ˢʰʳᵃᵖᶰᵉˡ ˢᵏᶤᶰᶰᵉᵈ

                                                              TAKING A SEAT OPPOSITE, HE SWALLOWS his  guilt  for  the  time  he  has  spent  punishing  xeno  for  breaking  his  daughters  heart.  he  doesn’t  deserve  it,  just  a  self-destructive  being  trapped  in  a  life  of  M I S T A K E S  and  bad  choices  with  no  idea  how  little  sand  was  left  in  the  hourglass, &  taint  sees  himself  in  his  frayed  soul  but  a  part  of  him  has  not  forgiven  him  for  being  ABSENT  when  she  needed  him  the  most.  a  part  of  him  will  never  forgive  xeno  for  allowing  her  to  leave  this  world  with  a  thousand  words  left  unsaid.  he  has  come  to  realise  that  it  is  not  his  judgement  to  make  -  his  daughters’  last  wish  was  for  forgiveness  (  &  she  would  not  have  been  his  daughter  if  she’d  wished  otherwise ).  with  trembling  hands,  he  places  elly’s  cell  phone  ( the  plastic  case  patterned  with  bumblebees  &  flowers )  on  the  table  in  front  of  them,  a  voice  recording  ready  to  play  on  the  screen.  ‘ press  play. ‘  barely  a  whisper  while  he  braces  himself  to  hear  his  daughters  voice,  hoarse  &  thick  with  tears  but  still  so  sweet  in  her  final  moments.  she  sounds  like  the  only  sunshine  that  has  ever  shone  on  him. 

                                                                                 ‘WILL YOU TELL HIM, DAD? please?’. her last request was whispered while he clutched her frail body in his arms, squeezing his eyes shut & feeling her smooth the hair away from his temples, soothing him first & foremost while she pretended that she wasn’t afraid to go. how many months have passed since she asked that of him? & how many chances has he had to pass the message on to the man who stole her daughters heart? taint feels her scorn & disappointment each morning when the secret remains untold & threatens to die with him. it’s time, he’s decided - it’s time, xeno doesn’t deserve to be hurt any longer. ‘ hey, kiddo---you got a minute? ‘ 

                                                                               IT’S A SILLY QUESTION TO ASK the man who has lost everything a thousand times over, made even sillier than who its being asked by ; boy with SELF-DESTRUCT scrawled across his chest in permanent marker. what does it matter? what does it matter that there’s a cut inches deep following the length of his forearm & that it is dripping onto the linoleum & into his drink ( it tastes like iron anyway ) each time he raises the bottle to his mouth? what does it matter that he hasn’t slept in days because in his thirty-fifth hour of insomnia he can still hear her singing in the garden & there is no gravestone with her name on it & her bones are not ROTTING ten feet under? none of it matters anymore. the only thing keeping him from sinking this deep into his closet full of skeletons, memories of madness rising like driftwood & putting old habits back into motion, is gone. there is no one here to S T O P him anymore. there is no one left to save him. ‘ why do you even care, kid? ‘