Gone For Good
I wake up, middle of the night, hands covering my face, thinking, "oh my god, how could I have done that?" But for the life of me, no matter how hard I try, I can't remember whatever it is I've done.
It was something that broke my heart, though, that much I know for sure, because there is an ache there, like I'm carrying a load of lead pellets behind my left breast. Buckshot, I think it's called, the kind of thing they shoot at rabbits. But if I've been shot, I shot myself. I have no one else to blame, that much communicates itself to me with absolute clarity.
I have to own up to whatever it was I did. There are no other options. I've made a specific decision somewhere along the way and it caused my previous world — the world I can't remember — to go down in apocalyptic flames. What was it, though? That much still remains a mystery. Maybe if I can remember the dream I was having before I bolted awake. But it's gone now, gone for good, gone god knows where?
Is it what happened in this dream that shades the day ahead with sadness, this day, and the days that follow? This sadness I can't name, whose cause I can't locate in anyone I meet or in anything that has actually happened?
I look for clues in every face, in every conversation. There is nothing, not a trace of what I'm searching for, not a hint. The trail is cold. The crime, I fear, will go unsolved and the only suspect, me, has gotten cleanly away.