The young man sung himself to sleep
A small blade being the final part to his concerto
The composition that spanned 2 years was finally over
As the man took his place in the sheets of slumber
Amongst the likes of Plath and Cobain
Movement one was a bottle of pills in E minor
Cut short by an interrupting ambulance solo
And the beep of a heart-monitor
As doctors rushed to silence the lullaby
Before bringing the man away from his conductors stand and rostrum
The second movement was a rope in D minor
But the piece snapped in two as breath became scarce
And the kiss of life was administered
To the man who lusted for the angel of the abyss
But Samael was the object of an unrequited love
Then the orchestra hung up its strings and laid its brass to rest
As the conductor was spirited away to rooms with soft walls
Men with fancy titles poked around in his mind
And tried to analyse the source of his depression
But the darkness of a man with no will to live has no beginning
As it has no end
It seeps into every synapse of the mind
And exists as an eternal demon
The knife pierced the skin as the third movement started
Azrael turned its head and love formed instantly
The angel embraced the man as the concerto reached its climax
But the movement and the music all ceased in union as steel danced with blood
Nothing was left in the wake of a broken lullaby
And twice a failure.
In her eyes anyway
Her dazzling eyes, set in a beautiful face
Her critical eyes, a curse she developed with age
But she’s only 16
I see an Aphrodite with an Athenian mind
A mind garnished with self-loathing and decorated with depression
She sees the reflection of a not-quite-human girl
A girl garnished with blade-cuts and decorated with long sleeves
She is a girl with a hideous body
A distorted face
A corpulent figure
An abhorred personality
A simple mind
And a million other blemishes
But she is only that girl as she gazes upon herself with her own critical eyes
And she is only repulsive in her own mind
Because when I look at her,
When I carefully scan every inch of her being
I see hundreds of pulchritudinous features and a single blemish
A solitary fault
Her ability to hate herself
With disregard to her own perfection
And disregard to the value of her own life
When I saw her, I saw a wonderful human-being
A girl any guy could proudly bring home to his parents
A girl any guy could show-off to his friends
I saw someone to be jealous of
I saw an exceptional teenage-girl
I see her coffin
Look above the well defined cheek-bones
Look below the trimmed eyebrows
Look into the eyes of a damaged man
Gaze into the muddy-green pools of a boy who cries himself to sleep
As each and every happy memory he longs to hold onto is forced from his grip and then twisted into a variety of macabre visions and nightmarish thoughts right in front of his unblemished face.
Stare into the black pupils of a wreckage that does not laugh at his friend’s jokes.
It’s not that he was born with no sense of humour.
It’s simply that when viewing the world from a grey podium drenching in miasmic darkness you cannot spot the pink flushes of comedy among the raging herd of emotions.
Each one fighting for supremacy.
Sadness fighting to maintain its title.
Look into the eyes of a damaged man and watch as his insides burn.
But whilst you admire the horrific spectacle
Remember one thing
Just because you can’t see his scars
Doesn’t mean they don’t exist.
Sometimes impossible decisions have to be made. Gut feelings, weighed up against logic, fighting internal battles. Never has a decision been as difficult, as the time I had to choose between chocolate bars on the journey home from school.
The scene was set; a greedy teenager and a store that had foolishly forgotten to stock up on Crunchies. Events were about to unfold that would make the play Macbeth look like a disagreement over favourite Scarlett Johansson movie between Nobel Peace Prize winners.
As images of Mother Teresa glassing the Dalai Lama whilst clutching an “Avengers” DVD case faded from my mind, I crossed the threshold into what I would soon come to view as hell on earth. I strolled round the edge of the biscuit section and past the drinks –making sure the cola I had tricked my best-friend into giving me was concealed so that the shopkeeper wouldn’t think I stole it- before stumbling upon what could only be described as a malnourished chocolate shelf.
My eyes scanned the carcass of a once magnificent creature; my heart sank as I was unable to locate a Crunchie anywhere amongst the chaos. Tears didn’t so much roll down my cheeks as they did cascade, waterfalls of salty bitterness flowing freely from both of my eyes. I stood there, hollow and broken; a young man feeling the full force of the horrors of badly stocked shelves.
But against all of the odds, against all of the oppression attempting to keep me down, I got up. I held my head high and I made one of the most difficult decisions a person can be faced with in their life. I chose amongst chocolate bars.
First on display was a beautiful twirl. I marvelled at her crumbly charm. I knew that if I chose her I would be treated to a delicate sensation that few other chocolate bars could provide. I envisioned us walking out of that corner store together, hand-in-hand, leaving the 65p we didn’t need behind us in the dust. But I was wary of her devilish side. I knew that she would leave me and move on quickly. I knew that I would not be satisfied by the time she was ready to depart. I knew in my heart that she was not the chocolate bar for me, so I turned my back on her and continued searching the shelf.
The second sugary treat to catch my eye was a delicious Kinder Bueno. She promised me an easy relationship with her easy-to-break-off-chunks and caring creamy filling. She dared me to take her out of her packaging and take a bite. But an emerging shopkeeper laid her flirtations to rest. I looked over and smiled at the small man who needed to stand on a box to see over the counter; he scowled back, no-doubt suspicious of my potentially-thieving fingers. I turned back to Miss Bueno, but her attention was now fixed on a particularly muscular and tanned galaxy bar. I knew I could not compete and left those two to Cupid’s mercy.
The penultimate princess, waiting for her saviour from a fire-breathing old man, was an eccentric curly wurly. She was sprawled comfortably alongside her more sensible friend, Mr Cadbury Bar. Her flexible figure allowing her to comfortably squeeze into spaces that would probably break a lesser bar in half. She grinned at me, hinting at the gooey treat she hid from prying eyes. However, I saw right through her and her lies. I knew of the tangled web of deceit she would inevitably spin around my braces if I were to choose her. Moreover, I knew the tears that I would shed in frustration if we were to become one. So (just like her competitors before her) I left behind Curly Wurly and turned my last hopes on the edge of the shelf.
And then I saw her, I didn’t believe in love at first sight before that moment. But standing there in that shop, I suddenly knew that I had found the one to take home with me. Her smooth, pale skin beckoned me to come closer and her sweet aroma begged me to free her from her prison. She wasn’t hiding anything from me and I believed in her honest promises. We stood there and exchanged silent conversations for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably no longer than about 5 seconds. Her laugh ripped through my body and made my heart desperately palpitate in my chest. I felt Eros’s blessing as I carefully lifted her off of her shelf and (after paying the hefty sum of 50p) took her out of the shop with me. She accompanied me home and I can honestly say I have never made a better choice in my life. Every time I enter that run-down heaven of a shop, I hear a voice in the back of my head. It whispers sweetly to me, it says “Buy it, Sam. Milkybar Buttons are a promise; Chocolate is a souvenir, once given never forgotten, never let it disappear.” And every time those words run through my head, I look to the sky and (being unable to see the sky due to my state of indoors-ness) I study the mold patches on the ceiling. And every time those words bless me I think “Thank you almost nonsensical pop-culture references. I don’t know what I’d do without you!”
Never have I been so proud of a decision, as the time I took a packet of Milkybar Buttons home from school.
Who are you? Mum… Where’s Dad? Oh….
Who am I? What’s a Cambridge graduate?
The scene unfolds for the seventeenth time
In both position and mind Alison is stuck between hysterical and suicidal
She vilifies the father who wouldn’t show up for her re-birth
She does this every day
Alison always cries
She cries for the father she can’t remember
She cries for the husband whose name she has to write down
On the back of her hand
Day after infernal day
She would stay inside her room, because outside was hell
Outside were the monsters that reduced her to simply
"Casehistory: Alison (Head Injury)"