Six Days

On the seventh day, he woke to the sting of tears, panting.

The image of her perfect, pouty lips as she had flung those horrid words at him remained etched in his mind; not even the unexpected, yet dreadful gift of a few hours of sleep could keep his thoughts from going back.

Six days.
It still tore at his guts.

Drenched in sweat, wiping the tears from his cheeks while reminding himself to Be A Man, he looked around the room, bleary-eyed. The pillow to his right was abandoned, the blanket crumpled and on the floor. The girl, last night’s ‘bump & grind accomplice’, seemed to have fled the building, along with his watch and wallet, which he remembered to have put on his nightstand a couple of hours ago.

Shit. Shit. Shit.
What was her name again? Sarah? Sandra? Oh, hell…

With a grunt, he sat up. He could still taste WhatsHerName on his tongue; the faint, yet lingering stench of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume completed the mental image of her – writhing underneath him. Wincing, he pinched the bridge of his nose, hopelessly trying to keep last night’s memories from conquering his mind. The first tendrils of a splitting headache licked at his temples, a perfectly infuriating addition to the already painfully present mix of guilt and shame.

Six days.

Absent-mindedly, he reached for the half-emptied, half-forgotten beer bottle on the floor and took a hearty swig. Stale and disgusting – but it would have to do, until he could get his legs to do his bidding and carry him over to the fridge.

It had been six days since She had left him.
Six days since the words, “I never want to see you again.” had sprung from her lips and driven their dagger-shaped intent into his heart.
Six days since his heart had been cremated.
Six days… since he had buried her remains a little way off the beautiful riverbed of Camlyn’s Creek; the exact spot where they had made love for the first time.

He stared at his trembling fingers, still clutching the beer bottle, and felt his stomach convulse.

Her words would haunt him forever.
She would haunt him forever.
That, he was sure of.

photo credits:

Christmas and the ‘Deadly Anniversary’

My father shot himself on February 3rd, 2003.
He took a small-bore rifle to his head and ended his life two days after his 44th birthday.

At his funeral, my mother, sister and me did not follow the casket as burial custom demands, but walked in front of the funeral procession instead.
Apparently, this was wrong. People frowned upon it.
I didn’t care. I wanted everything to be over and done with.

Two weeks later, after the gossip of my father’s ‘unnatural’ death had spread through the small town I was living in at that time, a woman started talking to me while I was out for a walk. She asked me if the rumors were true that my dad had shot himself in the head twice, because the first time apparently hadn’t done the job.
I left her standing in the street without a word.
Stupidity and lack of tact don’t need to be rewarded.

The first Christmas without him came and went… as well as his first birthday. It was a strange time, but I know that it’s the same for every person out there who lost someone. Anniversaries aren’t always the good kind.

Every year on Christmas, I think of the Dead.
It’s like a habit – an anniversary of thoughts (sort of).
Maybe it’s because I finally take the time to relax for a little while… escape the daily grind and our fast-paced world. I am somewhat ashamed. Throughout the course of the year, I rarely think about my father anymore.
Sure, thoughts of him pop into my head now and then, but they aren’t frequent.
I seldom look at his pictures… they are there, up on the shelf in their usual frames – and that’s that.

Next February, it will be 10 years.
10 years since he’s been gone.
It seems like such a long time.

I seem to have lost the ability to ‘picture’ him in my mind. I mean, fully picture him. I can’t see his face anymore… all I get are fragments… his beard, the color of his eyes – but if I try to see his face when I close my eyes, it is simply not there.

We tell our Dead they will always be remembered.
We tell our Dead we will never forget them.

I think we lie, unintentionally, when we say things like these. Images, once so vivid in our minds, fade in time – like old photographs. After years of ‘absence’, all we remember is a vague outline of the person we once loved dearly.
All that truly remains is a feeling.

I love Christmas.
Not for the presents or the food, nor for the fact that it is a religious holiday, but for this utter stillness inside of me. I have time to think about the past and do not need to rush.

I enjoy the company of the Living and the Dead alike.

Sometimes, I wish I had a photographic memory.
Sometimes, I wish I could see the faces of the Dead lighten up for me… for just a moment.
But I am me… and so I will have to make do with what I have.

I love Christmas. It makes me remember the Dead.
I am thankful to be reminded.


Merry Christmas.

photo credits:

Selfless(ness is a) Bitch.

Be kind to others, they say.
Help people.
Smile… and never curse.
Put the needs of others before your own, they say.


It nearly cost me everything.

I have been raised this way. To always put myself second… my wishes, my needs, my life. Everyone liked being around me, because, subliminally, they knew that they could dump their shit on me – and I would juggle.
I juggled… for a very long time.
It’s not fun to try to deal with a huge pile of dung, when all you have is a plastic kiddie shovel… and a bucket too small to even count. The stuff gets everywhere and stinks to high heaven.
I didn’t think there was anything else… I thought that was how life was supposed to be.

I always felt so tired, so drained… so exhausted.
I couldn’t figure out why, since I considered myself a good person – I did so much for other people, never asking anything in return. That’s how it’s supposed to be, right?

Voluntarily or not… consciously or not… people are leeches.
When they spot you with your ‘Use-Me-Sign’ dangling from your neck, they latch on to you… sink teeth into your flesh and start sucking. If you’re not careful, they will suck you dry.

I chose Me.
Some time ago.
I got sick of being the punching bag… the popular trash can.
I voted healthy egoism.

Now, I choose to whom I give.
Whom I open up to.
And I ask for something in return.
It’s the exchange of energies… if you pick the right person to interact with, you don’t even have to demand – the energies flow back and forth… and, in the end, will leave you both feeling recharged.

Most may not understand this… selflessness is a great thing, right? Something very highly appreciated in our society.

The question is… if you’re so selfless all your life, always put others’ needs before your own, will you still be able to enjoy your life?
To appreciate it?
Or… will it be a painful struggle; a draining tumble… until you close your eyes and go to ground?

Sequence of Truth


There was a time I existed… only in my own head.

There was a timeIi went nearly extinct; thrived only by nourishing words… seldom received.
For a while, those got scarce… and my light almost winked out.

It was a tough time.
But i made it through.

I saw the look on my mother’s face when they told her my father had killed himself.
I saw my sister fall apart.
I heard their questions and pleas… heard them mourn, saw them crumble and fall.
I didn’t want to help them find answers.
I knew there weren’t any.
He was gone… and nothing would make him come back.

Oh, I hurt, too.
I cried, too.
But I wouldn’t join them. couldn’t join them.
None of them had ever known what he had done to me.
They still do not know.

I am not sure if he deserved my tears… I want to believe he did; because deep inside, he was a good person.
Someone worth mourning.

Does it make sense to love and hate one person equally?
Does it make sense to miss someone who screwed with your head and heart, but at the same time always looked out for you?
Does it make sense to want to kick someone’s ass and hug them at the same time?

For me, it does.
I miss my father.
No child is born bad; there is always someone who is responsible for screwing people up.
Someone did that to my dad.
And my dad did it to me.

Back then, life wasn’t easy.
Like I said… my light almost winked out.
I almost gave up.

Almost… that’s the keyword.

I had to make a decision.
Long ago…
I decided that I would be the one to ruin my life… if anyone should have the opportunity, it should be me.
Ever since that day, I wear my fighting gloves. They might look old and worn by now, but they are still all I need.
Problems, no matter how big they may seem, are minor obstacles.

At the end of the day, after all, I still breathe.
I still have my spark.

Isn’t that all that matters?

I do exist.
Not only in my own head, but in this world.
I do exist… and i could not be more thankful.

Pain and joy both make me realize one thing…
I am still alive enough to feel them.

faded memories

who are you?

a stranger, calling me mother.
i try to escape his touch but the more i withdraw, the harder he tries.
this hurt look on his face – i know i should feel bad for him, for me… but i do not know why.
holding my hand seems to give him comfort; maybe i should endure? i can see how much it means to him.

do i know you?

a silent tear. and another. he tries to hide them from me, tries to shrug them off.
he smiles at me, but i know it’s fake.
it’s as artificial as this room… this place.

this bed… my bed? this is not my home.

what is this?
where am i?

home. i want to go home… but i do not know where i belong.
if i close my eyes, maybe the clingy stranger will go… leave me alone.
if i close my eyes, maybe i will escape? avoid this charade, this B-Movie.

if i close my eyes, maybe i won’t wake again.

who am i?

if i only knew.