Dont Really Have A Title, Kinda Intense
Stepped in to the room smelling like cigarette smoke and shattered dreams,
knowing half the people here have probally never seen what ive seen,
a smile as i request the best whiskey approaching the bar,
the barkeep smiled back, well sure, but i need your license to see how old you are.
dissapointed due to the X's on the back of my hands,
a little ray a hope though, i say, maybe just once sir, mr. franklin can surely help you understand,
he grins, i usaully wouldnt take this, but you seem more clever than most, a little smarter,
but first, one good reason as to why i should serve you this firewater,
i glance at the bartender, then share his shitty grin,
a reason i dont have, but there is a tale i can spin,
once when i was a boy, a man lived in my house whom i disliked,
manya times i would dream of ending this mans life,
he abused my mother, my sister, me as well,
my mother finally had enough she was ready to leave this hell,
she once explained her plan to a friend in the parking lot at the grocery store,
little did she know, there was a man listening to her plans from his open car door
one night he entered the house, very drunk, and very much more angry,
approahed my mother, slapped her to the ground, my sister as well, then me,
after that he began to shout,
and tell us all what he was pissed off about,
seems that the barkeep at his favorite bar,
told him the little plan my mother had explained, from inside his car,
again he slapped my mother over and over, i saw my chance,
i walked in to his room, and put his own pistol in my hands,
eighteen years old, contemplating becoming a killer,
hearing my mothers cries, i know if i didnt act he might kill her,
i reentered the kitchen to my mothers and sisters muffled cries,
shouted his name, he turned, i put a bullet in between his eyes,
knowing exactly what i'd done, with no conviction as he fell to the floor,
i approached the lifeless body, took his keys and walked out the door,
got in his car, lit up one of his smokes, and began to drive like hell,
there was one more thing to do before i get put in a cell,
i drove the thirteen miles to his favorite bar,
opened up the door, flicked out my square, got out the car,
i felt for the pistol i still had tucked away,
wondering what would be the last words this bastard would have to say,
well mr bartender this is where my story is through,
youve poured me that shot, and i drink to you,
what you dont see, is my hand still on the gun,
and what you dont know, is like my twisted story, your done.
*Gun Shot*

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Short Story
writing TySyndicate
It is only with the heart that one see's rightly; What's essential is invisible to the eye.
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