It wasn't my fault. I was a boy running for his life with no idea of how wrong it had turned out.
''It was a tragedy, I'm not to blame.''
It took rushing thirty minutes to realization that this unlike any other was no necessary evil. Its one thing to know death and another thing to witness the sinner get absorbed silently into the middle. When does a sinner know when he's conflicted with his own intimate compelling voices of beliefs and fear? What happens if the craws imminently as it happens crawl out of the bag? I was living in a lurking fear of exposure, that night while dialling nine one one (911), eyes dilated with horror.
'Creak Hill PD what's your emergency'
'she's dead' (voice amplifying terror and confusion)
'Please come down and explain to me what happed'
'It happened too fast; I don't think she's breathing please hurry'.
'What's your name young man and where a…'
'Phineas Wes, my name is Phineas Wes, North of Sixth street, muddy road on Wales Street'.
(Hang up!!) Now the bloody phone dropping from my right hand with an alarming bang into pieces. Evidently in most cases most people would find familiar places to crawl under, and it felt as if regret was drawing my very own conclusions. I'm a prisoner now, a prisoner of trouble, a prisoner of the awful and the beautiful, a prisoner of the silence unheard, a prisoner of the shadows now since the nineteenth (19) of my birth, the secrets that come a long-the perfect tragedy, then perhaps if I keep quiet and good, they will not come for me, perhaps even they will release me from my holds. In an attempt to fathom the sea of pieces in bits lying in front of me and make sense of the vivid scene of what happened, you have to read the letter yourself to open your eyes, to feel what I felt until there isn't a part of self-left underneath, then and only then can the evil unleash if not part memory you will suddenly be driven into the edge trying to beat the dying light. Often, I have found that it's not the words that will drive most men mad, but the woman behind them. But don't every story begin as a love story and with each dying story from my vulnerable years, I have learnt that every time there is a different story. In every town, we had only two minutes and we both knew we wanted more. During every visitation to these towns, I bought flowers and while I stood at these graves, still, giving them two more minutes, left a note in their favourite perfume, had thought to myself like every other dead grave they did not have to have a pungent like smell of rotting flesh.
I was stranded in the house for eighteen minutes, while the response time for creeks police department was eight minutes, still, it took forty-eight minutes before a squad car arrived that night. A flashlight beam evenly lit through the widows of my house, now steady and suddenly went off. The doorknob was broken, with an immense force, someone had broken in, the air was tainted with blundering fumes. In the shadows, there was a hand holding a gun. The last I heard was a shot fired, June Allyson was dead, and no one knew this yet, and while death is often thought of as the end of the line for your lousy life, mine was a terror, a nightmare. When I woke up, the side of my bed was cold, I was not dead, not yet anyway. There was a letter on my breakfast bowl, it read "A Necessary Evil". There was no clear line if this had happened and no possibility of how long I'd last with a broken doorknob drawing my attention stealthily. It was a dead day.
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