Pat

He stands like just another dumb motherfucker on the sidewalk eyes like traffic lights going for the STOP!  A crawling roar, a burning face, shrieking shrilly fucking hell, oh god.  He was one foot off the street, the other walking away screaming, “I want to live!  I want to run!  I WANT” and he goes right into the middle, into the focus, at the center of a slick black scene, all constructed lines converging on him.  The monster screaming towards him was a bus.  He forced himself to grin: he'd wanted an audience to witness this.  For people to remember this man who'd carved himself into the demon so that it could forever remember him in hell.  It spun on, closer, meeting him with an impassive stare as he turned to give it his full attention. 

    He felt like Jesus being pulled into a black hole.
    Crucified, paralyzed, hands like railroads
    as God grows larger into view with a look to
    tear you a new one, spin you around, grab you
    by the head and take your crown, take the cross
    and from the twanging of your dripping, empty heart
    rip your soul from the blasted still coldness
    that was your body. 
    Stop.

    Does he really want to go through with this?  The bus slams into him. 

Metal folds around him in the tightest embrace he has ever felt.  No sound but bloodied ears.  Darkness.  His eyes are closed.  He sees bright red.  He opens them.  And walks away.