zpotter

A Face

The knot in his shoulders persisted. It had started as stiffness in his low back but over the course of the week had moved up beneath his shoulder blades. He’d figured his morning stretching routine would provide relief, but it made no difference.

He stood in the yellow glow of the bathroom light and gazed into the mirror. He looked hard, trying to remember the last time nothing had hurt. He couldn’t

On Sunday, he’d shaved his beard. There were too many silver and gray hairs dancing in the light. What he was left with was a face lined by the passing of time. Now it was Saturday and light stubble had returned to his face. It was peppered with salt.

He stared hard at the reflection in the mirror; when had he become this old, shell of himself?

He tried to force a smile, but the lines around his eyes and mouth looked like cracked leather.

The eyes themselves had lost the bright blue that had captured the hearts of so many and were now a stormy gray. Jean often commented on the worlds they held.

He never knew just what she meant, but as he stared into the mirror, he could see the world-weariness. He wondered if this was why they had turned gray; the heaviness of the world he seemed to feel at all times?

He didn’t understand any of it. He was in the best shape of his life, felt better than he had in his 20s, more confident, more capable, yet still run down.

On some days he couldn’t help wondering when life had started passing him by.

Jean slid into the bathroom and wrapped her arms around his chest. Her soft hair tickled his back. She smiled at the reflection. All doubt melted away.

A Brief Reprieve

the weight is lifted,
the unease remains,
this is how life unfolds:
always teetering on the brink
of euphoric joys
and crushing sadness,
we must live in the middle -
balancing on the knife-edge -
not seeing the future,
but being prepared
for what may come,
never leaning too far
into joy nor sorrow,
we must keep on
always, 
keep on

Demons

They came for him last night. Sometime just after midnight there was a loud knocking on the front door, followed by the sound of wood splintering as the lock gave way under pressure. Footsteps and voices carried up the stairs.

They knew right where to go; right where he’d be sleeping. Between the instant the door gave way and the time it took them to climb the stairs, he was just able to shake himself awake. There was no time to hide or to think about fighting of fleeing.

The leader of the group stood over the bed. His eyes pulsed in a fever dream and sweat poured from beneath the horned helmet he wore across his close-cropped hair. Behind him stood the mob dressed in ripped denim and animal pelts. They swayed back and forth, not speaking, though a hum of anticipation hung in the air with the tension in the small room.

“Good evening Michael,” said the leader in a calm voice.

He had sat up in his bed. He gave a small nod of acknowledgement as defeat spread across his face. He sighed and his chin fell to his chest.

“It’s time,” said the leader.

Michael looked up. His clear blue eyes begged to be left alone; to have this all be a bad dream; to have the crowd disappear from his bedroom. He knew what came next, and he wanted no part of it.

“No,” said the helmeted man.

Michael’s thin frame appeared to shrink within itself. His eyes pleaded with the leader.

“No,” said the man, shaking his head while smiling, “you know the deal.”

Michael looked over at Sandra sleeping next to him. She looked so beautiful. Her straw-colored hair was spread across the pillow as her body rose and fell in calm rhythm beneath the covers. She deserved better than this, so much better.

He felt the empty place inside his stomach growing. She’d filled in so much of it, but there were certain places even she couldn’t reach. He hated to disappoint her. Hated to let her down.

“Michael, it’s time,” the leader’s voice was insistent though it remained calm.

“I know,” he replied in a small voice, “just give me a minute.”

“We don’t have another minute,” one of the voices from the crowd called.

“Silence,” said the leader over his shoulder, “he’s coming, we won’t rush him,” to Michael, he said, “but we don’t have all night either, so don’t delay too much longer.”

Michael hated the smile on the man’s face, hated the calm knowingness in his voice; knew he’d follow him. Knew there was no other choice.

He sighed in resignation and went to the closet. Deep in the back was a pair of ripped jeans and a black leather vest. He dressed under the smiling eyes of the mob.

He looked at the bed, at Sandra sleeping and his spot next to her. He wanted to climb back in.

“Michael,” said the leader.

Michael looked at him and the horns shook back and forth. He shrugged into his vest. The tension in the room broke as the mob gave out a huge cheer.

The leader removed his horned helmet and placed it on Michael’s head eliciting another cheer. Michael felt a surge of euphoric energy pulse within himself. He didn’t want this. The room fell away.

He didn’t look back at the bed as he followed his demons out the door.