A Far off PlaceMature

My feet step lightly as the park light envelops my body, I will not return to judging eyes and hypocritical questions of Ward and June, not tonight. Already I have dreamed enough. I need only take this time to rid my mind of all the questions. A light brown bench has been painted bright blue but now chips away revealing its old self, unusual for such a simple neighborhood park.

The modest grassy knoll seems neither fresh with green, nor dry yellow and dead, but instead brown with mud, soggy from the rain. The mud itself is alive it slides down the small hill and pools in a kidney shaped bog. I sit down on the blue chipping bench; my mind cannot help but wonder why it had been painted in the first place?  A false exterior but when the bench was new it was fresh and the wood grain shone through with little more than a light lacquer, it was happy in the sun and knew little of its flaws. Children would have climbed up onto its chrome metal armrests and couples lay against its honey brown skin.

It too would have been used and unaware, the coating fades and it matures becoming dry and faded, a blot on the landscape to these people. So they choose this blue, in order to hide its mistakes and we all sit around talking about how much better we feel about the new coat of paint, then it begins to chip away, we can see the real bench, the bench it wants to be so badly but soon enough someone will come to cover it all up, or tear it down, replace it with a newer more compliant bench.

I remember when my own mother would take me out, we would come to these places just us, similar parks to this one. We would watch the birds and eat our cheese sandwiches. I loved those times, but don't understand why? I was only sitting there, looking out at a world I am now singularly apart of. My mother would cry sometimes though I never asked why, I am not sure I would care.

I make my way toward the bench and sit against the part that has worn away, I want to feel what it used to be. What I felt before is almost gone, my feelings are back inside where they belong and I am alone with my bench in a park I do not recognize far from where I am known and safe from those who would judge me.

I sling my backpack from my shoulder and throw it against the ground hard, it makes a tearing sound as the zipper seam ruptures and all my possessions bleed across the cement slab. Like an incision above my groin I can see what I am opened up and hemorrhage into my created world, my spray can rolls along the stage and rests alone away lost in the grass.

“FUCKER!” I rage grabbing my black knapsack and throwing it against a tree, more of me spills at the base where now it sits waiting. "FUCKING piece of SHIT!"

I pick up my foot and begin to destroy my anger, the confusion, my fear. I bring my boot through the back of the bench; even I did not expect it to give way so easily. I come again lashing at the metal arm it releases but does not let go, I climb onto the seat and full force I jump on the arm splitting it from its home, taking it from its rightful place. I feel a rush as I fall back into the hard broken bench. My tailbone torques and my head crashes into the concrete I feel at peace, and tired.

I close my eyes and see the sun through the trees, the brown and white song birds, their sweet song and the taste of cheese sandwiches. Here I will sleep.

The End

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