Violence

A short, experimental piece about, you guessed it... violence.

The first time I saw a fight I was 15 years of age, standing on St Myers Street. Two groups of men, clouds of testosterone and violent urges, pressed up against one another. I watched as fists flew through the air like comets, landing upon big, dumb faces. Clothes were torn. Curses exchanged. Everything was chaos.

Naive and young I decided to spectate; I wanted to witness this bloody exchange, this primal act. My intrigue soon morphed into horror and anxiety. She tugged at my arm. She wanted me to leave. I couldn't.

***

Sirens screeched in the background, the sound coming closer until it completely occupied my ears. I felt dizzy and nauseas. More than one man was wearing a face drenched in blood, war paint. So immersed were they in their hatred, their wretched frenzy that they either failed to hear the sirens or simply didn't care. 

Strike after strike, blow after blow, the clouds started to dissipate as men fell by the wayside, becoming individuals again as they collapsed upon the cold pavement. There they tensed up in pain, small animals, vulnerable, pitiful. Either that or they lay their silent and unmoving. 

***

"That day is the day I decided that no matter how noble your cause, no matter how worthy your objective, violence is a weapon best left in its sheath. Violence is the tool of those who have nothing to say, nothing to value or believe in. Violence is a dark, alluring force that enters you and consumes your goodness." 

His flock looked upon him with reverence, almost as though he himself was a mortal embodiment of the deity they worshiped. 

"When man longs to be violent, he longs for power, he longs to exert himself. Let you who believe in an other worldly authority abstain - for you who abstain from violence trust him to right the wrongs of the world. You believe in his beauty and you believe in his grace."

***

When I got into bed that night she looked at me with her beautiful eyes and her soft features. She knew me and she knew my lies. She knew that the incident I recalled was not my only encounter with violence - she knew that I was far more intimately acquainted with violence than that.

Getting naked in front of her for the first time had been torture for me. Her eyes rested upon the wound on my left arm... the mutilation inflicted upon my body by metal shards, shrapnel. Hatred. She took my arm in her hands and with her lips gently placed a kiss upon my wound. I felt redemption. I felt love. I felt time rewind. Most importantly I felt the blood vanish from my hands.

Reviews

[Ua]

I really enjoyed this read. I feel as though there is something to be said for violence, it is a dance, it is a dance for those who don't have the tools to say there is something wrong here. They are like artist sacrificing their bodies to make a statement, a very ancient statement. Don't get me wrong, I am a complete pacifist, but to the point where I let the violent be violent, because it is their expression of the love they have felt over the years. Again, I really enjoyed the read, you took me there, thank you.

[C Peril]

Hi Ua, I'm very appreciative for the glowing comment. It was fascinating to read your thoughts on violence and I'm looking forward to browsing through your work in the future. Thanks again. C. Peril.