The Last Day of April
Avril was born in the midst of a curfew, in her grandmother's bathtub. It had been uncomfortable, but was the least of her worries.
Many things happened mere moments later, as men and women in outfits she didn't recognize, stormed into the small home. First, they took Avril away, holding a report and saying that her mother was infected. The house was emptied of its inhabitants, and the little baby girl taken to another hospital.
There she grew, mere centimeters on the formula milk they fed her. Her eyes opened and shut themselves at the sight of light. She wasn't ready yet. She wanted to go back to the womb, to swim again in the protected waters.
She did not get her wish. Instead, she felt the days roll by, hinted by the yellow light on the window, that came and left as often as her sleep.
The people bustling around sometimes dropped fluffy toys of strange creatures into her cot. Strange smiling faces often appeared in front of her, cooing at the utter cuteness of Avril's obvious discomfort. They spoke of how the timing was unfortunate and how the world was forced onto it's knees. They talked of morose things like death and shared prophecies promising the same.
They said the year was cursed and that this month simply wasn't meant to be. Avril looked on innocently at the hurrying nurses and the busy doctors and wondered if perhaps, her life had simply been mistimed?
But there were many benefits to being born in April. One of them was that it was spring time. It was green and full of flowers outside and if Avril tried a little hard she would catch a whiff of the roses on the desk in front of the room. Sometimes when the windows were left open in the nursery, a little butterfly would enter or Avril could hear a swallow chirrup from the tree outside. A pale trickle of sunlight would tease through the curtains and land on her light brown eyes, a soft warm wind tickling her plump cheeks.
Avril was curious, as much as she could be. Spring was about discoveries and she was no different. Her brown eyes grew wider as the days dragged on. She taught herself to raise her legs, and wave her arms and even turn a little in her cot. Perhaps, one day she would learn to crawl and then she would find her way home. She didn't cry much, or command much attention, as though already wisened by the tragedy surrounding her.
She did not know how many days she stayed in the crowding nursery or why so often the nurses she liked disappeared. Everytime that happened, for a brief moment she always wanted to go back, to the soft warmth of her mother's womb.
And then one day, they surprised her by saying she could.
A tall man in a white coat, stuck a cold stethoscope on her chest and declared her fit and fine. Avril would have scoffed if she could, but smiled instead. She had long since learned that many adults didn't know what to do with creatures who cried.
They put her in a little pram and tucked her into a car. The wheels hit the tarmac and for the first time in her life Avril looked out into the streets. Brilliant, loud music played as people cheered on the road. They wore bright colourful clothes and sported big, bright smiles. Some of them whistled and hooted as though they were celebrating.
Everyone stood a little far apart, a tune on their lips as they clapped, with no intentions of stopping soon.
Were they clapping for Avril?
She found herself smiling despite not knowing.
Balloons filled the clear sky, white with freedom and colours of the country. There were people in uniforms, looking tired and zealous at the same time. Their badges shone brightly in the morning sun, the glint reaching their eyes. They saluted every vehicle that went past them and Avril waved back with her tiny fist.
People were standing on their balconies, holding their hands in prayer, as they looked on at the celebrations. The roads were filled with streamers and shining glitter as an occassional cab swept past. Everyone had somewhere to be, and they were merrymaking as they went. And yet Avril spotted in the corner of the streets, a few people, with tears streaming down their wrinkled faces, a smile gracing their lips. She didn't know what it was called, but what she saw was gratefulness and relief.
The humming car engine finally stopped at a dead end road and honked loudly several times.
A woman, with brown eyes like her own, opened the door, and picked Avril up instantly. She fit in her arms perfectly and smelled sweet, like home.
Her arms were strong and gentle at the same time, the way most mothers are. Avril hugged her tight burying her face in her mother's bosom as the woman thanked the driver repeatedly.
The first time Avril looked into her mother's eyes, she saw utter joy. She had been weakened by an illness, but somehow survived. Her skin brightened as it touched Avril's and a soft blush speckled both their cheeks. Her heart was full as she realized, the world had fought a war, and won. Here, in her arms lay her reward.
Her soul lit up as she carried her little girl hom e, whispering over an over again, how a child born on the last day of April, brought love and luck to the world.
Selfies
Selfies are in a sense selfish
Because they are for an
Audience of 'selves',
Who do not know that
They are indeed
'selves' until the self sells...
...Our self sells
When it has
Resonated
With flashing light
That grabs a bit
Of self sustainment
Reflected off
The holy matrix.
...As tiny bits of light
Spin our lives
Beneath the camera
Lens like dust,
There is the Mass
Hypnosis
Of the Misconceived...
...The acceptance of
The Blah...
A 'fuck you' finger
To the dormant
Freak
That yearns to speak,
But fades
To fabric.
Selfies can be tragic...
...An empty toilet paper roll...
A dirty room
That reeks of sin...
The deeper agony within
Forsaken by a yearning burn
To frame
Every vacant breath...
...There is a beauty, and a
Theft
In these flashing fits of
Rage.
©
2018
Bunny Villaire
Some Food for Thought
I only exist to die.
It's weird that so many humans think that's normal and okay.
They literally enslaved my kind--
Raised them,
Bred them,
Made them grow fat,
So they could slaughter them and sell them
To people who wanted to stuff themselves.
Sure, they could easily satisfy their hungers other ways
With breads, or potatoes, or greens,
Or literally anything else.
But the holiday demands me.
Well, not me exactly...
My corpse
And all my friends' corpses as well.
Millions of lives for one holiday.
Not human lives, no.
But in what way is a human life
Worth more than a bird's?
Some food for thought.
Ramblings
The Northern Star, also known by its proper name Polaris, is the end of the Little Dipper's (Ursa Minor's) handle.
This star is a guiding hope for those who are lost to point them in the right direction.
But what happens when the star goes out?
All stars run their cycle, and it's inevitable that it will essentially burn out.
In this day and age, it's easy for us to simply say that we can turn to GPS or Google Maps...
Yet, it's disconcerting to think that this star that we always thought of as a sign of hope, can just as suddenly disappear.
Because then, what else can disappear?
Dental Problems
When life gives you lemons, you should probably see your dentist. You'll have likely eaten a shitload of "lemon this" and "lemon-flavored that;" the acid will eat away at your enamel. Those pearly-whites will become chalky-whites and will ache over a glass of ice water. For Christ's sake, give some of those fucking lemons away. And see your dentist.
[Self-inflicted Conflict]
"Cold," a last and final whisper came from the direction of the lifeless, mangled body. Life left her almost too peacefully for a victim who faced the slighty more... gruesome resolve. Standing up from the ground, I faced forward. This was exactly what I wanted- no, this is exactly what I needed.
A warm, crimson colour covered my limbs, my torso. It was the only blanket engulfing my figure on this chilly night, another 11:11 pm that won't stick in anyone's head. I suddenly recalled the time's my mother would tell my stupid younger brother and I to make wish. "Why isn't it coming true, mom?" A small child with my voice asked, a little frustrated at the fact that no matter how hard she tried to get some type of response, no one said a single thing. Shaking my head in a panicked jerk, visualizing nostalgia fading away with every gesture. Though, this time it's different. My wish came true.
"Should I look back?" I questioned hesitantly in my mind, wondering if I wanted to see my only murder one more time. Continuing through the familiar house, I held the kitchen blade diligently in my right hand. I'd drop the weapon in attempt to take a forensic counter measure, but if someone bothered to look at the crime, the answer would lie on the surface. It was pretty obvious that I did it.
I'm not exactly proud of what I accomplished, but the person I hated most- the person that didn't matter was finally gone. If she did, anybody would have taken the time to tell her so. Including me.
I glanced back at the dead person lying in their kitchen, forever gone on the floor. Restful eyes stared back into soulless ones. My gaze trailed down to the cause of death, a single stab wound to the throat. "Aren't I great? I'm great, right?" I thought, "who else would take full control and stab someone-?" But my self talk was interrupted by the blood spreading out more and more, creating something I didn't want to see.
I saw myself in the puddle, and to reassure myself, I had to repeat the words, "she's gone" and "I'm a different person now". 11:37pm now, and I'm still lingering in the lavender scented house. I have my reasons, and what's done has been done. I can't go back now... So why am I suddenly having impulses similar to regret?
"It's the smell," I thought, taking another deep breath. "Definitely the smell." I remember an almost uncanny scent, one that would hug me when I knew no one else would. My father would have vases full of lavender flowers set up around our small residence. Sometimes my sibling and I would run around the house, playing tag or actually- any game we could think of, really. So much so, we would break majority of the small cases that held the plants. Even if I did, my father wouldn't get angry.
The muscles in my face unconsciously formed a smile, but after realizing I had made this expression, I immediately furrowed my eyebrows. My mother removed every flower in this house, and wanted absolutely no memory of my dad. Even if my younger brother doesn't remember much about him, shouldn't he at least ask? Show some sort of interest in our father figure?
"What a jerk," I clicked my tongue, gripping on to the messy weapon tighter than usual. Well, with this unholy crime committed, I don't ever have to see him again. His stupud eyes that slanted, his slightly crooked teeth, or even his laugh- the one that resembled a donkey's neigh.
My mind then caught a thought, "what time is it anyway?" 11:46pm. Her family should be here soon, and I didn't want to stick around much longer to see how things go down. As I headed to the rather large, white back door lingering with familiarity, something caught my attention. No, someone... someone caught my attention.
Memories flooded one by one; how my mother would use any way possile to escape reality. The reality my father was not in- mom didn't want to remember any part of him. Yet, she could't.
My brother would work hard and focus on his studies. Even if he got invited here or there, a good book would be better than spending time with his own sister. I was the one who had to make sure things were in check. That my mother did not go out drunk again, that she made it home safe and sound from her multiple part time jobs.
It was a picture of the girl's father, seemingly posted up and framed on the wall by someone other than her. "No, that isn't right," I clenched my teeth, a little noise being created from the excessive friction. "They were supposed to forget. Why is he up there-?"
"Honey, Matthew and I are home," a female in her early 40's declared, before dropping what sounded like a plastic bag holding glass. I slowly made my way back to the foot of the kitchen, slightly horrified. "Stella!" The mother exclaimed, sudden cries being more evident by the second. "Mom, what's..." But as Matthew moved further into the kitchen, he realized the situation and frantically pulled out his phone.
"Calling 9-1-1 is useless," I swallowed hard, not expecting a reply back. I should have left when I had the chance. I don't need to see this.
So why can't I look away? "Matthew, you can't save her," my voice raised its tone, "just put the phone dow-"
"M-My sister- she's..." Before he could finish what he was saying, tears ran down his cheeks like he maybe... even... cared. With the sudden movement of the brother raising his hand to cover his mouth, a small piece of paper fell on to the floor and into the puddle of red.
As I moved in closer to see the remaining two members of the family, I noticed what remained of a vase and lavender flowers spread out on the cold, hardwood floor. Mixtures of emotions started to fill my chest, as I realized what I have done. What I would be missing for the rest of what could have been my life.
11:11, I made a wish to see my father a day before his birthday.
Suicide is not the answer, please call 1-800-273-TALK because things do get better.
I don’t need motivation.
It’s not that I don’t want to.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to.
There is this certain palpable radiance when it happens.
It’s unexplainable, really.
Like a spiritual and sexual experience in a confluence....like converging chaotic rivers.
I wish it were easy to dissect.
It’s not.
You see, I understand this for what it is.
I see the moral tangibility to it all.
I see the aura in its hues of light to dark, yellow to red.
It’s not that I don’t know what i’m doing is wrong.
I know it is, I need it to be.
There is a symbiotic relationship between it being so wrong, but feeling so right.
It’s God-like, you know?
Life becomes contingent on my decision.
What I understand most is the human condition.
And how some people don’t deserve theirs.
Which is another pillar to my reasoning.
I don’t need any motivation, it’s my euphoria, my dopamine......my pleasure.
There is no anger associated to them.
I am methodical, and precise.
I leave nothing.
I don’t hide them because I don’t need to.
My profession allows me discretion, and the ability to quantify a carbon based life.
Quite lovely understanding chemicals and the bag of chemicals that is our bodies.
I am nothing glamorous.
I am quiet and unseen.
Extroverted enough to be loved.
Introverted enough to considered a madman.
I will say this, as I only have 13 minutes before I meet my next....victim if you want to call them that.
I have only one haunting aspect to all of this.
Their eyes.
I still see everyone of them.
I still see the shock and fear.
All 46 pairs, as clear as sunlight.
Every color, every shape.
In my dreams, in people I see on the street, when I close my own eyes.
I see them, incessantly, shaking sometimes in violent vibrations.
Truthfully, it may be my death one day.
And rightfully so.
They will come for me, they always do.
I will greet them as old friends coming to welcome me to my hell.
Uh oh, 13 minutes is up, I am meeting her at the corner coffee shop.
I am always early.
Number 47.
