The hands around his neck strengthens their grip, tightening around his already closed throat. He is held down by his murderer, sitting on top of him, beating his head into the ground. His throat is gasping, and black dots start to line his vision. He can feel the blood both risin and draining from his face, his body trying to utilize every last bit of air it has left. But no more. His airpipe is crushed, his lungs are empty, and his vision is blurry, closing in from the edge to the middle. His head feels like its going to burst from the pressure, and his body struggles in one final attempt of overcoming his attacker. Then he stiffens, his whole body tensing as his muscles release their last effort. He goes limp, his body stopping to move. He somehow still sees light in front of him, but its not from his own eyes. those eyes are dead. This is another light, something otherworldy. As his spirit leaves his body, rigor mortis sets in, and his corps shits itself.
I saw him looking at the red bicycle. It was the same his mother had gifted him for his last birthday. His mother... he missed her. Soon after I saw him reaching the bicycle to climb. Reminiscence was all he felt. The red bicycle was the last memory his mother had left him with.
She was herself. She felt loving was not for her. Yet she gave herself away for that something she thought was never meant for her. She nurtured the love for nine beautiful months. She was the most glowing and affectionate mother to her radiant son. Loving hurts the most; but the face of her son shone like the brightest star of the darkest nights in her life. Till she became herself again.
There is a huge amount of feelings that follow me wherever i go, you push them down y'know? you try really hard to keep everything squashed together that it all becomes too tightly packed, like a suitcase before that dream holiday.
I'm carrying around a really heavy suitcase i think, i'm trundling on through the airport and its like those days where everything goes wrong and you just get really impatient. My passport is at the bottom of my bag so i have to take everything out to try and get it and then once i get it out i realise that my headphones are also somewhere in the bottom of my bag, this cycle continues.
You get to security and your shoes have to come off along with your belt and any electronics you have so you comply because you're not insane and you go through and they have to check your bag for some reason, then you panic because you remember that you left a joint in there last week and there might be some residue. It was fine, luckily.
You then realise that even though you followed through with all the procedures that you're still carrying your suitcase. nobody took it off and you never had to check it in, you dont know why you forgot.
Its your suitcase, its with you, you cant sit down on the plane because your suitcase is in your seat, your standing, people are falling over.
You cant do anything because of your suitcase.
Once upon a time, you said something poetic and sad. You leaned close in a diner booth and told me, "one day when you know me better, maybe you'll wish you didn't know me so well." But we've talked everyday since then. I know more about you now that I think most people around you get to. And I find it hard to imagine going from where we stand today, to any point that would make you unloveable. I wonder now why you said it at all, if there's some big secret left to be revealed. It there's some telenovela twist waiting down the line. I also wonder if you said it to see if I'd dare to try.