His Eyes Look Down

James (HVR) recently alerted me to a prompt/challenge from J Wirrowac, as below.

I’m not confident enough in either my horror or story skills to actually submit something for it, though it did inspire this little story-poem piece.

His eyes look down.
Blood drips. It’s dark.

An arm instinctively tries to rise,
to touch what feels like
either a gash or a burn in his chest.

Different pains melding together
hard to differentiate the type,
amongst thoughts that are
blurred, muddied….bloodied.

His eyes look down,
as he hears footsteps,
smells something akin to burnt meat,
realises it is coming from him,

that answers the question about the chest.

A voice is heard, though he hears more
on one side, than another.
What’s wrong with his left ear?
Where is his left ear?

The voice lists a number of perceived wrongs.
The fact there have been two wives prior,
is in itself a wrong, an affront.
Let alone having now mocked the institution
by marrying once again.

Words are spat, as a blow from
something hard, hot and metallic
glances his cheek.
The sound is like meat, when first added to hot griddle.

Drunkenness,
sex outside of marriage,
love outside of marriage
gluttony
not always sharing crisps at school.

The list goes on, erratic in the wrongs it names.

His eyes look down,
as his brain tries to process
what he hears.
Why is love wrong,
whether in or out of marriage?

The school crisps thing,
it must be someone who
knew him when he was about
nine or ten.
He’d stopped eating crisps in senior school.

His eyes look down,
there’s a sound of a lid being twisted
a smell of petroleum.
He gasps as liquid hits skin,
stinging those burnt and bleeding places

The list continues to be recited:
never attended church,
never came back to his hometown
after leaving with the first
of those wives.

got a job in the city,
wore a suit,
when all his friends
were labourers
or worked in the docks.

Thinks he’s better than where he came from.

His eyes look down,
as he receives another whack,
this time only from closed fist,
followed by a glob of phlegm
in his face for good measure.

Then, the sharp scratching sound
as a match is struck.
He knows what’s coming,
lets out a scream
as flame takes hold.

His eyes look down,
before they’re crushed
by the hands holding them.

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