Saturday, April 17, 2010

The Psychopath's Waltz



Poem Co-written with Melody...

Melody sat emotionless with her notebook, which had some words scribbled down on it, in her lap. She stared at the scenes in front of her. She watched the blades of grass swish, trees that pushed and shoved, and the children that played soccer in the fields. She did not smile or cry. She was like a human statue sitting on the park bench’s tabletop.

I walked on over to her. “Mel, you ok?”

“I don’t want to talk today,” she said bluntly.

“Ok,” I sat there with her on the bench’s tabletop staring at the world around us. For fifteen minutes, I watched her infinite gaze and thought something was strange about her today. She was usually so hyper and excited, but today was different. She was dead inside for some reason. Since I was one of her best friends, it was my job to find out why.

I snatched a glance at her notebook, which was also mine. We shared our ideas together in that book, which is why we called it the Idea Book. All our ideas, poems, stories, memories were trapped in those pages by the leather bound covers of that black book.

On one of the pages she wrote:

Gun shot,

Pierce air,

Hearts stop,

Can’t stare.

There were also a few crossed out words, but I couldn’t read them, and some doodles from our last session in the park. Why would she be writing about gunshots? Could it have something to do with her attitude today?

“How was school?” I smiled. She went to a different school than I did. I went to a private school; she went to a public one. We were close friends and we would tell each other everything and anything, but Melody was distant today, so I tried to break the ice.

A tear dropped from her eye down her cheek. “Why d-do y-you ask?” She forced a smile as she wiped away the tears. “Wh-hy do you a-ask? Hmm?” More tears were born from her eyes, but I couldn’t speak. I was frozen at the fallen Melody before me. She was always so happy and bouncing off the walls. Who was this broken figure?

She buried her face in her knees and sat in a fetal position. I did what any friend would do: I hugged her. “It’s ok, Mel. You can cry.”

“He shot someone,” she cried out. “I can’t believe he shot someone.”

“At least you weren’t hurt, right?” I comforted her by rubbing my hand on her back.

I wasn’t hurt, but someone else was. One of my friend’s was shot by some psychopath.” Her face was flushed red; only I could see it through the strands of her long, black hair.

“Is he or she ok?”

“She’s ok.”

“Then, why are you crying?” I lifted up her head with one gentle hand so that she could stare directly into my eyes.

“Because… I don’t know…I was scared.”

“Well, everyone is scared of death. Didn’t we discuss this before?”

“I’ve never experienced death up close though.” She wiped her tears away and drank some water from a bottle. “It’s ok just talking about it, but once you see it, once you experience it…It’s as scary as…I don’t know…It’s probably the scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. How someone could end another person’s life with a single bullet.” She pointed an index finger out and cocked her thumb back to resemble a gun. “Just BAM,” she pretended to shoot the air with her finger. “Then, it’s the end.”

“It’s ok,” I told her as she put her head against my shoulder.

“Do you want to know what happened?” She knew I was a curious in the beginning.

“No. I think it is best you don’t say anything. You know what? Why don’t you write it out instead, since that’s what you do best? You turn all that energy and emotion into one of those poems.”

She nodded her head and began to work with me. By the end of the day, we had this:


Gun shot,

Pierce air,

Hearts stop,

Can’t stare.


Point, click,

Clothes stained,

Tick-tick,

Tears drained.


Soulless corpses,

Both living and dead,

Life and its courses,

Friends ‘til the very end.


Dust falls,

The living rise,

Penetrated walls,

Faces surprised.


Phone on,

Nine—one—

Cut off,

Can’t talk.


Say, “Stop!”

BANG! BANG!

Doors unlocked,

Bullets sang.


Re-load,

They cry,

Explode,

Says, “Die.”


Ears ring,

Bloody lips,

Screaming,

Final kiss.


Step outside,

Cops doubt,

Sirens cry,

They count,


“One, two,”

Bloody shoes,

“Three, four,

Hands on the floor!”


Last was five,

He ended his life.

A single BANG!

One bullet sang,


The dead haunt,

The person who never thought,

About that atrocity he just commit,

That person who only shot,

With a point and a click.


“Now, how do you feel?” I asked her after the poem was done.

“Better, I guess,” she sniffled and pushed her long, black hair behind her ear.

“That’s good, now what are we going to title this?” I snatched the notebook from her hands. “Any ideas?”

“Pfft, what a question, Vatche. You know we’re both full of ideas.” She took the Idea Book from my hands.

“So do you have a title for it or not?” I handed her the pen that we shared.

“Yes, I do.” She wrote down the title, “The Psychopath’s Waltz.”

“Why that?”

“Isn’t it my job to be the poetic one here? Plus, it’s better than my original title,” she smiled and was back to her normal self.

“And what title would that be?”

She laughed and wrote down the words, “That Son of a Bitch.”

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