The last word

 

She never locks here door, which is why I climb up the dark outside steps now

To wait for Sandra.

To comfort her when she gets home.

I need to get the last word in, or Iíll die

I need to get the rage out of me.

Somehow.

Let it explode in an outburst of curses,

To keep it from eating me up inside.

I climb to the second floor porch, knowing that I am a fool to be here.

I have always been a man of impulse

A reason Sandra once gave for loving me,

And hating me later,

If I had brains, I would stay away.

Yet inside me I am pulled apart by feelings, some need in me to go one way, and then another.

I donít know if I am coming or going.

Iím drawn to Sandra like a mother, certain to get burned when I get too near

When she says she doesnít love me anymore.

She tells me she canít stand being near me, and doesnít want me to come near her ever again.

This terrifies me, having no place to go and no one to love

My hand shakes as I turn the door handle Ė and I find it locked.

Lights glow inside

I hear voices.

Sandraís voice

And a manís.

It is not an explosion of words that comes out of me, although my voice echoes in the alley below, drawing up windows as I bash against the door with my shoulder until the locks burst and Sandra screams, and I hear the gurgle of the manís last breath as my fingers press deep into his throat.

Moments later without knowing how I get here, I stumble out of the alley, blood on my hands and clothing, his blood, Sandraís blood, even some of my own dripping out of slits I have made in my wrists, each drip easing the rage so that after a while Ė as I fall to my knees Ė I am at peace.

 

 


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