The window

See! There he lurks watching, always watching. Look! Through the window, there he stands, his eyes as bright as gold. Strange that is the only window to the outside world, it is almost like he put it there himself…


At night I picture him working there. Cold knives on the wall, and blood to match on the floor. But where is he? There he appears in the corner holding an old photograph. His hands above his head on the wall, he is trying to breathe, and the tears cover his face. Is he only like this at night? I couldn’t imagine this man crying.


His dark hair is in mats from the turmoil of tossing and turning at night. His music, dark and full of death plays from a radio sitting on an old wooden chair. It is starting to rain outside, and his form wilts to a watercolor painting behind the glass. The figure stands up from in the corner, and searches over the wall as he walks right past me.


He picks a bottle up from hiding, and drinks from it heavily. His long fingers grasp a large knife, he feels the weight and then sets it down for a much smaller,  sharper one. The music screams, and I recognize the song.


I watch in silence as he rolls up his sleeves. His breath heavy, and his words slurred from liquor. I could stand to see him wandering around and staying up til the morning hours, but not this, oh not this.


The blood flowed over his arm as he made cuts one after the other. I could stand it no more to see him so sad. I ran over to the door, and knocked as loudly as I could. There was no answer from the other side. The door was locked, and there was no way inside. The rain came down and soaked my skin, and I could no longer see through the window. I shattered the window to get to him, but there he lay on the floor, his mouth and arms cut wide open.

As I lie next to his body, I can not help but wonder inside, if this wouldn’t of happened if I didn’t hide.


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