We burnt all the skin from the palms of my hands
With an old zippo lighter and deodorant cans
I went to the palmist and asked her to read
No heart line, no sun line, no life line, no need
xii
Weeks passed and the dust on the violin was left untouched. Months passed and John never felt an arm wrap around him in protection again. Almost half a year had gone by and John had lost hope all over again. It was worse than the first time, it happened more rapidly. What had first gone by in months went by in days and weeks. Depression fast forwarded.
Some days he sat in his flat with his gun in his hand, others he held it to his head. More than a few times his finger twitched on the trigger. Once it pulled the trigger. But when he fired he pointed it at the spray painted smiley-face on the wall and now the illustration had a bullet hole nose to complete it. And John had one less bullet to blast into his brain. It was just lucky Mrs Hudson wasn't home. She'd been threatening more than ever to put John in hospital.
There were other days through, fleeting ones that rolled by like plastic bags in the wind, forgotten in the split second they were noticed. They weren't so much happy as they were basic and normal and alright. Which was what John needed to get by, but not at all what he needed to live. It was not enough to plug the hole in his skull that let in the siege of black and swirling hopelessness.
He forgot about ghosts who played violins when he wasn't there. He forgot about silhouettes who held him in the dark.