New york city’s lights flash and flicker through the pouring rain, splashing heavily on the concrete in front of the train station, on the station’s walls, graffiti shouts at him, loud and angry written in black and colors, useless questions hoping to reach the lost souls who should end up there.
Do you dream about war?
He scoffs and exahles, a puff of smoke floating from his lips as it lingers in the air for a moment and then disappears like the cars he hears racing down the wet street miles away, what a stupid question he thinks, everyone dreams about war. The boy laying on the concrete in front of him must've dreamed about war too but he’ll never get to know because this is a deadboy and he is laying in a pool of his own thick blood and vomit right at his feet. It's a scene that should only play out in badly written movies he thinks. And this is not a movie, this is real life and he doesn't really know why he’s still standing here and smoking over the body of a kid he doesnt’ think can be more than 17. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his lighter, the one with the flames he painted on and the peeling paint, pondering weather or not he should light this kid up and walk away with the baggage he picked up tonight or play it the easy way and call the cops and walk away with the knowledge upon knowledge that he didn't have to waste his lighter fluid.
He chooses the latter and grabs his phone out of his backpack and calls in the death of 17 year old kyle coulder, he would find out the dead boys name from the channel 3 news station playing from the flatscreen tv in his living room as he eats his third peanut butter sandwich this week. He would find out that Kyle had a life, and a good one at that. He would find out his love for baseball and his parents and sometimes his little sister who’s name they don’t disclose only that she's 7 and getting ready to go into 2nd grade. They would talk about his education and the scholarship he would have had if he wasn't lying facedown on concrete right now, and they would top it off with messages from his friends, his loved ones and his teachers. He thinks there’s no way all these people could have known kyle and he thinks a majority are only standing up there and staring at the camera so others wouldn't think they had something to do with the vomit and blood staining the station ground.
The cops show up minutes later and shove the doors to their cruisers open and race out, feet slapping the ground and water coming up around their ankles as they run. The ambulance pulls up a second later and its commotion from there, the paramedics look wrecked when they get to the body, faces red and rain dripping from their hair and clothes, dropping down next to kyle and turning him over, one paramedic takes one look at the scene unfolding and throws up right in the puddle that was already there. It's a known fact that the human body carries 10 units of blood which is 4-6 liters and is approximately 10% of an adult's weight, for Kyle his body was made up of 8% of blood and he lost all of it. The boy on the ground is covered in deep, long gashes running up his chest and onto his throat and then circling around his face, the paramedics can’t really tell what this kid looks like because of how torn up and mangled his features are, they would like to believe he died right as the first gash ripped his throat open but upon further investigation that was not the case at all. Kyle coulder was torn apart in a dirty, old train station in the middle of new york city and nobody heard or saw anything.
The cleanup process is never pretty but when it’s a kid it's different, there's a weight on your shoulders so heavy it sinks through your skin and crushes your bones because you can't show emotion, this isn't about you. And you will let it crack your ribs and puncture your lungs before you break down in front of everyone on the scene.
Two weeks later a man’s face is all over every news station, in the papers and lining the streets, they don’t give a name because they don't have one and they never will but they don't know that right now. Hes tall, 6,2 and grimy, all gnarly teeth and greasy hair, his teeth are clearly rotting in the picture stapled onto the beam structure of the powerlines and you think, just for a second that maybe you’ve seen him before but you can't be sure so you get closer until you swear you can smell the scent of garbage and cigarette smoke slinking off of the paper. It gets all too much so you turn and walk away but something always brings you back, something like a warning screaming at you and eating away at everything you are and everything you will be. You learn this man was there, at the station with kyle and your heart stops because thats where you saw him, he called it in how could you be so stupid. Suddenly there's a thumping in your chest and you can't breathe. You look down at your hands because you cant feel them and you don't even think that they're even attached to your arms anymore but they are and the room is spinning and the panic is crushing your lungs you need to sit down, so you do but it’s not enough, it never is.
Panic attack. You used to get them alot before you started jumping fences and drinking away your sanity, your therapist told you it wasn't your fault you got so scared and anxious sometimes you couldn't function, and she told you stories about how she was once here too, and how she felt like she was trapped in a cage like a bird, she would tell you more about the bird and how pretty she imagined it would be if it was real, and how she would hold it in her hands if she could. But a cage of gentle hands is still a cage no matter how gentle you swear it is. But you don't have her anymore, you gave that up when you started to think about alcohol like you thought about dying. But here is the truth, Kyle is dead and you will be too. When your parents ask you about war, say nothing, just smile like you know something they don't and they will forever wonder what you didn't tell them. Because you can't miss someone you’ve never met and you can’t know something you haven't been told.
You’re back at the train station, the smell of rain and blood filling your nose and creeping into your skull, the lights on the billboards and buildings are eating your vision, flying by in greens and yellows, streaks of red and gold going far too fast for you to focus clearly. And you think for a moment that you’d get away with what you did and maybe you will but the guilt and the shame will be with you for the rest of your life, however long that will be. You didn’t mean to kill him, it kind of just happened, you, standing alone in a smelly station, smoking and staring off into the distance. If you hadn’t looked up when you did you almost would have missed him, you tried to look away but the temptation was too strong and it was pounding in your ears like a warhorse, you couldn’t ignore it, not even when you put your hands over them and screamed. That's when the kid in front of you picked his head up and stared, wide eyed and walked over and you panicked, of course you did. You always panic.
You know he was only trying to help because that's the kind of person kyle was, kind hearted and sweaters all the time, his love for books and monarchs overruled his love for sports and other things, but all that registered in your brain was danger and you were reaching into your pocket and whipping out a dagger before you knew it, there was blood, so much blood and the stench of vomit after a while, you think he must have puked a minute after you ran the blade through his stomach and ripped up his intestines. The pain and agony this kid must have felt when you were tearing him up, full of rage and hatred you didn't even know you carried, treating him like he was nothing but raw meat laying at your hands, and in a way he was. When you were done, you dropped the dagger and broke down because what the hell did you just do, you’re not a killer, not a monster, you’d get the death penalty for sure, or even worse, you’d get what you did to kyle when you got thrown in prison. You didn’t know what to do so you opted for the safe option and lit up a cigarette, letting the boy at your feet slowly bleed out and you could hear him gargle but you didn’t care enough to help him because you couldn’t. After a while the smell got pretty bad and the station would be open soon, that’s when you had to choose between calling his death in as a witness who just happened to be there and pray the cops didn’t trace it back to you, or risk even more disaster by throwing your lighter on his body and watching it catch fire as you ran down the platform, in the rain and covered in the scent of smoke, vomit and blood.
Because in the end, it was your face stapled everywhere, and on the news channels and the papers, not kyles, he had his publicity, he was dead he wouldn’t know who looked at him or not, but you? You were very much alive, and you loved the attention, walking down the street at 4am when nobody was around and looking yourself in the eyes, basking in the way your eyes held no emotion, and the way your hair fell in front of your forehead and the way the jacket you were wearing was 3 sizes too big, you remember buying it on sale at a thrift shop a couple of months ago when your hands shook so bad you couldn’t take it off the rack properly and the alcohol breath you sported scared everyone away. You were better now, sober, you mean and this is the end for you, the alcohol can't help you now. You think about all this as you stand physically, feet planted on the exact platform you murdered kyle on and the wind is whipping so hard it almost knocks you off and you can hear the train roaring down the tracks and the commotion of people talking around you, and you know how out of place you must look standing on the edge right now but your heart stopped beating the day you took a life, you’re already dead.
As you step backwards off the platform you lock eyes with the wall infront of you, and the writing in big, bold black letters with their stupid questions and mismatched lives. You’ll never get to know the person behind them, or their stories, what they like, what they don’t, their dogs name, what makes them tick. And you never will.
Do you dream about war?
Do you dream about war?
He scoffs and exahles, a puff of smoke floating from his lips as it lingers in the air for a moment and then disappears like the cars he hears racing down the wet street miles away, what a stupid question he thinks, everyone dreams about war. The boy laying on the concrete in front of him must've dreamed about war too but he’ll never get to know because this is a deadboy and he is laying in a pool of his own thick blood and vomit right at his feet. It's a scene that should only play out in badly written movies he thinks. And this is not a movie, this is real life and he doesn't really know why he’s still standing here and smoking over the body of a kid he doesnt’ think can be more than 17. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his lighter, the one with the flames he painted on and the peeling paint, pondering weather or not he should light this kid up and walk away with the baggage he picked up tonight or play it the easy way and call the cops and walk away with the knowledge upon knowledge that he didn't have to waste his lighter fluid.
He chooses the latter and grabs his phone out of his backpack and calls in the death of 17 year old kyle coulder, he would find out the dead boys name from the channel 3 news station playing from the flatscreen tv in his living room as he eats his third peanut butter sandwich this week. He would find out that Kyle had a life, and a good one at that. He would find out his love for baseball and his parents and sometimes his little sister who’s name they don’t disclose only that she's 7 and getting ready to go into 2nd grade. They would talk about his education and the scholarship he would have had if he wasn't lying facedown on concrete right now, and they would top it off with messages from his friends, his loved ones and his teachers. He thinks there’s no way all these people could have known kyle and he thinks a majority are only standing up there and staring at the camera so others wouldn't think they had something to do with the vomit and blood staining the station ground.
The cops show up minutes later and shove the doors to their cruisers open and race out, feet slapping the ground and water coming up around their ankles as they run. The ambulance pulls up a second later and its commotion from there, the paramedics look wrecked when they get to the body, faces red and rain dripping from their hair and clothes, dropping down next to kyle and turning him over, one paramedic takes one look at the scene unfolding and throws up right in the puddle that was already there. It's a known fact that the human body carries 10 units of blood which is 4-6 liters and is approximately 10% of an adult's weight, for Kyle his body was made up of 8% of blood and he lost all of it. The boy on the ground is covered in deep, long gashes running up his chest and onto his throat and then circling around his face, the paramedics can’t really tell what this kid looks like because of how torn up and mangled his features are, they would like to believe he died right as the first gash ripped his throat open but upon further investigation that was not the case at all. Kyle coulder was torn apart in a dirty, old train station in the middle of new york city and nobody heard or saw anything.
The cleanup process is never pretty but when it’s a kid it's different, there's a weight on your shoulders so heavy it sinks through your skin and crushes your bones because you can't show emotion, this isn't about you. And you will let it crack your ribs and puncture your lungs before you break down in front of everyone on the scene.
Two weeks later a man’s face is all over every news station, in the papers and lining the streets, they don’t give a name because they don't have one and they never will but they don't know that right now. Hes tall, 6,2 and grimy, all gnarly teeth and greasy hair, his teeth are clearly rotting in the picture stapled onto the beam structure of the powerlines and you think, just for a second that maybe you’ve seen him before but you can't be sure so you get closer until you swear you can smell the scent of garbage and cigarette smoke slinking off of the paper. It gets all too much so you turn and walk away but something always brings you back, something like a warning screaming at you and eating away at everything you are and everything you will be. You learn this man was there, at the station with kyle and your heart stops because thats where you saw him, he called it in how could you be so stupid. Suddenly there's a thumping in your chest and you can't breathe. You look down at your hands because you cant feel them and you don't even think that they're even attached to your arms anymore but they are and the room is spinning and the panic is crushing your lungs you need to sit down, so you do but it’s not enough, it never is.
Panic attack. You used to get them alot before you started jumping fences and drinking away your sanity, your therapist told you it wasn't your fault you got so scared and anxious sometimes you couldn't function, and she told you stories about how she was once here too, and how she felt like she was trapped in a cage like a bird, she would tell you more about the bird and how pretty she imagined it would be if it was real, and how she would hold it in her hands if she could. But a cage of gentle hands is still a cage no matter how gentle you swear it is. But you don't have her anymore, you gave that up when you started to think about alcohol like you thought about dying. But here is the truth, Kyle is dead and you will be too. When your parents ask you about war, say nothing, just smile like you know something they don't and they will forever wonder what you didn't tell them. Because you can't miss someone you’ve never met and you can’t know something you haven't been told.
You’re back at the train station, the smell of rain and blood filling your nose and creeping into your skull, the lights on the billboards and buildings are eating your vision, flying by in greens and yellows, streaks of red and gold going far too fast for you to focus clearly. And you think for a moment that you’d get away with what you did and maybe you will but the guilt and the shame will be with you for the rest of your life, however long that will be. You didn’t mean to kill him, it kind of just happened, you, standing alone in a smelly station, smoking and staring off into the distance. If you hadn’t looked up when you did you almost would have missed him, you tried to look away but the temptation was too strong and it was pounding in your ears like a warhorse, you couldn’t ignore it, not even when you put your hands over them and screamed. That's when the kid in front of you picked his head up and stared, wide eyed and walked over and you panicked, of course you did. You always panic.
You know he was only trying to help because that's the kind of person kyle was, kind hearted and sweaters all the time, his love for books and monarchs overruled his love for sports and other things, but all that registered in your brain was danger and you were reaching into your pocket and whipping out a dagger before you knew it, there was blood, so much blood and the stench of vomit after a while, you think he must have puked a minute after you ran the blade through his stomach and ripped up his intestines. The pain and agony this kid must have felt when you were tearing him up, full of rage and hatred you didn't even know you carried, treating him like he was nothing but raw meat laying at your hands, and in a way he was. When you were done, you dropped the dagger and broke down because what the hell did you just do, you’re not a killer, not a monster, you’d get the death penalty for sure, or even worse, you’d get what you did to kyle when you got thrown in prison. You didn’t know what to do so you opted for the safe option and lit up a cigarette, letting the boy at your feet slowly bleed out and you could hear him gargle but you didn’t care enough to help him because you couldn’t. After a while the smell got pretty bad and the station would be open soon, that’s when you had to choose between calling his death in as a witness who just happened to be there and pray the cops didn’t trace it back to you, or risk even more disaster by throwing your lighter on his body and watching it catch fire as you ran down the platform, in the rain and covered in the scent of smoke, vomit and blood.
Because in the end, it was your face stapled everywhere, and on the news channels and the papers, not kyles, he had his publicity, he was dead he wouldn’t know who looked at him or not, but you? You were very much alive, and you loved the attention, walking down the street at 4am when nobody was around and looking yourself in the eyes, basking in the way your eyes held no emotion, and the way your hair fell in front of your forehead and the way the jacket you were wearing was 3 sizes too big, you remember buying it on sale at a thrift shop a couple of months ago when your hands shook so bad you couldn’t take it off the rack properly and the alcohol breath you sported scared everyone away. You were better now, sober, you mean and this is the end for you, the alcohol can't help you now. You think about all this as you stand physically, feet planted on the exact platform you murdered kyle on and the wind is whipping so hard it almost knocks you off and you can hear the train roaring down the tracks and the commotion of people talking around you, and you know how out of place you must look standing on the edge right now but your heart stopped beating the day you took a life, you’re already dead.
As you step backwards off the platform you lock eyes with the wall infront of you, and the writing in big, bold black letters with their stupid questions and mismatched lives. You’ll never get to know the person behind them, or their stories, what they like, what they don’t, their dogs name, what makes them tick. And you never will.
Do you dream about war?
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