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Angry Cry


pixelated boy

Image via rebloggy

The boy behind the screen plays life like a video game.
Machine guns, hand grenades, instead of loving sons and serenades.

He is far too short for his age and hides behind pixels in a desperate attempt to overcompensate.

There is a battlefield in this particular game on which my blood stains the asphalt.
A canvas he has long forgotten and a mouth sore he has already washed out with table salt.

He had shot so blindly at a target clear to see, one standing right in front of him – that target was me. I had begged him to stop ten times until my voice cracked and a demand turned into a whimper.

He fired.

And the liar stood before me, saying that I was holy.

Wholly Divine.

That I should thank him for the wounds and clean the bullets to save as mementos. I was losing blood quickly, falling to the ground with a thud. I swam in a pool of my own blood. Rebutting every “stop” with the thoughts of my supposed divinity. If I was his queen, then why were the hands of the princes all over me? He said they were there to stitch my skin up, but when I said I was okay, there was no button on the computer screen I could Click to choose a different option.

This was a new game. Click.

I soon came to realize that I didn’t have a controller and I couldn’t move the roller ball on the computer mouse. Instead of battlefields, there were ballrooms. Boys in silly suits and girls letting loose to the symphony. Surely the gowns were beautiful, no one could deny that, but talons erupted from the knuckles of the boys and their hands, finding the girls’ hips as a proper place to land.

Birds are vicious, especially malicious when trapped underneath a hoop skirt. With a dress torn to shreds and a mess of sheets in my bed, I turned to the King and waited for the cue.

Click.

Now we were in a town’s square, my new dress was simple, free of tears. My newlywed husband crookedly smiled down at me, that awful shift of lips he’d never lift from mine even after I tried to flee.

That was stupid. This was his game, not mine. Why couldn’t I see that? Why did I keep trying?

Salem never looked so grim as the day when he walked in. The moon hid after the sun came running with his tail between his rays, the people gathered without a sound.

Tied to a crucifix, watching his hungry eyes burn me hotter than the very flames themselves, I didn’t feel too holy. He seemed to have gotten his fix after a while.

Click.

We were in space, floating amongst the stars, a monster and his target practice. I thought I had moved past this.

But my eyes were closing and my suit was getting heavier and warmer by the second. Spaceships shot all around us, his grin causing my itchy skin to fall off as well as my suit. I suddenly was on the enemy team with alien qualities no human could redeem. With pleasure he shot me out of the galaxy. He wanted to be a hero for once, now I see.

Click.

Now I am in my bedroom writing these exact words, trying to find a cure for the disease he has plagued me with. My immune system down, my guard is up. The computer boy lives happily ever after, filtering out his targets once they are no longer goddesses. Queens he treats as pawns.

Wives he burns at the stake.

Partners whose lives he lives to take.

I can still feel his gun pressed in my stomach on that field, completely naked, free of even clothing to use as my shield. I did fire back once, that why theres a chip in his ear and I suppose that’s his excuse for never being able to hear.

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