Sunday, 7 June 2020

'Last Dance 1-2-3' by C.S. Bowerman


Snap. Footsteps stop. I cringe back. They must be close. I breathe into the wall. I need to make a decision. I stretch my ears to find them.  Desperately scraping the silence for warnings of movement. The night air is thick with anticipated snow.  Bulging clouds lighten what should be a jet black sky. The faint barking of German Shepherds trickles into my cold strained ears. Before I realise my body is up and streaming away between the containers. My trainers almost silent as I try to run like a dancer through corridors. I have done nothing wrong except to be unable to prove I've done nothing wrong.  It's true that I cannot remember exactly how all of this started and where the pieces go.  Like an impossible jigsaw there are so many parts that I can’t fit anywhere but must fit somehow.  How strange it is that something as invisible as knowledge can wreak such a final havoc onto someone's entire life.   Just to know surely shouldn’t be a material enough thing to mean a bullet at dawn or a gibbet at dusk.   But apparently we cannot escape our fate and all roads lead to Rome and I’m running out of solutions as I trip gracelessly forward.   Held tenderly by the crisp concrete, my head feels hot and warm and I see him again radiating understanding and compassion, like a night-time sun.   Through all the lies I see he is real, no matter what the law dictates or the populace want to believe and he was here.   As the first flakes fall I smile in renewed tranquility, hear the dogs as they pass, and understand finally my way out of this life's mess.

 


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