If I died today, what would be my last words

Chapter 2-News.

The autobiography of a man with no backbone

                   The feeling of an instinct wars with you.

                                           See to help.

                                    Yes you should aid.

                                       But you fear.

                   And you run with you chin on your chest

                              --- I. Williams. 

As you begin, you end; in the shell of youmother's womb    

You are her best friend. That is, you are the best friend of the deceased woman. You have been since you were youngster, running after the ice-cream truck, yelling "Banana Split Sunday" on Saturdays. You use to run into the woods, in between trees, to the fields where the daffodils would bloom in family, and the deer would gallop with the spirits of your imaginary unicorns. And you would lay. Laughing boisterously at the sun. At how forlorn it is, but you had her with you, and the sun nothing or no one. Even Mars had men that envied it, but the sun, you laughed with it.

What do you hear now? News travel mad, in Bluestone. The local news is on. Its 10:30 Pm. "The body of young woman, was found." They broadcasted a picture. It is your friend. "Armanda Rose, 20, was found dead, at 7:32 this morning on Peacelivit street...Police believe this to be a homicide..."

No this is not your friend. This is a dream. Who will? Who will come with you to the movies, to ask the vendor for slightly butter popcorn, and would pull you to watch the latest scary movies, because you are petrified and perturbed at anything super-natural.

Pinch yourself.

Pinch yourself. Wake up. Wake up.

But it hurts. You turn off the TV, and slowly declining to the couch to lay, weeping, and what now? Well the sun is laughing at you as it pull away into night.

Wakeup. Wakeup.

It is 9:30 PM. Your eyes are irritated from the dried tears. What have you been crying about? What was it? Can you recall?

The remote in hand? A sun? TV reporter? Picture...Armanda.

You hear knocking on your door. Who is it? You get up, careful not to stumble into the glass table, slightly missing the colbalt blue porcelain vase.

"who is it?"

"Its Denice!"

Denice? You ask yourself. You know Denice...Armanda's Denice. 

Yes you know her. Denice is Armanda's mother. Now open the door. Put your hands on the knob, and let her in. Unlock the door, and twist the knob.

Denise is weeping hysterically. You smirk, she sounds like a sheep. She looks emaciated, sleep-deprived. Now stop being facetious.

"Did you hear the news?" she asks.

Now say yes. Yes you have.

"My poor Arma. This is why God's should not send angels to earth. She was the sweetest. A homicide. Who would kill an angel? Tell me who?"

Now answer. Say, "you don't know."

She falls to the floor. You help her up, and take her to the couch, almost blemishing the porcelain vase, and brushing the glass table. 

Now comfort her. Lie, and say "everything will be okay."

Okay. Okay.

Lie and tell her "its all going to pass." 

Just a storm in June. And the butterflies would soon be back. 

                     I.