Sorry Mama!

Suhail AlHamady

I sit here, now, knowing I can’t escape through these soulless, machine -like, armored windows. There is one behind my back, completely open; it seems like it has a rebellious spirit, the William Wallas of windows! All I could think was, “Should I go for it?” Mom used to tell me, “Make a ladder with your words. They are made of stardust, my boy.” I don’t need a ladder at the moment, Mom…

I wonder, if I could make my hair long like Rapunzel, maybe I could finally catch ‘the one’. I remember doing it, once. I caught my friend! I think he was about to drop himself from the bridge. He didn’t seem to be happy at first. Well, I know he wasn’t because his fist tried to kiss my cheeks, but then he gave me a hug for the first time in my life! I learned that tears are a hot liquid–my shirt, burnt after he let me go.

Back to my plan…I guess the doctor won’t notice if I make my leap of faith. He looks like a nice guy–a fatherly figure you can feel connected in a sense. But, like most fathers, you could say he is “boringly mundane and a “sings it in one tune” kind of guy. I don’t know why my father keeps popping in my mind: I can feel his presence locked, somewhere, behind those wearisome eyes. He told me once when I was holding his hands in the ER, “If I do not come back today, promise you’ll write me a song.”

I still sing it till this day. It makes a fine blues melody of a sad, distant memory:

“Oh, don’t you cry my dear
I’ll be around
Not far but somewhere near
I’ll be around
My life is over here
But I’ll be around
So wipe that lonely tear
I’m here around”

Every time I sing it, I can hear him say, “Damn you! You did it once again, boy!”

Where were we? Oh, yes, the PLAN. If I could make one thing that would aid me in my quest, what would it be? Ah! A gun. I made a small Golck with 3 silver bullets. I guess he deserves to die quickly. Three would do. My aim is not perfect, though. The last time I aimed at something was in my bedroom; it didn’t go well! I woke up in a hospital bed 3 months later. The doctor said, “Thank God your pen was in your wallet; the knife was deterred from its path and settled an inch near your heart!” I thought, “Damn! I failed at the one thing I had complete power over.” Now, however, is no time for sobs and cries over the past. I have a real target here. I must aim as if I was competing in an archery contest. He must die!

There is always a sense of anticipation during any moment of truth: a silent stillness before the arrival of Death, who loves to be dramatic, sometimes. He would make a great actor if he was real. Isn’t he real? My ex was trying to explain exactly how real he can be. My friend made a point! The coroner said it was “a deadly mixture of Alcohol and Xanax, which led to a fatal overdose” Funny, he didn’t mention that there were two glasses in her room.

There’s no wind. It’s the perfect weather for bullets looking for a new resting place. Bang! Bang! Bang!

My Mama once told me, “Boy, use your words to help the helpless. I know you are only one person, but you are a pen in its sharpest form. Be your own destiny and fill the world with your galactic light” Mama, I didn’t disappoint you. I was radiant that day. I was not in pain during that fleeing moment. Everyone was shouting for me as if it was my final singing tour, my swan-song. I did not fall, but I have risen, and he was on the ground. A tall man with a black cloak was holding my hands, congratulating me. He told me I get to go to heaven! Fancy me, Mom, I went to the “good guys home!” While I was ascending, I glanced upon a smiling man, surrounded by a sea of cries. He had three holes in his chest, close to his heart. Despite the overwhelmingly strong presence of a red hue that coated his body, he sure shown like no light ever had before.


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