Monday, December 15, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
The Thoughts Of Two Dying Men
The headline screamed, "God! Not again!". The photo beneath it showed a man, lying in a pool of blood. Another man knelt beside him but the dying man showed no response. One look at his eyes and you knew he was gone. He was gone, yet there was still so much to read within those eyes. His face was familiar, it had been plastered across magazines newspapers and tabloids for years. A Senator, brother to the slain President, shown here, dying, in the morning news.
Minutes before, he had been greeting supporters, smiles and handshakes all around. His face beamed to match the faces of those around him. He just received news that he had won over California in the presidential primaries. He turns to greet another beaming face when it hits. Three shots, a fourth tearing through his jacket. Two to the head, one through the arm. He hits the floor and the people swarm. A scuffle occurs nearby as his friends and bodyguards wrestle the man with the gun to the floor. A circle opens up and the Senator is displayed. A man crouches near him, attempting to stop the bleeding. Cameras flicker.
What went through the mind of this man as he lay there, two bullets in his brain? Did he think, Oh God, what is happening? Was I just shot am I dying? Or did he know, did he know that he was about to die? Did he think of his killer and wish pain upon him? Did he think to try and stand? Did he think of his brother, slain five years before? Or his children, all ten, soon to be eleven, or his wife, his smiling blonde haired wife... Were his thoughts of his country? Did he wonder at who might take his place in the election, his seat in the Senate? Or was he gone the moment the shots were fired.
The man doesn't truly die until 26 hours later, in a hospital on June 6 1968. Yet you look at the photograph...and see that he is already gone.
It's dark. The street is empty, save for one; a young man in a ragged jacket, tousled hair and unshaven face. He stumbles down the sidewalk, bottle in hand. The neighborhood is derelict. Houses with broken windows and boarded doors flank the bare streets. Drunken thoughts play dice in the mans head, making foolish gambles and losing every time. He walks the streets at an early hour and sees no one.
Old memories glimmer within the alcohol haze. A birthday party, smiles and cake. His father, fist upraised.
The man takes another swallow of the vodka in his hand. He revels in the burn as it scrapes its way down his throat.
More memories. His mother crying at the table, bills all around and no money to spare. Long, hungry nights spent in parks and under bridges. His father again, the fist swinging down to meet the huddled form of his mother.
Bitter tears prick the corners of his eyes and etch a burning path down his cheeks.
An angry teen takes a swing at his father. The same teen is thrown against a wall. A woman screams. And screams. And screams.
The man is downtown. Blinding lights leave spots in his eyes. He pushes through the crowds, barely listening to their frenzied conversation.
Dead? He can't be...
How can he be alive, he was shot in the head twice-
I won't believe it-
Just like his brother-
Tragic-
Women were sobbing, men were shaking their heads and everyone looked panicked.
Kennedy? Bobby Kennedy? It can't be
He just won California in the primaries!
Who's the bastard that shot him, I swear I'll kill him
The man didn't know who Bobby Kennedy was or why he was so important. He drank more and continued on.
A teen living on the streets, scavenging and stealing to stay alive. Prison. Six months in, nine out, a year back in, three years out, three months and here he was. Walking in Los Angeles, not a penny to his name and a closet full of ghosts.
He wandered down the alleys, stumbling the whole way. He was awfully tired. Hadn't slept well in months.
There was a slight breeze on the warm June night. He reached a bridge. Cars roared across it, but barely registered in the young man's mind. He swallowed the last of the vodka, gritting his teeth while it burned.
A life of nothing. That's what he had. No family, no friends, no money, no job. Nothing. Filled with sudden fury, the man screamed. All his frustration, all his hate, all of his resentment was poured out in one agonizing breath. He flung the empty bottle off into the dark water.
There was stillness. He stopped and listened. He could feel his heart pound on every inch of his skin. He felt alive, truly alive, and in a moment of clarity mounted the rail of the bridge and stepped off.
Minutes before, he had been greeting supporters, smiles and handshakes all around. His face beamed to match the faces of those around him. He just received news that he had won over California in the presidential primaries. He turns to greet another beaming face when it hits. Three shots, a fourth tearing through his jacket. Two to the head, one through the arm. He hits the floor and the people swarm. A scuffle occurs nearby as his friends and bodyguards wrestle the man with the gun to the floor. A circle opens up and the Senator is displayed. A man crouches near him, attempting to stop the bleeding. Cameras flicker.
What went through the mind of this man as he lay there, two bullets in his brain? Did he think, Oh God, what is happening? Was I just shot am I dying? Or did he know, did he know that he was about to die? Did he think of his killer and wish pain upon him? Did he think to try and stand? Did he think of his brother, slain five years before? Or his children, all ten, soon to be eleven, or his wife, his smiling blonde haired wife... Were his thoughts of his country? Did he wonder at who might take his place in the election, his seat in the Senate? Or was he gone the moment the shots were fired.
The man doesn't truly die until 26 hours later, in a hospital on June 6 1968. Yet you look at the photograph...and see that he is already gone.
It's dark. The street is empty, save for one; a young man in a ragged jacket, tousled hair and unshaven face. He stumbles down the sidewalk, bottle in hand. The neighborhood is derelict. Houses with broken windows and boarded doors flank the bare streets. Drunken thoughts play dice in the mans head, making foolish gambles and losing every time. He walks the streets at an early hour and sees no one.
Old memories glimmer within the alcohol haze. A birthday party, smiles and cake. His father, fist upraised.
The man takes another swallow of the vodka in his hand. He revels in the burn as it scrapes its way down his throat.
More memories. His mother crying at the table, bills all around and no money to spare. Long, hungry nights spent in parks and under bridges. His father again, the fist swinging down to meet the huddled form of his mother.
Bitter tears prick the corners of his eyes and etch a burning path down his cheeks.
An angry teen takes a swing at his father. The same teen is thrown against a wall. A woman screams. And screams. And screams.
The man is downtown. Blinding lights leave spots in his eyes. He pushes through the crowds, barely listening to their frenzied conversation.
Dead? He can't be...
How can he be alive, he was shot in the head twice-
I won't believe it-
Just like his brother-
Tragic-
Women were sobbing, men were shaking their heads and everyone looked panicked.
Kennedy? Bobby Kennedy? It can't be
He just won California in the primaries!
Who's the bastard that shot him, I swear I'll kill him
The man didn't know who Bobby Kennedy was or why he was so important. He drank more and continued on.
A teen living on the streets, scavenging and stealing to stay alive. Prison. Six months in, nine out, a year back in, three years out, three months and here he was. Walking in Los Angeles, not a penny to his name and a closet full of ghosts.
He wandered down the alleys, stumbling the whole way. He was awfully tired. Hadn't slept well in months.
There was a slight breeze on the warm June night. He reached a bridge. Cars roared across it, but barely registered in the young man's mind. He swallowed the last of the vodka, gritting his teeth while it burned.
A life of nothing. That's what he had. No family, no friends, no money, no job. Nothing. Filled with sudden fury, the man screamed. All his frustration, all his hate, all of his resentment was poured out in one agonizing breath. He flung the empty bottle off into the dark water.
There was stillness. He stopped and listened. He could feel his heart pound on every inch of his skin. He felt alive, truly alive, and in a moment of clarity mounted the rail of the bridge and stepped off.
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