My mind is a weather vane, going in which and every direction the wind blows. I can’t do anything to stop it, it’s too high for me to reach. My thoughts are unstable. My confidence is flimsy. What was once built with bricks is now held up by sticks tied with sneaker-laced knots.  A simple decision like which pair of boxer briefs to wear, takes minutes when it should only take a second. I change my shirt five times before I even leave the house. Don’t ask me why since I have no one to impress. I don’t because I ceased to exist three years ago. Three years ago from this very day.

It was a warm and sunny Sunday. Though it sounds like the opening to happy story, it couldn’t be darker. There was nothing different about that afternoon, but before the short-hand struck III on the clock everything would change. I wasn’t there, but I might have well been.  Seeing it on the news, reading the police report over and over again left a permanent image. A bad movie stuck on replay, no stop button to push, no power plug to pull.

An African-American woman in her late 30’s walked into a sports memorabilia shop. She accidentally damaged her husband’s prize baseball card from his childhood and was looking to replace it. The card wasn’t worth much, but it meant a lot to him. Although she knew it wouldn’t be the same, in an effort to please him she bought a different card worth three times the value of the damaged one. She smiled at the cashier, excited to get back home to her husband and soon-to-be father. While the cashier packaged her purchase, two hooded men charged into the store with menacing eyes and flashing guns. Shots were fired within seconds.

When the police arrived they found the woman laying on her back with a baseball card by her side. One bullet in her head, a second in her abdomen. The cashier was found laying behind the counter that supported the open blood-stained cash register. He lay there with two married bullets in his chest. Sounds like the every day crazy things you hear on the news and dismiss it. I didn’t have the luxury to dismiss it, however. In fact I would know of this story before I got to watch it on tv.  I received a call at 2:53pm, the woman was my wife.

I’ve had very little interaction with anyone since she left. What’s the point? No one will make me feel the way I did before she moved on. Now I spend my days passing by without notice, without being seen or heard. I’m invisible to the world. No one really sees me, but they feel me for the brief we might brush shoulders. They feel me like a cold breeze, then the moment is gone as quickly as it came. Not even an afterthought. That it just my day.

I spend my nights suffocating on my own thoughts. 2:53pm, the memory is nauseating. My nightmares are a mental trap. A mental trap accompanied by vice-grip like headaches. I”m certain I’m soulless and headaches are the only indication I’m still alive. I have no feelings of hope, just the fear of waking up another morning without her beside me.

– Vic Louis
Yea, that was a little dark (I’m fine). I haven’t posted anything in about a month, which is a surprise to me. I even said “Damn!” to myself when I noticed the date of my last post. It felt like it has only been 2 weeks. Anyway, at the worst possible time, the creative side of my brain decided to have a temper tantrum and refused to let me sleep without getting these stories down. I had two different stories in my head so I tried to combine them into one and there you have it.

Sidenote: I think the people directly below my room are having sex. My bed is shaking and I hear what sounds like a headboard smacking up against the wall, repeatedly. I guess that’s my queue to go to sleep. Deuces.


1 Comment

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One response to “2:53pm

  1. skinnyT

    good to see your back.
    Them people downstairs are so selfish, you should leave a note asking them to share next time =-p
    (just a thought)

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