Random unrelated stuff

The Third Day

This was a project i did a while ago for a writer's group, and at the time i was proud of it.

i intentionally gave it very little setting or description to better portray Peter's dazed, detached, self-hating point of view. i realize that makes it a little harder to read, so kudos if you slogged through. i tried to write like a guy, but i don't think i succeeded. the last sentence is my favorite.

~~~~~

Failure, failure, failure...

It's been three days. That's what John said. Three days. Just three days. It feels like it might have been weeks. I've sat here forever. That sounds like poetic crap, but it's true. I don't care how long it's been. Or will be. I'll probably sit here forever. It doesn't matter.

My hand hurts. My head hurts.

There's a cut on the heel of my hand. It's throbbing, and the skin around it is dark. It doesn't matter. I must have hit it against something when I was running. Running away. Pain doesn't matter anymore. Just something else to focus on. I ran away.

The door opens. I don't really care who it is. Maybe it's a psychotic serial killer, come to whack my head off. How ironic. He won't be there to stick it back on again, like He did for that thug when I cut off his ear. He healed the guy who was trying to kill Him. Back there I was shocked. But I don't care about that now. I just stare at my hand.

Someone sighs behind me. It sounds like John again. He crouches next to me on the floor.

"You haven't moved an inch," he says softly. True. I remember stumbling in, collapsing against the wall, sliding down. That was forever ago. And I've been here ever since. If He were here, what would He tell me? Pick up your bed and walk? I don't think so.

John should know by now, I won't say anything back; it's not worth it. But he keeps going, his voice grates on my ears, "Pete this is stupid. You have to get up. You have to eat something!"

He points desperately and violently at the box of Chinese food he brought before. It's been forever since steam rose from it. I stared at the curling vapor while it lasted, trying to loose myself in it, to forget. It didn't work. Nothing works. It just reminded me of the smoke from the oil drum fire where I sat and waited for the trial to end. Where I had been recognized. Where I had lied to save my useless life.

I can't forget that look on His face. He didn't look shocked or confused or even hurt. He just...looked. And I knew He was expecting it. I'm really only a coward; who should have known that better than Him? It was like He knew what I was going to do the first time He saw me on the docks that day.

Failure, failure, failure.

I can remember everything He ever said to me. I've been going over them since that night. I've been trying to understand this. It's not working. Nothing works. But I can't do anything else. The one time I need to get drunk, nothing works. Damn alcohol.

John sighs again and thuds back against the wall. He's said all he can say. Now, thank God, he just sits quietly and lets me suffer. I deserve to suffer; he knows it. But for days he tried to drag me out of this. Why? Why should I ever get up again? Why should I ever look anyone in the eye again? Why shouldn't I just die here? He's dead.

It's like He knew. Now that I've thought about it, I begin to see. He must have known. He even told us about it, but we couldn't see it. We didn't want to see it. He was the master, and He was going to help us. He was going to lead us, and we were going to be raised from the slums that the twelve of us had been born into. He was going to lead us for the rest of our lives.

But no, He was going to die. He knew. He tried to prepare us for it, but we were in a dream, too stupid to listen. And now He's dead. And we're alone. I'm alone.