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Death Penalty Not on My BehalfDeath Penalty: Not on My Behalf
"They're going to kill him because he killed somebody, so when they kill him, who do we get to kill?" (Amnesty International)
One day, I returned home to my dorm room in Maine to find the light blinking on my answering machine. It was a frantic message from my parents, who were in Japan, telling me they had received a call from the Police Department in Denver, Colorado, telling them that my brother had been murdered. I quickly called my parents and noted down the contact number they had received. I then called the Denver Police Department.
The murderer had already been caught. He was a homeless, and drunk at the time; apparently, he had been denied service at my brother's workplace before because of his drinking habits, and took it a little too personally. He had staked out my brother's apartment for days, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. My brother had received a call from the clinic that day, and was leaving
HappinessHe sat alone on the couch in his living room, staring at some stupid show on TV with actors who barely deserve the title, a bottle of beer left forgotten on the table, long turned lukewarm with the heat from the fan in the side of the laptop he had absentmindedly set the bottle down next to almost an hour ago. He didn't even like booze. Didn't understand why anybody would want to muddy one's mind - after all, nobody spins in office chairs to voluntarily induce vertigo, fuzzy vision, and the urge to vomit. He hadn't showered in two days, and even in a T-shirt and shorts, his hair was flattened with grease and his nose and forehead were shiny and oily from dried sweat. The stubble on his face wasn't stubble anymore, it was about to start grade school.
Tomorrow was Monday. He'd get up around eight, take a shower, take care of his facial hair, shampoo his hair, hold his breath and lather his face. He hated soap on his face;
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More