The Assassination


The crowds clear the plaza after hours of standing in a scaling sun.

They all seem weary and starved, charmed masses wondering how things could change so quickly – and how a tiny bit of lead can end a dream, leaving red blots on hard pavement when their dreamer once stood.

He was their lucky charm, the charm melting on their tip of their tongues, a sweet sound mingling with their chants of support, turned bitter with the after taste of despite.

Their face float passed me, dozens – no hundreds of faces – a thong of disappointment.

I know how they feel, each having gone from being part of something to being part of nothing – alone.

I have always been alone. I have always been a nobody.

Now I am a some body holding warm metal between my thighs and smelling the sweet scent of expired gunpowder in my nostrils.

I didn’t come expecting much, but hoping for a moment when no one stood between me and him, and when that moment came, I almost blew it, my hands shaking as I lifted the gun, my finger freezing on the trigger as if deep down inside of me there was another me saying I shouldn’t do it, but I did.

It all happened so fast it was as if it didn’t happen, a flash and boom, and then silence, my hand falling to my side and nobody noticed.

They still don’t notice.

Silent, shocked, tearless fools parading passed me with slumped shoulders, their lives and hopes shattered as if each is made of China.

I am shattered, too, but in a different way, as if I have spent my life inside a jar and have finally blasted my way out, sitting here, waiting to see what happens, and for some message from inside or outside as to what I am supposed to do next.


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