To give thanks for death

by

The rain, in sheets, drives down with fury upon the pavement.  A man wearing a mottled, knee-length with a face scarred to the point of disfigurement walks with a steady pace down the main thoroughfare of a prosperous town on the north shore of New York’s Long Island.

Gleaming , elegant luxury sedans speed by the man, thrusting a lightly brown water upon him as they scythe through the storm-inspired streams.

The man is lost, beyond any hope of recovery but not redemption.

The protesters lay in his path, holding up signs proclaiming a deep sense of appreciation for what he has done. Suddenly,  the onset of a memory floods his body, paralyzing him. The man sits, motionless, on the sidewalk, confronting the indescribable horrors that he was both a participant and witness to.

The onlooking protesters look curiously upon the mysterious figure that has   just taken a seat in the middle of their domain.  “What are you doing?”, one of them asks. The external stimuli of the question violently drags the man away from his hellish reliving. “Fuck off, you nationalist pigs”, the man replies as he stands up and goes on his way.

As the man walks away, a chorus of venomous words nip at his back. “Dirty traitor, socialist!”, one of the sign-wielding men screech. The man laughs a laugh brimming with the emptiness of a deep cynicism and then mutters “Death is nothing to give thanks for.”

 

 

 

 

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