For Your Own Safety

Words.
Written with you in mind.
They tell you to slow down, calm down, and be safe.
Be safe.
Isn't that the way to be?

They say rules were made to be broken.
Were bones made to be broken?
What about feelings?
Do you need help to keep your own self safe?

[Probably more to come... I was going to write more and lost my train of thought]

The Return

He sat alone at the small, round, mahogany table in the corner of the bar. This particular table was usually reserved for any pair of gentlemen who wished the ogle the serving maidens in relative secrecy, but there was no ogling coming from it this night and as much as the town didn't seem to appreciate what this man and his companions had done for them, the bartender at least appreciated this man's pain enough to not ask him to move.

The man had come into town a few hours ago with four other companions, the only people in the world he had been close to over the past 15 years, but at this point, even they had left him. They had all come expecting a glorious and joyous return and instead they had been greeted by emptiness and the occasional guilt. They thought they had wanted greater companionship, but after the way things had gone, they all decided they wanted less. And so each man, friend, adventurer, whatever they had become over the past 15 years, went his own separate way to find his own forgotten place in which to seek what little solace he could find.

This man chose this bar, far less unchanged than the people he had once gathered with here to drink in celebration or anguish or just because they could. Only now, he was alone and forgotten at this corner table that was the same as it had been 15 years ago but which he had never even sat out until now. He had never wanted to be hidden until now.

He was playing with a thin layer of dust on the table when he heard footsteps coming his way. He looked up to see a girl walking his way, he would have guessed her to be no more than 14 years old, but since she appeared to be six or seven months pregnant, and was no being looked upon by anyone else in the bar with shame, it was likely she was at least a couple years older than that. The next thing he noticed after these observations of the girl herself was the flagon she was carrying outstretched towards him.

"I didn't order anything yet," he said as she sat the mug down right in front of him.

"It's okay," she said. "This one's on me. You look like you need it." She just stood there, gazing at him intently, if he were more focused he might even have said lovingly, until he finally felt obligated to take a swig.

"Very good," he lied, for the taste hadn't even registered enough in his brain for him to determine if it was good or not.

She nodded and sat down in the chair across from him continuing to stare. She looked like she wanted to say something, but didn't quite know how to begin. Something within him jumped, and he felt a strange compulsion to want to help her, and as he sat looking back at her, trying to ascertain how he might do so, he felt an even stranger pulse of recognition looking into her deep blue eyes.

"I know you," he said simply.

The girl smiled, such a beautiful yet sad smile she had. "Yes," she said, placing her hands nervously on the surface of the table, "you do."

"You, you were one of them out near the street when we were walking by," he said, more excitedly than he should have. "You were sweeping your porch and you stopped to look at us when we walked by."

The smile dropped right off her face and she nodded, leaving her head in the downward position to stare and the nearly empty surface of the table. He didn't seem to noticed the change in her demeanor.

He frowned. "Why did you look at me like you did?" he asked.

She looked back up at him, trying to not look as heart-broken as she was feeling. "Excuse me?" she said.

"The way you looked at me," he said. "I didn't think of it at the time, but now, I think, it was somehow... different than how the others looked at me, almost as if you actually felt something about my being there."

She nodded. "I felt," she said, "that all the others ought not to have forgotten you."

He wrinkled his brow in confusion at this. "And you?" he questioned. "You didn't forget us? Were you even born when we left?"

She glanced down at her hands, which were fidgeting with one another, apart from her control, on the top of the table. "It doesn't matter if I was or not," she said. "No one should forget anyone who was once such a close part of their lives or the lives of others close to them."

He sighed heavily. It was clear this girl was just feeling guilty, perhaps about something entirely different. He doubted she even knew where he had been and what he had been doing over the past 15 years, and for some reason, whether she wanted to hear it or not, he felt compelled to tell her. "We were saving the world, you know," he said.

She nodded, still staring at her hands and willing them to stop behaving so badly. "Yes," she said rather morosely, "so I heard."

"It wasn't an easy task, you know," he continued, feeling compelled to take another swig of his drink, "and all we really wanted in return was for someone to remember and appreciate us."

She looked up suddenly, her hands stopped moving, and she seemed again as if she wanted to say something important, but instead all she said was, "Go on. Perhaps if you tell me the story, I can be the one to appreciate you."

Her words shocked him so much that he could think of nothing else to do but to do as she requested. And so, over the next several hours and nearly a dozen additional pints of ale, he told his 15 year story as succinctly as he possibly could. It was only when he got to the very end, and was very, very drunk, that he thought to go back to the very beginning and touch on the wife and child that he had so painfully left behind.

"She didn't even recognize me," he wailed. "And she didn't miss me, even if she had recognized me. She was with another man, had married him not five years after I left."

The girl grew somewhat annoyed at this, but he was to drunk to notice. "And what of your daughter?" she asked. "What was her reaction when she saw you again?"

The man shook his head solemnly. "I have yet to find out," he said. "My wife did not tell me what became of her, and I was too heart-broken to ask."

There was silence for a moment. The girl drummed her fingers a bit on the dusty table. She looked around at the mugs strew about them, then took a deep breath and leaned forward as much as her pregnant belly would allow her to. "I think," she said in a near whisper, just loud enough that he could make out her words, "that she never would have stopped loving you and thinking that you would return. And that when you did return, she would buy you a flagon of ale and sit there listening to you all night while she hoped she could gain up the courage to tell you as much."

There was silence again as the drunken old man sat there blinking at her, trying, in his inhibited state, to understand what she had just said to him. A few eternal moments passed and then she leaned away from him again and stood up. "Thank you, father," she said, stepping forward and squeezing his arm affectionately. "I know you did what you had to, and I appreciate it, even if no one else does. I always knew you would return, and I never stopped loving you."

There was no more pausing to look at him when she finished this statement; she simply released his arm and walked away. He sat there shaking from the alcohol or her words or the touch or all of these until she had faded away into the smokiness of the bar. It was not until this moment that he thought to jump up and shout, "Wait, come back!"

All this elicited was hateful stares from the other bar-goers who had forgotten he was even there and had wished to keep it that way. That beautiful young woman, his daughter, was no where to be seen. She had seemed too young to be his daughter, but he saw it now, it was as clear as every thing else in the world was not. Those eyes and that hair: she had been just a baby when he left her, but those things were just as he remembered them, if only he had remembered them sooner.

With sobs slowly starting to shake his body, he slumped back down into his chair and allowed the other townspeople to return to whatever it was they had been doing. He didn't care. For the first time since he had returned to this place, he was able to cry, and it wasn't because others had failed to remember him, it was because he had failed to remember her. All the pain he had felt, he was sure she was now feeling, and in his current state, he could think of no way to make it up to her. He simply let his head drop hard on top of the table and let his body shake in misery as the tears turned the thin layer of dust to a thin layer of mud. Everything else was forgotten at that moment. All he wished, more than anything in the world, was that she would return.

Return (,Waiting for)

I was a young girl when it happened, a very young girl. I barely remember what my father even looked like; I have only vague recollection of an unshaved face rubbing against my soft, baby-like cheek and bright blue eyes gazing lovingly into mine. I was just over two when he left.

As I grew a little older, perhaps four or five, and began to wonder what had happened, that was when my mother reassured me, told me that my father had gone to save the world, but that these things took time. She told me he had gone off to be a hero. At the time, I thought it sounded like praise, but in retrospect, I wonder if she had been just a little bitter. She had loved him, I know that, but I wonder how much you would really continue to love someone who chooses to leave you with a baby girl on the vague notion that he is required to "save the world."

By the time I was eight or nine, my mother stopped lying to me. When I asked if my father was coming home this year, she finally told me he wasn't coming back. Now you have to understand when I say she stopped lying, what I really mean is that she started telling me what she believed to be true. I never stopped believing that my father was going to return.

When I turned 13, I was told I should start thinking about finding a husband. I wanted to ask how my mother had found my father, but somehow I knew better. I knew she would make some comment about not wanting me to find a man who would only leave me, if she made any reference to my absent father at all. Based on the fact that she had remarried the year before and was pregnant with her new husband's baby, I was pretty certain she had forgotten him all together.

As it turned out, I didn't have to do any searching for a husband since he found me. He started courting me just a few months before my 14th birthday and my mother was thrilled. He was a good, hard-working man from a respectable family. I wouldn't say that I loved him, but I at least appreciated him, and I felt I could grow to love him. I could see why my mother wanted me to marry him. He was clean-shaven, brown-eyed, and seemed to have no aspirations of saving the world, nothing like my vague and almost forgotten memory of my father.

I'm not sure how it happened, but somehow, I ended up happy. My husband was a good man; he provided for me, it was clear that he loved me, and just as I had thought, I had grown to love him. I also believed, still, even after all these years, that my father would one day return to meet my husband and his grandchild who was now on the way, and it turned out I was at least partially right.

I was 17 and pregnant when the strangers came. Five men dressed in beaten clothing and covered with mud. I was sweeping our porch when I saw them walking through town. I knew I had never seen them before, and yet they felt familiar. It wasn't the familiarity that struck me though, it was the pain. They didn't have to look at me for me to feel it, but one of them did anyway, and my heard nearly skipped a beat when I saw his beaten face, rough beard, and bright blue eyes. Could it really be that after 15 years the father I barely knew but loved anyway had returned?

All I could do was stare. He sighed and looked away, and I know he wished more than anything that he hadn't returned.

Return

To return to the sweet sound of a cheering crowds, to trumpets and fanfare, this is what we most looked forward to as we made our journey home. We were heroes, and after all that fear and silence, we just wanted some noise and excitement and celebration. We wanted people to know what we had done, that we had saved them. We smiled to ourselves and to each other as we trekked onward. It was silent still, but it was okay because we knew what was to come.

We were exhausted and covered with dirt and grime as we reached the crest of the final hill. The sun was just starting to rise across the city. We saw the familiar yet nearly forgotten white walls shining brightly, beckoning us and welcoming us home. We could hardly contain our excitement, and as exhausted as we were, we raced down the hill, sprinting the last 200 yards, to reach the place we had longed for for so long. It was just as we left it.

Smiles beaming on our mud-caked faces, we gasped for breath as we reached the entry gate. We stood there for a moment, collecting all the thoughts and emotions flooding through our bodies, and then, slowly, but in an instant, all joy and hope drained from our bodies. We finally looked up at the guard who was looking down at us, and where we expected to see a smile of excitement, we saw a look of confusion. He stared at us a moment longer, and then spoke words more painful than any wounds we had sustained on our long and arduous journey: "Who are you?"

We had left that place almost 15 years ago, vowing to do whatever it took to save our city from the destruction that was foretold against it. After so many years of fighting and searching, we had found the hideous source of our distress and destroyed it, and then spent a full two more years traveling back. In all that time, we never lost hope because we knew we were fighting for a land that loved us and that we loved back. But now, in a moment, it became clear that what we thought to be true was not.

We had been warned there would be pain beyond any we had imagined, but we had assumed that would be in the journey and the quest itself, not now, not in our glorious return. It should have been a glorious return, but it was not. The city had forgotten we even existed, had left behind them any thoughts of danger, just as we had left behind the dead body of the very real danger that would have devoured them all.

Even our families had forgotten us. Our wives had given us up for dead long ago and found new husbands. Our children had grown old without us and found husbands and wives of their own. Our once faithful friends had found new men to drink with. Even the animals had either died or forgotten who we were. No one remembered and no one seemed to care, and those who did care cared only is as much as they wanted to keep on forgetting.

We forced some to hear our tale, but that's just what it was: forced. They didn't want to face the fact that we had saved them and they had forgotten us. Even worse, they didn't want to face the fact that they had needed saving at all, for if they admitted to that, they would be to blame for our non-triumphant entry.

We spent the best years of our lives in constant peril, only to return to this? Sad and rejected, we roamed the streets of the city that was no longer our home, ignoring the eyes of those who didn't want to see us. Time, in this case, did not heal wounds; it created them. It would have been better to continue in the dream, the hope, the lies. It would have been so much better to go on the quest, for we still loved these people, no matter how much they now despised us now, but after the mission was accomplished, never to return at all.

Options

Fight or flee. That's usually what it comes down to, and this situation is no different.

This was supposed to be my night. But now my lipstick is smudged and fading, my dress is torn, and my hair is such a tangled mess if I looked in a mirror right now, I'm sure I would scream. But there is no mirror here; there is only me and him, alone in this dark room, and if I did choose to scream, no one else would hear me anyway.

It started out such a pleasant night, and he seemed so nice and normal and here, I thought, was someone who would finally see me for what I wanted to be. I get so tired of the people who end up seeing me for what I really am, no matter how hard I try to hide it.

I've made many mistakes in my life. There have been many times when I chose to fight when I should have fled or visa versa. But I try to put the past behind me: to learn from my mistakes and then move on.

I remember smiling at him at the start of the night. I know my intoxicating smile is one of my best features. When he smiled back, I saw it was one of his best features as well. I could see the two of us being very happy together.

How did it come to this? I've never been in a situation quite like this before. This was supposed to be my special night to shine, and now I just don't know what to think.

"Why did you do that?" I asked.

He shrugged nervously. "I had no other choice," he said. "It's what they told me to do."

They. Of course by now I know who they is. Those sick bastards. I've known them far too long to expect anything more than this crap.

He knows I'm pissed; he can see it in my eyes. I see something in his eyes too: fear. He wants to calm me down because he's afraid of what's going to happen next, but he can't because he's too afraid of what's going to happen next.

He finally opens his mouth to speak, but I won't let him. "Shut up," I say.

I know he's a dog, a pig, a fiend. He deserves to die.

I stare into his eyes, such a dark brown they are almost black: pools of deceit and of rage now turned to helplessness. He knows I'm in control now.

I've never held a gun before, but it feels strangely comfortable: the cold metal against my warm and sweaty palms. I hope he can't see how I'm shaking. If he did notice, he'd surely think it was from fear. I don't want either of us to realize what it really is.

I want to say I'm sorry, but I can't. I don't know if it would be true or not.

He's scared now. I can feel it. I refuse to close my eyes. I pull the trigger.


I was chosen when I was very young: set aside to be someone special. Even after that, though, I never really felt special: I just felt weird. I could never tell anyone who I really was, and yet everyone somehow seemed to know.

That's why this night was so special. This night was supposed to be my night to put the past behind me, to change who I was and never go back. I thought I had options; I thought I was making the right choice, but clearly I was wrong.

It felt so strange to kill him like that. I've had to deal with many enemies in my life, but I'd always handled them another way. Of course, it's only to be expected that I would be unable to handle things like that tonight. The whole point of tonight was to leave those ways behind and so, of course, my sword was not with me. I had gotten so used to using it, but in this case, I had no other options, and it seems my new best option is laid clearly before me.

I look down at the gun in my hand and smile as I turn and walk away. Yes, this will do nicely.

Ideas

Like the sea, thoughts swirl inside of me.
Which ones will break free?

Like lightning, they flash, there and then gone.
Fleeting, tempting.

When will a good one come?

There are some many things I feel I could say
but I have no way to say them.

I have memories of having memories,
but the memories themselves are faded.

It's like an old picture from 100 years ago.
It once was so clear, but now it's turning to dust.

What was I going to write today?

Some ideas are gone
until someone else remembers them.

Like a Dream

Sometimes it seems like the things I notice in life must be figments, like they can't possibly be real. People who to horrendous things, things I would never come up with on my own, but must somehow be lurking in the back of my mind anyway. And even if they weren't there before, they are now, because I see them almost every day I turn on the evening news.

But its not all nightmares and evil omens. There are also people who do things so wonderful that I can't imagine their stories can really be true. Pure, selfless people who think of others before themselves; people who love the world so much, they would be willing to die to save just a portion of it: do such people really exist? The stories I've told would tell me they do.

As for my own life, it's not so exciting in either extreme, but still, most of the time, it just seems like a dream. It's little things really. Suddenly feeling like I can't remember something that I should have, like there's some detail that my brain just skipped over because it ultimately wasn't important. Seeing someone I've never met before but who still seems strangely familiar. Thinking something is going to happen and then seeing that come true. A glare from a nemesis or a smile from a potential friend or even lover. It's simple, but sometimes it's just so unreal, the things that happen in every day life.

The biggest thing though, is how little of it really seems to matter. The things that seem so important in the moment end up to ultimately be meaningless, to the point that I forget them later when another cycle of my life takes over. The dream seems thrilling at the time, but if I can't even remember it a few months or days or even hours later, what good is it really? Perhaps I have an impact on someone else's dream, and that's at least something, but I have no memory or knowledge of it myself. And that's the strangest feeling: knowing you had a dream, but having no recollection of it.

It's all meaningless in the end; well, most of it anyway, but that doesn't make it any less enjoyable. We all treasure our dreams as we're having them, but when we wake up, we realize that they were nothing more than dreams, and it's real life that really matters. When you're dreaming, you think it's real, and it's all that's on your mind. Our dreams are a part of us, but they aren't who we are. Who we are is who we are when our eyes are open. We love our dreams, as we should, but if all we have is dreams, we are left longing for something more.

Life is a dream, and I'm just a sleep walker waiting to wake up.