Things will never be the same

Snatched away by force,
Left to rot out in the rain.
The innocence of a child,
Now shivering in self blame.

Hidden in the corner,
Locked away from prying sight.
Lies that child, praying, wishing,
Someday that he might.

Wash away the scares,
And forget about the pain.
All the while knowing,
Things will never be the same.

The child keeps on living,
Maybe out of spite.
He wakes up drenched and screaming,
He can never sleep at night.

The darkness of events,
Keep replaying in his dreams.
A never ending story,
Where nothings what it seems.

The child, now a man,
Lives away from where he came.
Although the dreams have stopped,
Things will never be the same.

He lies in bed all alone,
And waits till morning come.
He dreads the sound of footsteps,
Though he knows there will be none.

The man receives a letter,
Informing of his father wake.
The father has died suddenly,
And to the grave he take.

The secrets of his life,
And the answers there within.
The reasoning of madness,
And the multitude of sin.

The man stares at the letter,
For what seems to be an age.
He walks around the room,
Yet his eyes don’t leave the page.

He knows he should feel safe,
The threat has gone and passed.
But he cannot help but think,
Of the questions gone unasked.

The man has never told a soul,
And decided never will.
The past is best left where it lies,
Under a dirt mound hill.

In front a stone, made of clay,
With words imprinted had.
Here lies a man remarked to be,
The world’s greatest dad.

A Chance to Dream:

I lie in bed holding my breath, waiting for that sound I deeply dread. Outside the room a bottle falls and rolls across the floor. I am safe, he will not wake tonight. I breathe again, slowly allowing for my muscles to relax. I permit myself to falter, and dream. Dreams are a risky escape, a reality without the limitations and boundaries of the current. They are the great equalisers among men. Where a person can become anything just by simply wishing it. I like dreams; I like to pretend I’m somewhere else. It doesn’t matter where, as long as its not here. I close my eyes and the room disappears, melting away the worries of the day. When I open them again I find I am enclosed by a clear plastic box. I like this dream, I have had it many time before. From my box I watch the world pass by. It does not notice me, and I do not care. I watch the chaos of uncertainty that plagues this world and feel glad I am in my box. I am safe. I wish this dream would last for ever, but it never does.

In a dream there is always a certain amount of control one has; the ability to stop an event they do not like by simply waking up. Sometimes I wonder why life can’t be like this. Why can’t I just wake up? My life in essence is a reoccurring nightmare, a reality more fitting of a fictitious creation. So that is how I treat it. I block it out hoping that it will someday pass, but it never does. I am a prisoner, bound by my circumstances, relinquished of my will. A condemned victim, persecuted for simply being. As time passed on I have noticed a yearning within myself. A craving for a release from the pains of this world into the reality of the dream.

A dream creates a safe environment that cannot be matched by anything in this world. Where a consequence is but a word, thrown around defying its very definition. You cannot be hurt in a dream, there is no sorrow, there is no pain.

I feel myself slipping away from the dream. I can’t go back, I mustn’t go back. My surroundings start to blend together. I desperately try to cling to the dream, but my futile attempts fail. I am awake.

Morning breaks as the downing of a new day slowly brings me back to reality. Movement outside the room tells me he has woken too. A loud crack of a leather belt on wood is a prologue to the up coming events of the day. I sit up slowly and listen to the sound of rain falling on nearby rooftops. The calming echo of splashing water prepares me for what I must do next. Outside the room he yells my name, I do not listen. I pick up a sheet, rap it around my neck and start to pull. It digs into my throat and I pull harder, I cannot stop now. I can not breathe and I am starting to get dizzy, but it is worth it. To dream, one last time, to die.

Statement of intention: This story was written as a first person narrative by a thirteen year old with knowledge beyond his years. The perspicacity of the child is a representation of the ultimate loss of possible potential when someone commits suicide.