Blunt

Shame

The wind blows coolly. He stares at the inviting depth. Feels the breeze carresses his cheeks. Remembers the way they used to be carressed by a pair of hands.

It's a memory of someone whom he dearly loves. Strong and soft, small and ambitious. He smiles at the flashing images. Savors them as stories are repating in his head.

Waiting for the bus. The sun scorched. He stood there, hand in hand with her. Searched for any sign of the yellow vehicle. Felt the tug at his arms when she whisked him up.

Buying groceries. He insisted on pushing the trolley by himself. Almost crashed against a counter. Pretended to be brave when a sharp end cut his arm. Consoled by the warm hug.

He remembers the night after. A small wound scarred his arm, a reminder of that accident. He showed it off because he didn't cry. She applauded, then tenderly put a band-aid upon the wound.

"Some wounds are meant to disappear," she had said.

He looked at his right arm, where the cut was located. A thin brown line sits there, like a slit of dead skin which doesn't come off, and he knew her words were true.

Some are meant to be healed. Some aren't.

He felt a blazing pain searing up, warm tears pooling at the corner of his eyes. Choked. Gasped. Shameful of what a coward he's become.

Names, labels, facts, lies - they drove him this way, moulded him to be the man he is now.

He felt an immense pain in his chest. Brought down his nails, raking his face. He wanted to hide from the accusing stare, from the pitying laugh, from the merciless sneers.

And he remembered her, and his pain became more unbearable. She didn't raise him to be this kind of garbage. Where is the old him?

Dead. Down the pit.

With everything she had taught him.

He finally gathered enough courage, more than what he could ever muster before. The depth was inviting him over.

He obliged.