story teller: dear sarah

blue bubble calamity clean

Dear Sarah: Yearn

madness of love. dating. end of romance.

There’s a maniac running after me with a chainsaw but I flick the cigarette and start chasing him with my weapon of choice: voice. The loudest scream that shatters glass and the bulging eyes. Would it be nice if all the sentences started with such absurdity? To possess a superpower would be cool but this is reality and my voice only carries a meek whimper of hurt and pain. Yes, she hurt my heart by stomping on it with her stilettos and her new boyfriend, a six-foot-two chainsaw maniac build like a tree. How can I compete? So, I cleanse my soul and trash of what remains of her in my suite and like a cheated wife burn it in the sink.

Let’s change the tune and I skip onto my skating board and ride with the wind pushing along the stream of street noise and rush. The vamps always hustle for the blood and cocaine. I don’t understand how they live on the bread of Christ and deliver the sermons with grace and gratitude. Another church and the lost freedom. Might as well condemn the devil for all the crime and struggle. We will after all perish in the dust.

But I’m getting away from the scenery citywide. The crowd has multiplied. The cyclists curse the cabs. The drivers wave their fingers for space and right turns. But, I continue to chase the ghost of the maniac and my ex. The street musician plays for his meal and some. Well, might as well get some and attempt to flirt with the cashier. She must be a grandmother of four or maybe two. The robots will take over the role soon. Might as well give her a penny or two of time. The usefulness of her scanning the produce and such.

The shadow has followed me in the newspaper. The photograph of my ex is on the display. I can see the laughter through her smile.

“She’s my favourite, too,” the mart guy says as he hands me the change. Like print-news has become the new thing. No one flips through their phones anymore. How ironic? Ever since the screen went blank and memories got erased. If only my memory got erased with such ease and hack. My heart burns in anticipation for the next day. The morning will be a blast after another nightmare. If only I slept.

I store my work with the other artists in the Bottega and fight my way through the narrow alley to script a new pilot. The holly ghost welcomes with a warm embrace. This trail has become a complete mess. Somebody come and save me from the chainsaw and the manic massacre that I dread day and night. My gut has turned upside down.

The yearning has taken its toll on my mind. Her smile was the passion fruit that poisoned my tongue. How can I let her go? Prayers don’t help. The devil has taken a seat among the passengers eyeing my torn body. The flies will soon circle down upon the rotten and gone.

Sarah. Sarah. You should have taken the blade and cut me open. Let me bleed out. It would have been kinder and swift. Now the agony perpetuates what will take forever to end. My life. My love. My death.

© Jacob Greb — 2022

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3 thoughts on “story teller: dear sarah

  1. jacob.greb says:

    I wanted this story to feel like chaos where nothing made sense. I wanted it to be a reflection of the narrator’s chaotic mind, where too many thoughts flood and confuse him. A reflection where love can be entirely in his head and painful.

    Liked by 2 people

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