Wednesday, February 28, 2007

And I Am Stained

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He began hitting him and hitting him and hitting him and hitting him.

There in the street; amongst the discarded newspapers.

Like a dead fish; like a baby seal in the snow; like dead meat on a butcher’s block; like fresh malleable dough in the hands of an expert; like a nail hammered into a wall.

And like a nail being capably driven, blow by blow, into a white, untouched wall, the image of him hitting him is ingrained into me.

I am stained.

I did nothing.

I walked with the masses; the drones; the rabble. I walked towards Old Street Tube Station thinking of other things.

Closed.

And now in the dead of night; the cars gone; the birds sleeping; the foxes eating; the orange hue of the street lights bathing my small window; my eyes open, he is hitting him and hitting him and hitting him and hitting him.

There in the street; amongst the discarded newspapers.

. . . and I am stained.

Lee Rourke

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