Saturday, July 7, 2012

Sophia, dying alone.

Sophia’s last taking in air to lungs, dying alone.

Gasping, struggling, fighting as air no longer fills her lungs.

Dying, I am dying.

Cold sweat covering tanned skin as it goes to lighter shades.

How and why? Thinking madly, brain churning this nights events, diving further into memory lands as blood and life drain from her.

Slight moments before, doing a deal to keep her fed and some sad sense of living, she walked tall and proud. Just below the Arch de Triumph, she attempted to broker a deal between contrasting factions. One side to another, we’ll call the Crips and Bloods, or the Triads to the Russian Family. Massive gain versus fallout having so many guns focused on the average redhead in its center.

They want 30 a block.

She interpreted between both Chinese to French and backward.

Sunset highlighting buildings to her left, shading those to her left. Smells of foods from many lands and those of sweaty tourists making a normal sunset. Honking horns of impatient drivers, vendors talking of their wares, the snapping of cameras and dogs barking in the background.

Too much, he interpreting from Sophia, looking to the Chinese reps.

Not happy, the Triads look back at her.

現在一點兒,蕩婦! 讓他們看到我們是指企業! 這樣做!

Now a little bit, bitch! Let us be seen refer to enterprises! do it.

Looking a bit apprehensive, she tells them, be cool, I’ve got this.

Stress crossing brow, pinprick pupils from cocaine accelerating brain and bodily functions, she says to the French mob. Looking less cool, less controlled, sweat falling from black Italian hair slightly stopped by eyebrows descending into her eyes. Stinging them. Tearing them

Weakness shown in front of professionals.

Ils veulent 15. C'est leur offre finale.

They want 15. It is their final offer.

Le feu et prend leur argent!

Fire and takes their silver!

A Triad knowing French drew his .45 making his clan kin do the same.

Shots Rang out. Cries of the romantic choiring, albeit it poorly with the flapping of bats wings, dropping to knees and chests hitting ground to escape lead tearing flesh of themselves.

Music of bands with both mandolins and accordions in the forefront droning on, giving little notice to audiences taking face-dives to brick.

The bands played on.

Ricochets twanging from iron beams, meagerly spent hunks of fired .45’s thunking into nearby wooden stands and grazing the passerby, finding home in wood, drywall, flesh and radar faulty bats, dropping them to ground like a bad movie.

Sophia’s body shook like the poorest of piñatas, being beaten by a horde of discontent Vikings from two sides simultaneously. Forward, backwards, forwards, backwards until gravity took over.

Gasping for air, mind content with this outcome. Staggering, ambling foot over foot. Blood parting the sturdiness of veins. No panic, walking, crawing, up and walking, collapsing to knees, crawling and crawling further.

End of her pain without committing suicide.

Eyes opening for the final time.

Looking up with final glance that Charon would have someone place coins to close them, sweeping her across to the land of death.

This is the Eiffel Tower.

She dies.


This was sent to me by the father of, and he told me to place this: Italy.

He basically gave me police reports from witnesses that saw things suspicious.

His words, my placement.

AN: Going into other areas of psychology and its place in this world.

Going further we stroll.

               Mark William Darus. 07-07-2016