Thursday, September 1, 2005

idée perdue

No-one can hate you like you do - they shouldn't even try. It's a carefully cultivated, sharply honed hatred. A refined revulsion. Distilled detestation. You mask this self-loathing with humility, cover this penchant for personal contempt with humbleness. A calm, collected exterior - but inside, you are afire.

Waging war with yourself, convinced you win every time. Modern warfare, a dirty, immoral affair. Both sides collecting POWs, practicing abuse, war crimes, rampant. No-one wins. Bound and gagged. Starved halfway to death. The subject of nightly beatings by masked men - psychological torture mixed with physical. How can a mind remain functional after years of such maltreatment?

A daring escape under the cover of night, thanks to the selfless actions of two prison guards. At the time, the thought doesn't even cross their minds, but they have sacrificed their two lives for your one. But, in their dying thoughts, the last moment of life, not an ounce of regret.

Here's you, two years later, back in the burbs. Out in the driveway, the early morning sun on your neck, the taste of freshly brewed coffee, you reach down to collect the newspaper. A smile plays at your lips. War in the Middle East. Chaos in Africa. Turmoil in Eastern Europe. The whole world is ablaze, but you're going to be okay. An aching in your back. That old pain. You straighten up, stretch, and walk back to your castle, bathrobe hiding a back marred by the scars of an old whipping, a self-flagellation.

No comments:

Post a Comment