Monday, July 2, 2012

Samirs' Concrete Bed.


         Another story given to me by those that knew someone of an area much later diagnosed as BPD. Witnessing styles, traits levels of elevations and depressions, setting signals of red and chiming loudly off to send an alarm to those that state they loved them in nearest proximity.



           Of Samir: child of Buddha.


          Of Buddha, my brother most strong with conviction, but never finished tiny tasks. His Medical School life deteriorated to shambles.

            He did drugs as heroin and ludes to find sleep and kill voices. More than not, these failed and brought further dire depths as Samir swam deeper and deeper into lands of further discontent.

          AUTHORS NOTE: This is where his sister gave me free reign to write freely based on her observations.

            To her, thank you for your trust.



            Samirs’ concrete bed:



            Awaking in the home of parents. Shit, it’s 8AM, I’m still here and shit still smells the same: he thinks, eyes in growing anger reaching stronger elements.

          Smelling funk and shit he rises as flies flutter away from him

          Wearing black Metalica jersey and blood saturated jeans, he stands, full body image before full length mirror; who did I kill? Did I kill, someone, some thing?

         Without showering, checking himself in a mirror, he took a walk. Those he passed looked both horrified or complacent as the sight of him and his enveloping odor took hold of their senses or didn’t.

          Reaching into near empty pockets, finding little more than 50 bucks, still wondering, was it male or female, dog or cat he’d slain?

          His brown eyes matching smelly shades in shorts, blankly staring into his image in the plate glass of a JC Pennys store. Six foot, highly gaunt frame with sunken eyes and unclean blond, mangled locks. He resembled a victim of a Amtrak derailment that’d been thrown several hundred into a morgue, hitting every possible object in his path.

          Didn’t Matter, just keep moving. Just keep running and don’t ask questions.

          Walking blankly into roads without the right of way, nearly getting hit several times by passing cars and trucks, causing him no stress nor tension. Never acknowledging blaring horns or the screams of those witnessing, he strode like a zombie.

         Tired, so damn tired he pressed on, eventually finding a Unitarian church. Deciding to place his weary head down, he found comfort on the reclining bed that was it’s concrete steps.

         Eyes closing, a chill crossing his body. He died there.

           A few parishioners saw him fade on their churches steps and dialed 911. They ran out to him, eyes filled with a mixture of desperation and horror. Some saying prayers, others tag-teaming with CPR, never giving up til the EMS teams arrived.

        Siren quietly in the distance, getting louder and louder still with each fleeting second, a blaring a metronome of hope for those dying and those in audience with it.

        The curious, eyes wide came to the happening from close gas stations, corner stores and a library. As they approached, many speculated it was either another drug deal gone bad or just another drive by.

        People love to see death and dying. They slow down on freeways out of sick curiosity. They so wish to see a mangled, blood-soaked bodies penetration with a windshield that they cause accidents on their side of the road.

        Sirens converging from opposite sides, with differing tempo and pitch, police and EMS arrive.

       Police ordering the irrelevant people to move back, sometimes shoving those with far too much glee in their eyes away from the scene. The Paramedics, life saving duffels in hands, hurriedly pacing toward the failed body of Samir.

         Taking vitals: Nothing. Determination, fortitude and a fiery will showing in their eyes, they continued.

          Their frenzied, sweaty work succeeding as Samir made a tiny, shallow cough.

          Stabilizing him, they swept him off the nearest Emergency room.

          As they took Samir from the scene, the murmur of conversations mingled in contrast of both hope and ill-tidings, female and male alike, creating a word salad of confusion: Let’s pray for, hope he dies the goddamned drug dealer, our brother in Jesu, dude got jacked and must’ve had it commin, eye for an eye, lift him up god and, let that sad fucker die, in Jesus name, hope he dies.

        After surgeons worked on Samir for hours, giving him much to replace what he had lost, they deemed this an attempted suicide. His naked body revealed cuts, not slashing knife marks of an attacker, and saw this as self inflicted.

         Clean sheets, clean self, days later Samir awoke in a hospital room. Feeling little about himself, almost pulling his IV’s out as he turned toward his sister, he rolled toward her voice.

         Eyes twitching, fleeting focus on her look of concern.

         I was worried, she cried, clutching is fragile hand.

         I’m sorry… Again.



          She asked me to attach no name to her words. She asked me to give her brother a name and homeland close to hers.

         I hope I have written what you wished to be told in truth to your words by me.

         Mark William Darus 07/02/2012