Bleeding in the Park

Leaning against a tree inside the park, the pain had started to kick in. He felt around the wound in his arm and the blood trickling down from the side of his head had found a way into his eye. He began to take deeper and slower breaths, keeping his eyes open to the sound of crickets in the grass. Judging by the glitter in the air and the calm it must’ve been a clear night. He began to move his legs ever so slightly. In the process he was suddenly struck by a pain in his back and he felt the gushing warmth of his blood as he leaned back harder against the tree and closed his eyes, grinding his teeth together vigorously. That is how he came across the wound in his back.

Everything that had sped by him so far had settled within his pain and the roaring ache within the depths of his lungs. He let out an empty sigh and could no longer tell whether they were tears or streams of blood that made their way down his face. Strangely enough, for a moment or two, he found it in himself to laugh. He giggled like a retard, drooling bloody saliva with his eyes low and hollow of all sense.

            “For how long now have you held out on being who you are?”

            “I have no problems in life Jack.”

            “I’m telling you as a friend. You have to stop acting.”

            “I don’t know who to be man. I just enjoy it every day, wherever and whoever that I am.”

            “I see your suffering, your pain. I feel your need to not be lonely and I’ve leaned many times against the wall you have made to keep intruders out.”

            “You’re religious my friend. Asides from that, you’re just like me.”

            “No two people are the same. We were made different and that’s the beauty of it all Charles.”

            “You’re right Jack. There are people like you, true to a bundle of beliefs and words, constantly pouring salvation into people’s drinks and lighting a torch of wisdom. There are also people like me, in love and loving moments as they come, completely impartial to the turning and the time that is lost in useless loves. I know one thing for sure; being so sincerely indifferent to the end and the natural fate of all men is much harder than living life inside a book.”

“Is there anybody here?” he tried to yell and it came out more like a sob as he dropped his head. “Help me. Please help me.” A slight breeze had picked up and the tree against his back was humming a gentle note. “Is there anyone here? I need help,” he cried. “Please God, help me. I want to live God, please. I’ll understand and I’ll tell everyone. I’ll stop and go back. I’ll do anything. Oh dear God please.”

Still to this day Charlie tells the story of how he died once when he was nineteen. He says that he clearly remembers their faces; the men that killed him. “There was three of them,” he says. Charlie also tells everyone all the time that he no longer really cares for money. “It just aint worth it,” he says, but that’s all.

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