Sometimes, at sunrise, he forgets himself - who he is now - and remembers how it used to feel to breathe. Before he was broken. He smiles, unashamedly, without reservation or remorse, and he lets himself dream a little. Lets himself drift away from that splutter of rocket fire and grenade hole in the fabric of his life, which became the gaping wound where a part of his heart cleaved off. Leaving him to bleed out. Slowly and steadily.

He entertains the thought that perhaps he is healing, against all odds, more rapidly than envisaged. And he ignores the fact that he should know better - that some wounds never heal, merely hurt less. His stomach unknots as he lets go of reality and his hands steady. He fantasises about what it might be like to be somebody else. Somebody he used to be. With less lines on his face and holes in his heart. He finds peace in the illusion but it is feeble, and fleeting. As always.

He squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw, willing himself to hover in this moment. This tiny sip of escape. He rubs the palm of his left hand against the back of his neck and thinks that he might just hold on. But in the distance a door slams and a cascade of frantic voices busying themselves with the morning's tasks snaps him out of this stasis and back into himself.

He sighs and reaffixes his body to the terrain of the present. One foot. Then the other. He knows that the day ahead will be long and laboured and the night that follows, even more so. His stomach lurches in an effort to purge his insides of this sickening truth yet he keeps it together and thanks the stars for small mercies.

Mentally, he discards the week's latest attempt at hope and happiness while noting that maybe, just maybe, he is that little bit closer. And while he is unaccustomed in the now to making plans for the future, for the briefest of moments he allows himself to anxiously anticipate the next rebirth of day and promise of second chances.

04/18/2009

Posted on 04/18/2009
Copyright © 2025 Karen Michelle