Releasing on the exhale

One afternoon after 4pm, we sat in his room. He told me two stories...One about the night before.

An oil drum.

A fire in the oil drum.

A gang of men.

Drinking together.

And her mouth…getting in the way.

She pissed all of these guys off. He had to physically remove her. But she kept coming back for more. Eventually he told me that he hit her.

With the back of his hand he said.

And his ring caught her square.

And chipped her tooth.

He was visibly shaken as he sat telling me. I did not want to hear this. But he told
me more…

The next tale was a story of accidental death. Accidental or on purpose, when someone gets hurt by your hand, you should probably stick around. Somehow he had worked these things out in his mind Somehow he found the courage to tell someone, to beg for someone to listen.

I could see him shaking more now.

He was visibly upset and unaware of what to do.

He asked me what I thought.

I was too stoned, too young, too stupid to give anyone advice.
But I may have said, “This is now in the past.”