Stuck At A Bullet

“There was something about the way she moved or possibly the way the sun breathed against her hair to show off luminous highlights of red hair through the black. Whether or not, she had grey eyes like electricity and when you looked directly at them they were as warm as glowing embers of a fiery brown with red tint. Her love was as calm as the seas and when the different seasons came, her eyes came into view. The sun; gleaming upon her hair. Her cherry red lips I begged to kiss. She was like me. We would go out late into the night and she would talk to me; tell me about random things she thought about like for example, the stars. She would never bore anyone because she was the girl that everyone loved to love. She was the type of girl that made you think of the rain pouring down hard on the cobblestones in Summer. Especially when it was Summer. Her raven hair would glisten with tinted red Her eyes would light up like fireworks in an umber explosion of color. Her skin soft as a feather, would touch mine, and she would tell me about her days on the beach whereas in Arizona, there was no beach and we had only the hot, rising sun all on a Summer’s day with the heat being hot as the sun glistened off my leather jacket as my bike roamed on. I wasn’t just a nerd on a bike, I was thee nerd on a bike and I knew a lot about poetry so I decided to write about her before she died.” I smiled and cried to myself because inside I knew that she was in a better place. She would lead a better life and possibly drown out God’s sorrow because in the core of my heart and the soul of my mind, I knew. I knew she was an angel. Looking back, I remembered me in my black leather jacket, me smiling at her like a young boy and her hand slipping into mine. Sometimes I’d cry like a baby at night and I’d howl in agony because there was no credit for the cause of her death. It was no where to be found. Not in archives, not in the papers, not even in church. The people who knew her were beaten up because unknown to others she was like a criminal who had committed a crime. But in cases like these, who were we to be blamed when the one who had committed the crime was the one who shot the fucking gun in the first place? All his friends sneered at me with his friends’ children. “What’s wrong? Your girlfriend died?” He snickered. That was it. I had to react. It was time. I had felt that it was also time for him to die. I first punched his face once and then twice until I got up and kicked his stomach down to the road. There was a car and my father had pulled up just in time for me to stop. “Jerry! Jerry!” I heard footsteps crunching. That faggot almost hit his crucifixion. “Jerry! No more! Get yer ass up off him” He took me up from my arms. My father was the town preacher and that girl was all I ever wanted, all I ever knew. The one who would have taken the bullet for my sad, sorry ass.