Someone said that we
grow old when we stop partying. But that’s half the truth. The truth is that I
grew old when she hit me right here, when she tore my diseased lungs and drunk
brain right out of my life. She never was a woman of logic; she didn’t care about
social norms or happiness. She was an animal, an animal that roared when
feasting upon my sadness.
And that’s when I grew
old. When she stopped partying upon my dead body. So the truth is somewhere in
between. We grow old when they stop partying with us. And our parties grow
darker; they crumble under drugs, under fumes of wet cigars, the kind that
makes years-old smokers cough like tuberculosis victims. And how she stood
right there, under the house entrance, pretty like a flower, her pearls dangling
upon her white flesh, her chest rising hard when breathing and falling down in
disappointment when she’d see me.
‘’You ain’t done yet, kid?’’ she whispered.
‘’You haven’t blown your brains out yet, kid?’’ she asked, twisting
my soul like a small piece of wet, moldy bread.
I looked into her eyes
that day, and what I saw was victims of war, torn children, struggling to keep
afloat in a battlefield of tears, a battlefield of whispering. And these
children were not children, not in the common developmental sense. They were
torn out egos of men, men that couldn’t fight the beast inside her, who
couldn’t touch her flesh without crumbling. They then stopped partying.
Someone said that you
don’t grow old you mature. But that’s half the truth.
The truth is that once she breaks you in half, you don’t get to mature. You stand there, a child, a broken down animal, crying for hours with a feverish face. Someone, a young soldier boy, compared the agony of a bullet deep down inside your stomach with the feeling of her words, beating my heart until it stopped. They, the victims of war, objected. They threw big words, they ran, they fought, they wanted us to be objective. She was a woman after all, no big deal.
But to satisfy them
all, I was ready to prove them wrong.
I fucking blew my
brains out, the pain was good, the pain was good.
‘’Good job, kid’’ she whispered over my dead body.
