Sunday, September 10, 2006

The killing dream

I pick up the bottle, looking at the transparent liquid inside. It’s already half empty. Pour another shot, my friend. Another? Well, okay, maybe one more. Or two to dull the pain. The pain…

The men are running, running towards the wall. The wall will protect you. Ah… there’s the PK, singing its low dirge. Its dirge. Whumpta whumpta whumpta. Green flares out! Pop green so they know where we are for Christ’s sake!! Green means safe. The wall is safe. Why can’t I talk to these people? Why won’t they understand? Where’s the damn QRF? I see the impacts kicking up little explosions in the dirt. Run to the wall… run for your life…. These people aren’t like me… I shouldn’t be here because these people aren’t even like me…one more, maybe one more to dull the pain…

The click of the pistol going off of safe. I recall it very distinctly. CLICK!! It was loud and metallic, in slow motion, almost too loud. Until I fired. That was too loud. And I fired again. And again. One more for the pain… Maybe one more… “Do with them? We do nothing with them. They will come and get them after dark… drag them away.”

I remember living on Greene Street in Los Alamitos with Marc. We drove to visit Jeff and I talked about what had happened in the Marines. About friends in Beirut. How strange it is to see the Marines evacuating people from Beirut. I think Mom and Dad must have thought that I was on drugs then. One more, okay? one more. Is one enough? Is it ever enough? Signal Hill, the clubs in LA, Long Beach City College… Baghdad,… What was the name of that little bar around the corner? The one I went to with Anite Kitts? On my God what a Charlie Brown Christmas tree we had! Sitting around the living room exchanging presents. What times we had…. What times…

Crying. Crying times. Flowers. Once I tried to cause my own death. The flag, the casket – I touch it. I walk up and run my hand over the flag draped over the casket – it’s pulled taut. I touched Aunt Patty when she was dead. No one was looking, and I touched her just to make sure. The soldiers who carry it onto the aircraft are crying. They are crying. They must be the dead guy’s buddies…I don’t like crying. I hate crying. Don’t cry son. Don’t hurt son, don’t feel….don’t feel for me. You’re already better than I ever was, and you don’t even know it. Better than me… better than me. that’s okay Dad // I’m gonna be just like you – no Jack – not like me. Not like me, not ever like me // not dead like me.

Don’t even worry about it, they always throw stuff over the wall in the evening. You’d just have to be in the wrong place… at the wrong time… at that time, to actually get hit. Like the guy who sold me the coffee pot and those bootleg DVDs. Now he’s dead. They assassinated him for selling to the Americans… for selling to me. I’m sorry….so sorry… so very sorry…

Anais. I want to shout to you how much I love you, how much you made me who I am. I am better because of you. Why can’t you hear me?? Why can’t they understand?!! CLICK. Breath. Take a breath, exhale a little bit, hold… steady… focus on the target… Sometimes you take my breath away. You’ll be such a beautiful woman. But I haven’t been much of a role model for a husband, have I? Tough to be a model when you’re not there…not there ever….

Bravery? What a joke! There aren’t any heros here. Am I your hero? Your knight in shining armor? Would you do it again? Would you Would you Would you stand by me forever? Even after everything? Would you marry me all over again Lisanne? If you knew this is how it would be? Don’t cry honey, I’m sorry, I’m sorry… sorry, so sorry

I think I saw a man die. He dropped and didn’t move. Or maybe he did a little. Maybe later he was able to crawl off. Maybe he wasn’t really dead. Maybe he was in the wrong place, but only partly. I could only see between the concrete barriers, then. Maybe his daughter will visit him in the hospital. CLICK. I take my pistol off of safe. Who’s firing?? Shit. The body, his body, my body, twitches and jumps as the bullets hit it. There’s not much left for the hospital, for his wife or his daughter. A smudge on the ground. That’s all that is left.

Will they have bag pipes at my funeral? I’d like that. Yes. I used to think that I wanted to be buried in Marine Corps Class As, but now I thing civilian clothes would be fine. If they can, I mean, if it’s an open casket affair. I bet Uncle Bob could arrange for bag pipes. He’s like that. He used to be a Detroit cop. I bet he’s seen quite a few smudges.

When I woke up this morning I’d knocked the lamp next to my bed over. My dogtag chain was broken. I go out again tomorrow.


Blogger LAL said...

I'd marry you all over again...and again...and again...and again. Just come home to me. Come home to us.


September 10, 2006 5:24 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I cried when I read your answer.

Thank you, thank you...

September 11, 2006 12:48 AM  
Blogger Pixie said...

Lisanne... Mark... just hang on. In the grand scheme of things, YOU WIN. I promise. I love that you love eachother so much.

You give me strength.

Remember the good and rise above.

September 11, 2006 3:06 AM  
Blogger Pixie said...

Therein lies the answer, Mark. There it is. While you are there, love is at home (DONT LET GO). The killing dream is just that... a dream. You will wake from all of this, perhaps slowly, but you will wake.

In the arms of your Lisanne. With your beautiful family; chidren, brothers, parents, friends.

Trust me.

Don't stop talking... keep talking... you're almost home.

September 11, 2006 6:17 AM  

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