Master of descriptions: Dead Man’s Tale (Part I)

Dead men tell no tales but sometimes they just might. There are shameful deeds we do in the name of love that sometimes when we have outgrown them, we look back and ask ourselves, were they indeed necessary? I won’t live to see the sun. Tomorrow may come and will find me gone. It’s okay. Something tells me that I tried. That all was not in vain. That even though I won’t live to see the smile of my day old daughter, who by now is nestled in the arms of her mother; who is cursing out while crying as two nurses take her from her arms to help them inside the ambulance; I’m regrettably certain, that with sadness, her mom will tell her about this day. She will come to this place where I last saw the blurry vision of her. The place where my dreams got soaked in the soil. I’m lying down in a myriad of confusion as my breath is coalesced with dust minced with blood that oozed from the spaces left behind by my broken tooth. Slowly, regaining my senses, I hear voices chanting. “Kill him. Burn him.” There is a sharp pain on my spine and I know that another blow is about to fall. If it is true that in the moment of death whether natural, suicidal or murder, someone often think about the person they love the most and not the danger that befall them, then perhaps I could have loved Denise more than anything I ever owned.