Dead Awake: The Last Crossing by hades

onto me. “I’m not going to kill you! You hear me!
I’m not going to kill you! You’re going to live, you bastard! I’m
not going to kill you!” I involuntarily slapped him again, although
at this point I no longer was angry towards him. The shock must
have been so scary that it made him start to cry like a little
boy.
    I let go of him and went to
pick up the bag I had brought in. Then I went to recover the last
of my Spanish beer, took a sip, and then set it down. (All of this
was done in the coldest of attitudes, that I can scarcely remember
it being me). But then I realized what I was doing and threw the
bottle down. I turned to the bartender and saw him lying (still
unconscious but breathing), and relief ran through me. I sat there
motionless as he regained consciousness and saw me. He tried to
back away and hide under the bar ledge. I just felt sorry and
turned to the other man.
    I felt a deep sorrow, as I
looked, and hoped he would be ok. I knew he would, but who can take
back something done out of hate? What can one say to someone
intentionally harmed? In the middle of thrashing them, to realize
you’ve done wrong and just say “sorry”? After such lunacy, what
good could it do? I’m sure he was so scared of me by then that
anything I tried to say would have only made him more terrified. I
didn’t want to see that, or have him beg for mercy like a child, so
I walked out of the cantina without another word to say. And
finally, it was on the way to my room when my humanity hit, so I
started to cry . . .
    I must have noticed the
stars and their dance again... I thought about how earlier I had
thought of all those things about them, looking up with a soaked
face, and saw that they were still dancing without the slightest
care to any of my woes. They had gone on, without me, through the
fight and all, and hadn’t even regarded any of it. I thought of how
much worse it was now. It could have been much better if I had just
gone home before.
    Then there, on my door as I
approached, hung the wrinkled note. For a second I didn’t know what
it was. But then it hit me. It was the poem I had so eagerly
anticipated earlier; but never received.
    Now there it was; soiled and
wrinkled, as if someone had misplaced it, and later stuck it to my
door. Maybe he had lost it, I thought; but when I read it I knew
different. I could give no sympathy for a simple misunderstanding.
The author had merely waited for the entire course of events to
play out, so he could laugh and not warn. It was done on
purpose.
    There was a skillfully
buried explanation, in his poem. He had detailed the day so well,
even down to the perfect description of my arrogance as I had
entered the bar. All had been laid out. He had just wanted to wait
till after, so that I could hate him – and I did... I began to hate
the man.

FIGHT
    Force feels through me as a vapor of hot steam
    Every melting rock of ice is
useless in the struggle
    There is no
straining,
    Like a whirlwind breaking
wood
    Just a smoothing motion of
volcanic clay
    Shame they show
resistance
    Isn’t as they have a chance
they might be persistent
    But as hot masses melt all
will fall to fight
    Intelligence, a brass of
work
    Freely giving of its
considerable substance
    More than muscle of its
own
    Arrow of a striking force
with an eye for any target.
    If it stood before: now it stands, but penetrated
–
    Inhale... It’s
victory!
    Was there ever any
doubt?
    But you had striking
harmony
    The power shot from high –
into your hand
    With all the
Fight
    There is no Fall
    I clasped the note tightly
as tears ran down my face. Again I screamed out to him, because I
was sure he was watching and laughing at me now. “I am not like
that, you bastard! I am not like that! I would not kill a man... I
would not hurt him!”
    But as I yelled, the image
of the badly beaten man came to my mind, as a small drop of blood
dripped from off my forehead onto the poem.
    I put down my head in shame.
I could no