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Amerikan Junkie 008
SLOWLY IT COMES...
by Amerikan Junkie
008
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The sliding glass door made a slight creak as the he slipped in
the house. He walked past a couch, and noticed the pictures of her
and and family hanging on the wall lightly lit by the pale moon light.
Everything was cast with a hint of blue from the moon, he could
feel the moisture from his breathing in the weave of the ski mask. His
heart started to race. He felt his palms get viscid. His mind drew blank.
He noticed the toys on the floor. He went over the token of rememberance
she had left him.... A note saying she was leaving him. "Your addictions
have overcome you. You arent the person I married.". This statement
repetitiously found itself embodying his mind. It vexxed him. He hated the
statement with a pure heart.
As he thought about that statement, the reality of what he was about to
do cursed him. It fed his mind full of thoughts. Once a blank mind, now
eugenics raced though out his head like heroin in a shooters vien. He quickly
slid past his sons bedroom without making a sound. He tried to shake the
thoughts about how his son will feel. He tried to convince himself it was
for the better.
He cracked the door to her bedroom slightly. Enough to lie the moonlight
on her face. his mind manipulated the sight. He swore on the face that to
him had wicked proportions. "Shes seeing me dead in her dreams, I know it."
he thought. Slowly it came to him. The hate..... the fetish. The fetish of
watching her die. He had dreamt it many a night, just as she was dreaming it
now. "Her wicked smile..." he thought.
He had stood over her while she slept on many occasions. The last time,
right as he got home late one night after work. He remembered the love he
once had for her, and still did. He noticed the wrinkle in the top of her
nose. He knew the wrinkle well, he would teaser about it.... this made him
smile.
"How could I think about doing this?" he thought. He looked toward the
picture of their son on her night stand. A tear slowly lingered down his
face. The smile on his sons face reminded him of how happy they use to be.
He had fucked up. He knew it. The drugs had made him a irate man. Bidder
toward the world. Everything she tried to do for him wasnt good enough.
These things now took place in his mind. All the times hate filled his
heart, just as it had done tonight.
He lifted the gun, took aim, and pulled the trigger. The homemade silencer
barely made a sound, like planned.
"Daddy...." the young one whispered. He had been watching from the slightly
open door. His father lie on the ground in a pool of his own blood. A result
from being the man he was.
"How could I think about doing this?" was the last thing he questioned himself
for. He came up with a answer, then a solution. He could not change, he knew it.
It was him, or her.....
He loved enough, it had to be him.
Slowly it came......
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