jealous of sparrows

I was looking for a reason to flee. All the exit signs were flashing and all those noises in my head were crashing. My hands were dripping with sweat. The faces of the Friends and the Foes were foreign. All of them dirty strangers. I could feel the heat of the flames raging in their eye sockets.
"Sock it to me, Baby. Give me your best shot. I won't let you see me flinch. The facade says I'm 'taking it like a man' but inside I'm really dying. I built a wall with flesh, with blood. It's held together by this foul whiskey, but the wall is crumbling. I can feel each piece fall away into a black sea. It hurts, Baby. It hurts like hell.
"But I won't flinch."
She stares at me. Shakes her head.
And I wished that I was dead. Rotting. I hope the stench of my decaying flesh disgusts you. I hope you turn and run away.
So I don't have to.
Those exit sings (flashing holy and profound) beckon me like cold earth (six feet under).
"You are a wretched beast that grows stronger and bigger as you consume another poor soul. I gave you pieces...PIECES!...of a human being - like some kind of holy sacrifice. You take them. You took them all only to refuse them under the fat moon that burns tonight."
I've always been jealous of sparrows. Without flinching they can spring into action and away. Away they go. Never to be seen again. You attempt to follow its trail into the sun. But the sparrow is gone.
A flash.
A blur.
Like the force that sustains this heart.
I attempt to move my feet. I'm hoping they will carry me to that flashing exit.
But where will I go?
Her stain is etched in me - somewhere.
I remember cutting myself shaving and rubbing like hell to erase the blood stain from a brand new starched white tee shirt.
"COME OUT, GODDAMNIT! COME OUT!"
I'm rubbing like hell to erase her stain.
I'm rubbing.
I'm rubbing.
I'm running.
Running down a street in No Man's Land. My apartment is 99 miles away via the cold interstate. I don't know these streets. These cars. Parked and collecting snow and the moon's glow (pure). Keep running. Just keep running.
Maybe a meteor will fall from the sky and an ambulance will come screaming out of that wicked-hell-black and it will contain gentle paramedics eager to pump my frail body full of anesthesia and other soul numbing agents. A chemically induced coma sounds like treatment fit for a King. A Glorious and Mighty King. Yes! Soft like his flowing robes. Such immaculate fabric for such tender flesh.
But the meteor does not come. No. Not tonight.
I keep running.
And running until - ?

I awake to find myself in the diner of a Meals-For-Wheels truck stop. The air is thick with sweet cigarette smoke. The sound of the soft clanging of stainless steel spoons stirring cups of coffee and Hank Williams' "Take These Chains from My Heart" (Take these chains from my heart and set me free...Take these tears from my eyes and let me see...Just a spark of the love that used to be) laces the background.
I sit up in my booth to find a cup of coffee (with packets of sugar and plastic shells of creamer - how did they know how I like my joe?) and a glass of ice water.
No one seems to pay me any attention as -
"Hey, sweetie. We was wonderin' when you were gonna wake up. Can I getcha somethin' ta eat?"
"Uh, umm, yeah...That, that sounds great. How about a, uh, stack of, uh, b-buttermilk pancakes?"
"Comin' right up, extra fluffy."
Before I can express my gratitude, the waitress (her worn and faded name-tag reads "Angel" - can you believe that?) has floated away.
I look out of the window next to my table to find a sight takes my breath away. The sun is slowly rising and a million snowflakes slowly fall from a frozen sky.


mc