Feeding upon my sorrow,
they dance carelessly upon my judgement,
Knowing not of sympathy, remorse, or even guilt,
but of only sweet, sweet fulfillment.
A feeling so familiar and warm,
so reposed and calm,
And even more diabolic.
Wrong - yes,
at best - I confess.
These flames only burn higher.
There is nothing a son wants more than his father's approval, and there is nothing a son will not do to earn his father's respect.
It was Father's Day. The heat seemed to bring out the worst in people that day. The folks and I were not on the best of terms. We had been at each other's throats for the ...view middle of the document...
I wanted to make things peaceful and happy. With my un-bloodied hand, I reached in my pocket. I had three dollars to my name - three wrinkly Washingtons. Things began to click, or maybe that was just me going insane. I rose from that old, rusty chair, knowing what I had to do. I believe I left my sanity sitting there, next to a still-wet bloodstain on the concrete.
I walked out to the old barn-like shed we had. The dusty, red container seemed to yell at me. As I walked to the convenience store on that sunny day, my heart seemed to beat faster and faster. I walked into the store that day with tunnel vision - so focused, so ready. My bloody hand hid behind the counter as I made my demands. I bought a cheap lighter - what some would call a "crack-head lighter." It was see-through white. It almost seemed pure. The rest of the money, I put on gas. My cut hand stung as I wrapped it around the handle of the gas can. The wind blew harder and harder as I approached the rundown shack of a house. The adrenaline ran, like that of a thousand horses, through my body as I stood in front of the door. With a swift, hard kick, the door flew open. I smiled.
As I returned to my own house, I slung the empty gas can into...