Sam, this was written for you and today I finally managed the balls to give it to you 2nd may 2008 11 40 am I work in this butcher’s shack. He is Muslim, somehow not an orthodox one so he never inquired about my religion or anything. Initially the reality of the killing struck me as bitter. Only to make a few bucks, I grew into it. Soon after my parents died, I took over looking after my sister. Struggling with reality, I get home every evening to see her studying under this lamp, her innocence glowing. My bloody shirt is the only proof of my morbid job. It wouldn’t matter had I been an undertaker or crematory boy. There is this thin line between hallucination and reality. I am trying to make it most hallucinatory for her. I don’t contemplate that I have woken to reality. But sometimes I get lost too. Lost in that fine breezy evening in college when I was sitting with my girlfriend, kissing her. My parents had left the other evening scheduled to reach home by sometime then. “Oye dude, you’ve got a call”, “hey thanks man!” as I picked the receiver only to freeze the moment, I should’ve never known what I was told. It was a fine evening; all of them strolled as I ran to take the first cab to the bus station. It was three hours before I was in the hospital. My thinking rapid, my heart sinking and my sister sobbing. Agape I spoke to the cops, bad dream or a cocaine trip I couldn’t equate. It had been a fatal accident on the highway, they died on the spot. I wouldn’t dare to see what the spot looked like; the media would surround it by now anyway. It was my prerogative to see, my right to examine and I forfeited it. If only someone would give me a chance to see how it happened, if only I had a chance to stop it. It jitters me to think of how it was that day. My phone has the messages saved, the message they sent when they stopped for coffee on the highway sometime before it occurred. Must be my last connection, I really don’t know? God is a butcher and we are all going to be slaughtered, I work for him now. I do not hate him; I just don’t like his rules. The default mechanism stitches every tissue in my brain and it is only natural for me to think, "why me?”. I was a regular college boy, sneakers and blowjobs, and now I am a butcher’s boy. One day I will know, perhaps.

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