No Leaf Clover

The crunch of gravel stirs him awake. He opens his eyes, but is instantly blinded by the fury of the sun. He curses and raises his hand to shield his vision. He notices the rivulets of crimson flowing down his arm. He feels his eyes watering, his mouth tastes metallic.
The crunching noise approaches him with slow, purposeful steps until a figure looms above him. The sun behind forms a halo around the figure, cloaking it in darkness. Except for the dim shine of metal reflecting from its hand.
He had heard stories of near-death experiences where survivors talked about the tunnel of light. The figure moves his hand and levels it against his head. He tries to remember the song as he hears the click.
As the smoke clears , the song comes to his mind. And he smiles as darkness fills his eyes.

Prisoner of Routine

Routines are good. They bring certainty in life. With routines I don’t have to worry about what might go wrong. I know exactly what to do and what to not do. The thrill is in knowing how each day will end, and then daring Fate to change its course. As I ease the blade through the stubborn skin, I know exactly how this day will end. I know the exact moment when I am staring at the ceiling, when I would fall asleep.

And then the door bell rang.

Love burns…

I remember…

When I was young enough to be impulsive and reckless without a guilty conscience, I loved to watch things burn. I would watch dancing hues of orange and red slowly overwhelm every other shade of colour, until they merge into a roaring golden yellow. I would feel the sting of the heat on my face and my throat going dry. I would stand mesmerized as the flames devour their surrounding mercilessly. My body could not move an inch, but my heart would be racing with all its might. I could not pull myself away, though I knew it would be dangerous to stay longer. Yet, I would stay, to watch it all burn.

Now, lying next to you, I remember… I remember how I love to watch things burn. I feel the hole in my heart, and I smile to myself.