Question Mark

(Short Story)

So quickly it comes, shattering my thoughts and dreams. So hard it hits, tantalizing every molecule in my body. Realizing, but not, the essence of what it is. What resources have I to commit to this deed? How can I see it so clearly in my minds eye? Why? Why has it not come before? Or has it?

The day, as so obviously it seems, is a day of great joy, celebrations of loosely understood holidays, along with the mourning of lost relatives, and the pure revelation of a newborn in the family. In my mind, a masterpiece is at hand. A bright morning of black shadows brings to my attention the plot. Why? Am I strong enough to attain my goal? I know not of the answers.

Father always says, No son of mine is unable to take control of his feelings. You may very well not be my blood. No. Im certain you arent mine! If you hadnt been birthed from your mother, I wouldnt even believe you were hers! always the same, it was. The monitor screaming at me in the background of the wretched sound. It waits. It waits for me. It waits for me to lose myself in the words of good feeling and pretense of false hope. Sitting, watching, listening to the chaos, it waits.

I remember her, mother. Yesterday I saw her. In all of her evil glory, she was there, beckoning me to my deed.

Father and the others view my great sight as a mental disability, but I know it is power that their feeble minds could never understand. It poses as a fuel for my intensions. The blaze is becoming to hot to handle. Speaking to those long passed, I hear, see, know, and feel what they do. And did. They view my special talent as a disability caused by imagination. Or so thought on their part as the lack of. It is a gift.

Outside, as I stride through the leaves and the breeze running through them. Children play on slides in the park, gravel grimacing in a dead joy, being trampled by peaceless toddlers. Screaming, their parents run to rescue them from a fall.

I am dying inside. No one to share the agony. No one to be with. No one to understand me. Agerr! Im better off alone! The slew of faithlessness that is a complete mystery, so completely, they put me here, in an unfantisising mortal imprisonment, to be with those like me. Realize, they do not; there is no one like me.

My passion is what moves me. It runs deep within. Forced into me, by my parents, hate. Walking, I sense his presence in my wake, my father. I feel his anger and desire. He has hurt me so many times before. Again? I wont let him. As I walk into the yard, there he stands, glaring and grinning. That menacing grin, I must put an end to.

I pull it out andPOW! Hes gone. Blood flowing from the wound in his head delivered by his own son. I turn the pistol on me andwhisper, Good Bye.

My last thought was, Why?