad. Who wouldn’t want a big man who can run the floor on fast breaks alongside the guards, while also creating his own shots in space? I’ll wait, because I don’t see any hands raised.

Still waiting…

Alright you get my point, the guy is good.  His career line of 21.8ppg and 8.8rpg show that he isnt afraid to crash the glass when necessary. But Amare has two glaring faults - he has zero leadership ability, and he may be the biggest black hole of assists in the NBA. Amare doesn’t pass. And I’m not exxaggerating, the man has average 1.5 assists per game his WHOLE career. That’s so bad that it’s almost impressive. But Amare isn’t being paid the big bucks to drop dimes, he’s being paid to score at will and rebound -and he does that very well. Amare is the mismatch. He’s the superstar that teams game plan for.

-Tyson Chandler is one of the best defenders in basketball. He controls the inside of the lane like few others in the league. His passion and athleticism help to create a force to be reckoned with on each and every rebound. And his love for a good pick-n-roll (thanks to Chris Paul) is an attribute to his basketball acumen. Every team needs a soul, and for the Knicks, Chandler is that soul. He brings the winning mindset -after winning a championship over the Lebrons last year- and when healthy, he has the potential to be the second or third best center out there. But Chandler has one very large flaw - he is very bad when there isn’t a real point guard to lead the offense. He was a below league-average center before Chris Paul put his talents on display. Pick and rolls, turning to alley oops, turning to pick and pops. Without a viable 1-guard, Chandler is just another cog. But Chandler is the force. He’s the stalwart that teams game plan to avoid at all costs.

These three players together, without a point guard, are a flawed group doomed for mediocrity. They will put up points in spurts, but with no real direction. So we add one single Taiwanese-american into the mix, and things get ‘Linsane’.

Jeremy Lin forces the Knicks stars to play to their strengths instead of exposing their weaknesses. He still needs to learn how to stop turning the ball over (averaging 4.6 turnovers a game)  but other than that, this kid is ready to become the savior of Gotham. Actually, for all intensive purposes, his new nickname is Linman.

Linman wont have to average 26.8 points a game all season, there will be no need for that type of prolificy from his position when the Knicks are healthy. But what if we knock his average down to a respectable 17 ppg? You take his 17, Amare’s 21, and Melo’s 26, and that alone will give you anywhere from 60 to 80 points a night. We’ve seen what Miami can do when it’s big boys are rolling. This New York team is just as dangerous. Linman only needs to facilitate and use his above average basketball IQ to his advantage. Great point guards can manage anyone, that’s what sets them apart from the mediocre ones. Linman must keep the Knicks stars where they are best suited. Melo on the wing, but slicing through the defense, taking advantage of pick’s by Chandler. Amare near the top of the key, or backing down into the paint. And Chandler creating havoc in the middle.

If Melo and Amare can learn to play their parts in this well crafted offense, it can go anywhere. Historically, how many times has a team had three elite big men who are at the top of their games, being passed the rock by a player that opponents actually fear. This New York team can (and in my opinion, will) take that final step to being the third participant in the Eastern Conference’s race. And thusly ruining the storylines that Miami and Chicago had set up for us for years to come. Damn you, Linman.

But think of the matchups that could happen in the coming years? And for all intensive purposes lets assume that Chicago pulls off the Dwight trade (probably trading Noah and Deng, plus a pick, to Orlando). There are three possible Matchups that we would wait all season for in the Eastern Conference Finals.

1. Chicago vs.Miami - A matchup of Phenom vs. Phenom’s. Lebron v D-Rose, but continued. This would be a defensive battle filled with strength and clutch shooting -but probably not from Lebron. Not only would the games be amazing, but all of that red everywhere, I’m sure there would be a few fights here and there to peak the casual fans interest.

2. Chicago vs. New York - Bringing back the old days where Jordan would walk into MSG and take a personal vandetta out on the fans watching the games.  The possibilites of watching Rose vs Linman, Dwight vs Chandler, Boozer vs Amare, and player to be named vs Melo -is mouth watering. A classic battle of free flowing offense verses will-bending defense. All I’m seeing is a game 6, final seconds, and Melo hits a fadeaway jumper and then looking over at Linman, nodding appreciatively.

3. New York vs. Miami - Honestly, the most tantalizing of the possible matchups. We would bare witness to Melo vs. Lebron, finally in a series that matters. Lin would be most likely be guarded by Wade in order to slow him down and cause turnovers. Chris Bosh vs Amare, I wonder if there has ever been a matchup of softer Power Forwards in the league? The funny thing is, they both could average 11.5 rebounds because neither knows how to box-out. This series would be riddled with excitement and fast breaks. The hatred for Lebron in MSG would be through the roof. It’s a matchup that screams “Seven game series” more than any other.

And all of this because a player that was cut by two teams, and almost another, decided to put a team on his back and show the basketball world what he could do. I understand that all of this is a stretch, but if Linsanity is for real, and this team can learn to play the way they should… anything is possible.

Night of the Hunters: Chapter 8

The silver plate reading “Twenty 3”, hanging from the top of the disheveled door frame stared back at Omar and myself. He looked at me for a second before taking the initiative and opening the door. “Fuck it” he said.

As he opened the door up, the pale boredom of the hallway was consumed and outnumbered by the masquerade of colors oozing out of this room. Each wall, a different shade of brightness. It was as if I had leaped straight out of Hell and into a yellow-pink smorgasbord. Blazing pastels pasted each wall. Each wall having different childish posters. It was as if my entire past had been covered on the right side, alone. Posters of Pokemon, Doug Funny, Rocko’s Modern Life, and Michael Angelo draping the wall. On the left side -which I presumed to be Omar’s- a poster beared the image of Tupac, with a picture on the left of a young woman, which seemed to have drawn the height of Omar’s attention. 

He walked up to the picture, which was much smaller than any of the other hanging inside room Twenty 3. “Mom?” he touched the glass casing, covering the face in the picture. “What in the..” He reached behind the frame, trying to pry it from the wall. His face contorts and contracts as his muscles flex. His back muscles quiver and panic as they attempt to rip away their maker from the wall. 

I thought about my mother. Is she okay? Does she even know that she may never see her son again? I fight back the tears, trying to believe that this wont be the end. All I wanted was to call my mother and to hold Stacey one more time. A bitter dream, taking place in a lucid nightmare.

Omar stepped back from the picture finally, after exasperatingly attempting to take the frame from the wall. “Why they have my moms here? This.. this is fucked up. Where’d they even get this from? Moms has been dead for goin’ on eight years man.”

He sat on the shag blue carpet directly in front of the frame. If I knew Omar any better than not at all, I would have comforted him. But what could I of even said? I don’t know this guy. All I know is that the clock is ticking, and I needed to find my care package. I placed my hand on his shoulder gently, “Look man, I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but I do know that we need to get ready. I can’t survive alone, now get up and gear up and pray to whatever god you believe in. We’re going hunting tonight. I’ll be damned if either of us die.”

Omar looked up at me with a smirk. “Bro, we got this. I’m fittin’ to find out why my moms picture is here. And I swear to Jesus that if I find the muh-fucka that stole this picture… I’ll kill him in cold blood.”

He got up, shrugged off his momentary depression, and walked to the back left corner of the room. I remembered what the big redheaded oaf had told me. “Back right corner, box numbered 39”. I headed to the back of the room and instantly saw the box he was talking about. The box, all black with the number 39 chalked into the top of it, was sitting directly in between the posters of Rocko and Pokemon, and it stood out like a sore thumb. I walked over to the box and sat next to it. The first semi-relaxing moment I’ve had since I first sat down on the bus.

The inside of the box was pink velour -fitting.

The contents inside were exactly as expected. One revolver and one knife. Any real hunter would be ashamed at the quality of weaponry we were being told to go into war with. The revolver was older and quite worn, one single bullet casing taped to the side of the gun in a small zip-loc bag, and the knife was slightly rusted. I felt the blade to tell if it was sharp at all -especially being that I would probably be using this weapon more than most - and sure as hell, it was extremely dangerous to the touch.

I turned to the wall and secretly placed the knife in my belt buckle and the revolver into my left hand, carefully transferring the bullet out of the bag and into my right pocket.

“Hey, Omar. You have your stuff?” I asked him, still facing the wall.

No answer.

I turned around to see why he was being so quite, and as soon as my eyes saw what was about to happen, it was too late.

The handle of Omar’s revolver struck my mouth harder than I could ever imagine anything hitting me. A sudden rush of blood came flowing from between my teeth as I felt a tooth dislodge from my gums and hit the wall to the left of me. My body crashed against the wall as Omar took advantage of this moment to step on my chest. He held his blade directly against my throat.

“Tell me why the fuck I shouldn’t do it! Imma make my odds better! Tell me why I don’t kill you right now.”

“Omar,” I groggily said, slowly as I spat a was of whitened blood onto the bright blue carpet. “Don’t man, don’t. Please. We.. we can be a team. Don’t do it. Just, just let me live.”

“You aint shit to me bruh. You’re just an annoyance. Little bitch-ass, walking around like you own shit. Who the fuck are you? I don’t need you round here making me feel insignificant and shit. I’m Omar, nigga, and you’re just some bitch.”

He took the knife away for a split second, only to punch me twice in the stomach with his opposite hand. I could feel my ribs cracking, I could taste the blood in my mouth and see the rage in his eyes.

He put the knife back up to my throat.

“You better not abandon me, Marcus. Don’t even let me think for a second you gonna turn on me, if I do..you’re dead.”

I tried to nod slightly, but not too much just to keep from slicing my own neck open. His face softened as his foot left my chest. I swallowed the air and turned onto my chest. Laying there, in disbelief of what had just happened. How was I going to make it through a night where my enemies were everyone, and the only people who had my back were either nowhere to be found or absolutely insane.

Omar slaps me on the back”No hard feelin’s, my dude. I just need to know you’re straight”

Before I could respond with more than an eye bat -a familiar, despicable voice breaks the silence in the room.

“Rodents, this is your Captain speaking….”

The Night of the Hunters: Chapter 7 

“Chase Woodley?” the Brother inquires. I just look at him and nod. A slight nod, nothing more, nothing less. He hands me a folded sheet of notebook paper. On the outside was my name in large bold font, with a number “16” in the top right corner.

Just a number, that’s all I am in this game.

“Walk through the door to my right, you will find on the wall in front of you a small lunch box. Inside that box is a canteen filled with water and an apple. We at AZA promote healthy adventures. After you grab the lunch box, go straight down the hallway to the left and you will meet another brother who will give direct you to your starting location and hunting partner. Leave now.”

Throughout his whole speech, our eyes never met. The entire time I stared into his face. Breaking down his structure inch by inch. Trying to create force his hand and make him crack, and look into the eyes of a dead man.

I go to open the door as instructed and my arm begins to tingle. This is it. From here on out I have no choice but to become a murderer or be murder. Slaughter the innocent souls, just as they would be trying to do to me. The only voice going through my head is my mothers. “Chase, treat others only how you would expect others to treat you”, she would tell me anytime I got into trouble at school for bullying. In this extreme circumstance I would be treating each of my fellow hunters exactly as they are aiming to treat me.

We are all the hunters, we all the prey.

The room behind the door was dimly lit. Three creaky lights hung from the ceiling, dangling. Two of them were swinging from left to right, the other -the middle one- making an oval spinning motion. Directly in front of me were three shelves, lined with cartoonish lunch boxes. Even in the bad lighting I could make out the faces of Dora the Explorer, Blue from Blues Clues, the red Power Ranger, even Tommy Pickles from Rugrats. They’re toying with us. This whole ordeal is some big joke to this organization of over pompous assholes. 

I hear footsteps behind me. I suppose the next person is coming in from outside. I guess it’s going to be a Tommy Pickles lunch box for me.

The daunting sounds of absolute silence cause goosebumps all over my arms. This is the first time since before I walked into the frat house that I had been alone. Or felt alone. My mind wandered as I walked down the dark hallway. Why? Why was this path chosen for me? What mistake did I make in my past that forced gods hand in this way? I have always been morally sound and kind to everyone around me. Why did I have to draw the short straw on life? The odds of me making it out alive from this nightmarish situation are staggeringly low. One bullet and a knife, by myself, trying to slaughter people who I have acquainted. And what about Marcus? I promised Marcus that I would help him throughout this. The last thing I want to do is to accidentally kill him.

“16. You’re number 16, right?” A large redheaded brother asked from behind a desk, littered with keys. Behind him was another man, facing the other way and behind another desk, talking to another hunter -another killer.

I stare at the brother (who is staring off into space) for a second before I realized that he means me. “Yeah, I’m Chase Woodley. You can take that number 16 shit and shove it up your ass”, I answer. His frozen gaze breaks for a second, taken aback by my rudeness, probably. “Okay smart ass. Here is the key to your starting point, you’re in room 23. If you would look up” -he points behind his shoulder at the figure standing in front of the other brother, who simultaneously points back at me- “then you’ll see your cell mate, number 25. Now look at me.” I look down suddenly and his strong, muscular face is looking directly back at mine, his eyes piercing through mine and into my brain. “You have 30 minutes to grab your weapon. You can find it in the back right corner of the room, in a small box labeled “39”, for you and you only. When the time comes, you will hear an announcement over the intercom from the head of this great Fraternity.” he smiles, a horrifying smirk filled with contempt “and then the fun begins.”

As I start to walk down the corridor to the rooms, a hand grabs my shoulder, and a deep voice yells out “Yo, wait up! You 16? Whats up man, I’m 25 I guess. You can call me Omar though. I don’t dig this number system at all. Art major ya dig? Anywho, you believe this shit they got us on? Fuck this bro. You 16, right?”

What the hell just happened?

I turn around to see who my supposed partner is. You know those people whose voices fit them perfectly? Well, Omar and his deep voice were a perfect match for his muscular build. Every one of his muscles bulged when he moved. His chest and arms, begging to break out of his Under Armour shirt. He was at least 6’3” and black- really black. On the left side of his face, what looks like scar, reaching from underneath his eye to the bridge of his nose. I could see the pain in his face. The same feeling of pain that I have. The same feeling of pain that Marcus admitted to. The feeling that this ordeal isn’t going to end well.

But behind that fear, I could sense an excitement dying to burst from him. Parts of Omar seem to want this, like he has a craving to take out some frustrations.

“Yeah, I’m 16.. err, well.. I’m Chase. Sorry. Nice to meet you man.” I reply, attempting to be as cordial as possible. “Do you have any fucking idea where this room is? I just realized that I wasn’t given any directions at all, and we kind of have a time limit”.

He looks at me, his half smile still as strong as ever. “Yeah bro, dude at that last stop there gave me a little map thing. Whole trip to the room’s in red. I’m ready when you are man.”

Along came a clatter.

“Daddy, please stay”.

Those three words, forever echoing in the mind of a father whose only priority was making his daughter smile. He lived to keep her mind free of all troubles and transgressions.

Four months have passed since he had his breakdown.

That fateful December 25th when his wife, Mrs. Clause, walked out on him and their daughter.

“Baby, please stay”. He begged his wife as she stormed out of the small apartment, with just a suitcase filled with her most treasured belongings. Not amongst those belongings though were her daughter or husband. She left them with nobody but each other. She left a broken home on a day where happiness and togetherness are not only expected, but required. Why she left, he never found out, but he broke none-the-less.

Mr. Clause drank away his sorrows. Looking for answers in the bottom of glass bottles instead of in his own life. His heart was shattered and his mind tormented. The questions “who am i?” and “what could I have done differently” coursing through his mind over and over again, looping and cutting off only when he drifted to sleep. And even in his sleep he couldn’t escape the fear of his own demise.

After months of pain and depression, Mr. Clause found himself reading his daughter a passage from her favorite children’s book to help her fall asleep. As she started to drift away into a world of dreams hopefully filled with bright colors and boisterous smiles, he closed the book and started to get up and leave for another night of drinking in the dark. But something stopped him. His daughter had reached out and grabbed him by the wrist, looking up at him with her mothers pale green eyes, dreary from sleep deprivation. “Daddy, please stay” she begged “Please stay like mommy used to. I’m scared and I miss mommy. Daddy, please stay”.

He stared down at his hands. His daughters tiny fingers laced through his. His heart, coming together from the shattered pieces it had broken into before.

Nicholas Clause stayed. He stopped drinking heavily and started transferring his hatred for his ex-wife into love for his daughter. He was there for her whenever she needed him.

He stayed close by her side every night. He would read her all of her favorite stories and make up for the time he wasted lamenting. He swore up and down that no matter what happened, her next Christmas would be the one that makes the last one seem like it never happened. He promised to make everything she had ever wanted come true.

Since his wife left though, Mr. Clause had lost his job and was living off of welfare. This lack of money incredibly hindered his ability to get his daughter everything she asked for on her Christmas list. So Mr. Clause decided that he would improvise. He decided to create the gifts. He would paint murals on the walls. He would build the toys to the best of his ability. He would put all of his heart into saving this Christmas.

During her school hours Mr. Clause would sit at home and carve out shoddy versions of the toys his daughter wanted. He covered one of the walls in his apartment with a blue tarp, only to block off the sight of the beautiful pictures of happiness he put together. With each brush stroke, his heart would beat. The thought of his daughters eyes lighting up like fireworks racing through his mind, pushing him forward and helping him explore his creativity. The days sped by and all along, Clause and his daughter became closer and closer. She stopped bringing up Mrs. Clause, and he stopped missing her.

Who needs money or alcohol when you have love and passion?

Eventually time passed and the night before Christmas arrived, as it always does. Mr. Clause went in to read his daughter a bed time story before putting the finishing touches on her “gifts”. He took the tarp down once and for all, threw all of his tools into his closet and kneeled down on the floor, praying that she would love it all. Praying that she would understand that this project, that these gifts, were his appreciation to her strength.

Suddenly, the door leading into the apartment crashed open, letting light from the hallway flood in. Mr. Clause leaped up, quite startled, as two shadows entered the room. One large, and one quite feminine. The smaller one spoke out, a familiar voice that caused the skin on Mr. Clause’s crawl. “Nicholas, please stay. Stay right where you are and don’t move a muscle. Donner and I are here for my daughter.”

Still flushed and confused, Clause clamored for a rebuttal but couldn’t find the air to breathe in that would lead to words being formed out of sound.

Mrs. Clause walked into the room where their daughter slept, dreaming of the gifts Santa was sure to bring her. “Honey, honey wake up. Mommy is here. Mommy has come back to take you home.”

The young girl walked hazily out of the room, hand in hand with a woman that no longer existed in her world, as Mr. Clause watched in horror. “Daddy, what’s going on? Did Santa come?”

“Yes honey”, He answered as his silence broke. “You can see all of your gifts if you flip up that switch right there, the one right by your shoulder.”

“YAY, SANTA!”, she exclaimed and freed herself of her mothers grip. Running to the switch and flipping it upwards. The dark room suddenly became engulfed in light. She turned towards the previously tarp-covered wall, gazing at the gift her father had put his soul into.

The scene was impeccable. In the very middle, a Christmas tree, lit up by Christmas lights stapled to the wall. Ornaments, lentil, bow-ties, and strings of popcorn mixed amongst the green of the painted tree. A red background with a small fireplace, three sparked logs giving light to a small flame. Two stockings, each with their names written in glitter on them. A tiny smiling mouse perched on the mantle. Presents, boundless presents, surrounding the tree. Bright pastels creating faux wrapping paper. Bows half painted, and half real stapled into the wall. To the left, a window with Santa’s sleigh flying away into a crescent moon. Carvings of dolls, wooden and plastic barbie look-a-likes strewn across the floor in front of the mural, a hand made stuffed bear sitting at the base of the tree. And on the very top of the tree, a beautiful Angel holding an unlit candle.

Mr. Clause looked down at his daughters eyes, frozen open as she took in what was in front of her. “That angel up there baby, that’s you. You’re my angel, you’re my everything. Merry Christmas sweetheart. I love you.”

Before his  daughter could answer, an impatient Mrs. Clause spoke up. “Stop, just stop! You don’t deserve her. She’s mine. She’s mine Nicholas.”

Mr. Clause stood up and started walking towards his daughter, who was being held tightly by Mrs. Clause once again. Crying, striving to be free and with her father.

And then, along came a clatter. A loud “crack” spread through the thin air as Mr. Clause fell to the ground. He reached down to his side and felt as the blood came pouring out. His eyes rolled back and all he could hear was his daughter screaming.

“Your daddy is going away baby, let him. He’s going away forever”, Mrs. Clause said, trying to calm her daughter.

“No! Daddy no! Please don’t go daddy! Please stay! Daddy please, please stay!” She begged and pleaded, but to no avail.

Mr. Clause took one last look up at his daughter. The angel of his life. A reason for being. A reason for breathing. And as she was dragged away by a woman who he didn’t know anymore and a man he never had, his eyes closed for one last time.

“Please, please stay”, he whispered as his arm reached out to the one girl he loved more than any other.

And unfortunately for his daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Clause somehow found a way to help her forget the pains of Christmas past.

Now I aint too proud to tell ya that I cry sometimes, I cry sometimes about it.

Sometimes.

Sometimes I look back at a past.

Sometimes I look back at a past that was brought to the forefront of the present.

Sometimes I look back at a past that never should of happened.

And I’m not too proud to admit that sometimes, I cry about it. 

Sometimes when the mood is right, I remember the nights that could of been. Sometimes I play moments on loop that we erased before taping them. Sometimes I wish that we never were. Sometimes I wish you never gave me the green light.

Every once in a while I’ll pinch myself, hoping to wake up from this inglorious nightmare. I could of had the world. I could of woken up to your smile every morning, after dreaming of it all night. I could of woken up to sounds I’ll never know.

Sometimes I look in the mirror and wish I was dead. Sometimes I pray that the abortion never happened.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like had I kept you. Would I be pampered and spoiled in happiness like before? Had we kept the miracle we created, would my life be more complete? I look back, twenty years into the past, wondering if my life has been a disaster because of that decision.

See, I never found love after you. I never had the satisfaction of a second attempt to bring life into the world. Sometimes I wonder if karma has played a role in my demise. The innocence I robbed. The life that I ended before there was ever a chance to begin it. Sometimes I wonder if playing God turned me into Satan. 

Sometimes I question my motives. Why couldn’t I allow us to take that next step? The day you told me that you were pregnant, I changed. Something deep down in my stomach told me that the life inside of yours was a mistake. I was nineteen years old, I was just starting my own life. Moving out from under my parents wings. I couldn’t support myself, let alone a child. Sometimes I wonder if my selfishness was really selflessness, disguised as fear.

Sometimes I miss everything about you. I think about your smile, and how it made your eyes glow. I feel the tears on my shoulder when you told me about your past. I sense every emotion you poured straight from your soul and into mine, turning my lust to love instantaneously. Sometimes I truly believe that you would have been the perfect mother to a perfect child.

Sometimes I wonder if you never aborted, would you have gone down the same path? I see the path you walked after we crashed and burned. I watched you walk from the straight and narrow, right down the windy path of self destruction and into the jaws of death. The pain of the murder we committed tore your soul into fragments, atom sized particles being split and proceeding to destroy the rest of your body. Sometimes I drive myself crazy thinking in these circles.

Sometimes I try and imagine a perfect world where we both stayed together. A world where I never pulled the trigger to end a life. A world where I hung around long enough to keep you from killing yourself. Sometimes I wish you were still breathing.

Sometimes I fight the urge to join you. I try to not let fate win. While I lay here next to your tomb, wondering if this moment of clarity is what I deserve. I threatened to leave you if the abortion didn’t happen. You cried for days, thinking over a decision that could change your life. Sometimes I wish you let me leave.

Sometimes I wonder why I ran away anyways. Why couldn’t I stay with the one person willing to destroy life for me? I ran away when you started to stray from the path you had always been on, but who’s fault was that? Sometimes the only person to blame is the one in the mirror.

Sometimes I let reality stop me from holding you again. In my dreams you still breath. In my dreams we have a family, and a future. In my dreams our past speaks volumes, not issues. In my dreams I walk past the daughter you always wanted, kissing her forehead, and head straight to you, as my wife. In my dreams we live happily ever after. Sometimes I wish I could sleep forever, living in a world of dreams and impossibilities.

Sometimes I cry about what I did to you. Sometimes I cry about what I did to that forgotten life. Sometimes I cry about what I did to myself. And sometimes I chicken out when it comes to joining you.

Well, not this time. Sometimes the memories are too much for the mind to handle without crumbling upon itself. This is one of those times. Sometimes it’s just time to give up.