rootofallhatred
The thought of a megaphone brings me back to band camp, where we sweated our butts off in the sweltering Southern heat to the shouts of directions of our band director. All too clearly it comes back: the sweat, the tears, the sunburns, and the sense of being part of something so much bigger than yourself. Those were the days...
She brushed her hair up into a tight bun, one that would hide all the bald patches. Her long sleeves hid the burns, her makeup inexpertly hid the bruises. She clenched her shaking hands into fists, trying to stop the trembling so that the coffee cup wouldn't rattle. He hated it when she made any noise, after all. She headed for the stairs, thinking, "Sometimes, it's hard, being a trophy wife..."
He lit up and let it dangle from his lower lip. The smoke drifted up in his face, fogged his vision, brought tears to his eyes, but he ignored it. People walked by and stared at this young man, with his shaggy hair and tired eyes, but he didn't return the look. He didn't want them to see him for what he was: a monster. Finally, when the cigarette was no more, he dropped it, crushed it underfoot, and shambled away, trying to wipe away the last traces of blood that flavored his lips, salty and metallic.
For the longest, I would see a beautiful crane sitting outside, resting on a smooth, flat rock in the creek behind our house. He was a gorgeous creature, his long, slim neck occasionally reaching out, sipping, it seemed, at the icy water of the creek. Then, one day, he was gone. Years have passed, but I still miss him, that gentle bird I came to know as 'my' crane. I can only hope that one day, he will return home, to that rock in the babbling brook.