Bloodstained shirt, shirt’s mine, but the blood isn’t. Friends, foes, or family don’t matter because pain comes from all angles.

Broken glass, dented window, and collapsed chair decorate the living room. A room we no longer live in. It’s filled with pent up anger and pain. Overflowing with sorrows that were never introduced to the consciousness.  Wails of the spectators pleaded for both to stop but pride and hate controlled them.

Both on the floor, fused in pain, fighting on chips of broken glass. Loved ones crowded around to crowbar them off. Eventually, father and son were separated and held back by wife, brother, and daughter.

Words to later be regretted were spewed. Words dressed like daggers that were meant to hurt. Emotions were sliced, cut, and punctured on both sides. Words were not the only weapon. A gun made its appearance, taken away from its drawer of solitude.

It was the death of the father and son. Son left, father accompanied the gun.

Those in true pain were the bystanders, the ones who couldn’t choose sides because both are so greatly loved. We stayed in the middle, unable to move to either side. 10 minutes felt like an hour.

Let’s rewind 5 hours ago; dancing, love, compliments, and alcohol. Alcohol, the elixir of pain. It mutated both father and son into the terrible copies of themselves. It poisoned the good in them, removed rationality, and it extracted love and replaced it with hate. Deep seated memories and skeletons never cleaned out, were guided by the alcohol.

The morning after, a hangover will ensue. Pores will sweat out the alcohol, along with dignity and regret. Logic will be re-birthed. The little daughter’s future is altered. Her relationships will be jeopardized and an anger instilled due to the imprints of pain and violence on her eyes and ears.

As for me, anger, disgust, pain, and my tears pass thru. A dust storm of indifference has clouded me, no emotions left to create. Now, I just want to close my eyes and calm my breath. Sleeping is the only time pain is dead, unless, nightmares visit my mind.

But, I’d rather fictional nightmares than the nightmare of life.

***Thank you for taking the time to read my work. If you enjoy what you read; please share, like, and comment. All of these details help me drastically and will allow me to write more often. Thank you for your support!***

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