#420words

@kbunks4 was on the ball with the last one.  420 words, made me work for this and I’m so glad!  Ready to play?  

It wasn’t my idea.

I didn’t want to do it. 

I’ve been telling myself these words for weeks but the nightmares won’t subside.  I see her standing before me, eyes wide with disbelief at what I have ordered.  I feel no remorse.

He draws his weapon and I wait with eager anticipation.  I want to see her fall.  I want to see her crumble and suffer.  I want to be rid of her and then maybe I can be rid of goddamn everything else she keeps doing to me.

When I wake, I am mortified.  Sick.  Most mornings I dry heave over the side of the bed before my eyes are fully open.  

I’ve done everything I can think of to shed the guilt - to forget.  I've recycled my clothing, dumped the Vulcan brandy and destroyed the weapon.  I’ve even attempted to confess.

“It wasn’t my idea,” I told her.  “I didn’t want to do it.”  Half-truth poured from my tongue like syrup over a cake of wretched lies.  

She told me that she understood, she forgave me.  But her words were short-lived relief.  I could see the hurt set deep within her soul.  I never wanted it to be this way between us.  

My unending, unrequited devotion had morphed to depthless sorrow.  And then twisted into rage.

There is only one other person who knows.  At the end of the day, he’s the only other individual I trust explicitly out here – and especially after this.  God, I owe him my life another time now. 

I decide, at once, I need to speak with him.  I can’t endure another night of quiet torture.

“Hey boss,” Ayala greets me, spry and ready even though it’s well into twilight hours.

“Got a minute?” I ask.

“All night,” he replies, waving me through.  A bottle of whisky – seal still intact – has been waiting on the table.  He knows me well.

I sit.  He pours.

“How much do you remember?” I finally get out.

He sets his glass down, it makes a dull thud.  “Everything.”

I lower my face to my palms, fingers catching in my hair. 

“I’ll shut the hell up if you want, but I thought you loved her,” he says.

I nod. 

“Then why?”

I shake my head with my hands.  

He sips from his drink again, sees that mine is empty and refills the glass.

“Disabling the phaser….” I say, words hushed in shame.

“It was my idea.”

He waits for my confession.  

En las familias de ahora, las que conozco en día, tienen cimientos similares a las de antes. Una pariente tabú, un intelectual de noticiero, una descarrilada ignorada y unos cuantos bebés rodando en la alfombra de concreto.

Hace 75 años la situación fuera de casa, igual, narcotráfico barato, corrupción que sorprendía y violencia que nadie quería. Solo que entonces el presidente si era de sentarse a pensar su alarde.

Se legalizó lo que destruía, se combatió como debía; ayudando al adicto y jodiendo al traidor. Pronto el país se convirtió en prohibicionista sin pensar que el futuro lo regiría su mismo error.

Maria para curar, no creerían. Huele mal, la hierba del mal, decían. Apegados al contra gobierno, implementaron una falsa idea que aún no podemos eliminar.

Hierba que sana, naturaleza que nos provee vida. Tierra que no hace distinción y nos da mejoría. Maria es tu día, dime que pronto serás para todos sin ser mal vendida.

Marihuana sembrada por nosotros, da alegría. Cultivada por pocos, con tristeza mata a todos.