2 July, 0125
Young vivacious voices sang in the next room
A church choir rejoiced on TV
Their singing echoed in my head as if it were hollow
But I laid there
Frozen
He was done with me
Shredded my loins
Beaten
tethered in this web bloodied and swollen
Face down
Jeans pulled to my waist on his kitchen table
The hungry pants and gasps for air were
No longer mine
No longer his
It was that damn pudgy-faced nasty slobbering mastiff of his,
Quasimodo
He’d witnessed it all
And he looked like he had seen it before
Yet he cocked his head as if searching for
the answer to some interstellar riddle
He was still drinking that gin
As he zipped up his pants
He raised his glass as if toasting to my health
Walked around the table
Surveying my whimpering carcass
He stepped aside to let me go
He would not impede me
Be steady
But be swift
I can’t let him do this to me again
Again?
Did it happen at all?
He was bigger than me
Stronger
I did fight, right?
No it didn’t happen
Then why was I bleeding
“Then he will say to those on his left,
‘Depart from me, you cursed,
into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.
Matthew 25:41
Television still on as I crossed his yard
31 July, 0830
“You want to report what?” my commander demanded of me
“You’re talking about your squadron leader.”
“Decorated five times in three tours in the sand.”
“A husband and father of three.”
‘Yes sir’ stumbled over my lips each time
“I’m not gonna sugarcoat this for you,
because you know his story will vary.
What this will do to him, and do
to you will be a quite scary.”
“Yes sir”
This pangolin faced troll’s only concern was
the clerical nightmare it would bring
He wanted to dismiss it as some petty matter
That I needed to reform my way of thinking
Hoping this fad would pass like I was some teenaged girl
21 August, 1435
At my court martial
I could still hear that chorus singing
A brutal homicidal act was what the judge had said
Then my life sentence was summarily read
As the two MPs started to lead me away
My commander only had one thing to say,
“Robert, did you have to shoot the dog too?”
“Yes sir.”
C. Z. Heyward is an emerging poet, playwright, and social critic whose work has appeared in a number of journals including: The Gay and Lesbian Review Worldwide, Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, and The Sacred Cow. His work has found platforms in the United Kingdom, France and Greece. When he’s not writing, he enjoys live jazz in dark bars and riding his vintage motorcycles. He is also pursuing his PhD in educational leadership at St. John’s University (New York).