Diary of Self-Destruction part 3
Another late night. Another late fight, behind him, in the dust.
The headlights pushing into the night, asphalt rushing under the hood. Whir of the gears and the drumming of the pistons play a lullaby.
He is wide awake. Thinking. Staring at the fuzzy edge where the headlights diminish into the darkness.
The wheels hum along the pavement and thump over the cracks methodically. Gas spurting from fuel injectors and exhaust pumping out toxic fumes. Scream of the belts spinning and twisting, her screams still ringing in his ears. Her slap still hot and red on his face.
He pulls a cigarette out of its box, lights. Taking a drag, the warm glow reflects from the windshield, inhale. The bitter-sweet taste of chemicals, cancer, and destruction. Embracing his tar-filled lungs. Thats better, sweet nicotine, sweet sweet addiction. Remembering how he prayed for a bodybag with his name on it.
Still driving, still running, no one knows, no one cares. No radio tonight, there is too much spinning around in his mind to allow distractions. As the road turns away from a great tree, straight ahead. A tree with his name on it.
He clutches the steering wheel tighter. His knuckles white. Pressing the pedal against the floor. Gears, pistons, belts and rods all rushing in a fury to bring their operator to an end. A machine of destruction, messenger of death. All rushing as one being, one animal, straight into the mouth of death.
Sweet death, to never feel the burn of drawing another breath, agony of his blood pumping through his veins. Closer and closer, the tree bearing his name rushes toward him, as if to embrace. Gripping tighter and tighter, knuckles whiter, eyes wider, closer closer. Until, he hits, the steering wheel becomes his last meal. Hood to the tree in a bloody embrace. A wreck of twisted metal and organs.
The headlights pushing into the night, asphalt rushing under the hood. Whir of the gears and the drumming of the pistons play a lullaby.
He is wide awake. Thinking. Staring at the fuzzy edge where the headlights diminish into the darkness.
The wheels hum along the pavement and thump over the cracks methodically. Gas spurting from fuel injectors and exhaust pumping out toxic fumes. Scream of the belts spinning and twisting, her screams still ringing in his ears. Her slap still hot and red on his face.
He pulls a cigarette out of its box, lights. Taking a drag, the warm glow reflects from the windshield, inhale. The bitter-sweet taste of chemicals, cancer, and destruction. Embracing his tar-filled lungs. Thats better, sweet nicotine, sweet sweet addiction. Remembering how he prayed for a bodybag with his name on it.
Still driving, still running, no one knows, no one cares. No radio tonight, there is too much spinning around in his mind to allow distractions. As the road turns away from a great tree, straight ahead. A tree with his name on it.
He clutches the steering wheel tighter. His knuckles white. Pressing the pedal against the floor. Gears, pistons, belts and rods all rushing in a fury to bring their operator to an end. A machine of destruction, messenger of death. All rushing as one being, one animal, straight into the mouth of death.
Sweet death, to never feel the burn of drawing another breath, agony of his blood pumping through his veins. Closer and closer, the tree bearing his name rushes toward him, as if to embrace. Gripping tighter and tighter, knuckles whiter, eyes wider, closer closer. Until, he hits, the steering wheel becomes his last meal. Hood to the tree in a bloody embrace. A wreck of twisted metal and organs.
posted by The Surgeon at 2/04/2005
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home