Oscar De La Renta
Oscar De La Renta
and you’re biggest fears
don’t even occur
and what you least expected
slaps you in the face.
This is written after Dzhokhar Tsarnaev is hospitalized and responding to questioning in writing post Boston Marathon Bombings. Trigger warning: this is a descriptive fictionalized piece I’ve imagined for the perspective of a girl who has walked into the party at UMass Dartmouth after Tsarnaev committed a terrorist attack. Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was seen at a frat party and attempting to resume life as normal after the Copley killings and attack.
“they said that he went to school the day after.
he was chugging beer out of a kegger at a frat party.
he was on his way to enjoying the true college experience.
some joked about how he looked like the killer all over the news,
what a trip! look at that resemblance, never thought you had it in you! they jokingly jab.
she is standing in the corner of the room. she held a cup of water.
she felt a twisting knot turning in her stomach.
‘this is a life of excess right? i shouldn’t be concerned, we are all just having fun.’
but she can’t help but admit to herself that something doesn’t feel quite right.
he had the party by his fingertips, swinging like a pendulum, they are his yo-yo, his plaything,
his eyes smirked with mischief, some found it attractive, a turn-on. he seems like a challenge.
from the corner of the room, she saw a glint of red in his stare,
there was something more than playfulness,
there was pain,
there was struggle,
there was shame.
but he wouldn’t admit to any of it,
not this soon,
instead he danced through the misery,
and fooled his friends to thinking he was just the life of the party.
he is insane.
she felt a fire burning up within her, beneath her ribcage, and flushing up into her cheeks.
everything is not okay.
i’m not sure what, but there is something demonic looming in this room,
the lights turned red in her mind, and all she could focus on was him,
like a stage, where the rocker slays his guitar,
but there is no guitar in this room,
only people, his naive friends,
this dumbfounded party.
he is a slayer, and no fingers are pointing, no voices are screaming, but those in his head that she can hear like flashing sirens, like muffled screams, the bass of his voice raising the hairs on her arms, the cold drafting into this room chilling her to her bone like an ice dagger, shuddering her into a cold sweat of terror and nightmare.
panic rises beneath her skin, but to what accord does she have the right to feel so?
where is her fact? is her intuition the basis for which she can make judgements?
this person is seriously ill and deranged. he is jealous, he is vengeful, he is alone in his mind.
but he used to be full of life, i remember him, I’ve seen him move, I’ve watched him laugh, I’ve seen him hug, kiss, and joke. he’s asked permission, he’s asked for forgiveness. but what overcame a boy that was once so true? what leaked into his heart like that through a pinhole? a small amount of acid powerful enough to spiral someone with such potential.
this pain is unbearable, this is breaking me down, but if i yell out now, I’m sure to be institutionalized. no one would believe me, and i have no facts.
i need to leave, i need to leave, i need to leave, i need to -shit i spilled my drink- and he’s standing in front of me.
he just offered me his and laughed at my clumsiness. he’s charming, and generous.
i can’t stay here. i’m sorry, but i must be on my way. i’ll pass on the drink.”
dedicated to my homies:
i feel blessed
but i know that i’ve been taking people for granted
i want to stay and leave
anywhere but here
but when you’re near i lose fear
so now i want to stay awhile
and i can’t tell if I’m exhausted
or in bliss
but as i stand on nothing
i hold your hand for balance
tiptoeing on a dream
i sway in my zone
a world on my own
a blanket of warmth from God himself
and you’re standing next to me
and your seeming perfection is where my greed is gripping at me to be freed
but you’re just as caught and torn as me
no reason to envy the wicked
no need for sleep either
because we’ll travel to the ends of insomnia and back
and only in your spastic grace can i relax
like a fire burning everything i own
i think I’m alone
and i open my eyes to turn and realize
that i’ve already got everything i need.
good luck in Afghanistan Lance Montanez, stay safe, stay sane.
I don’t know how much more this city can take.
After a couple of days, I’m getting used to the sounds of helicopters and the way black FBI vans zoom through traffic.
I’ve slept perhaps 6 hours total this week, and I know I’m not alone in that.
are we important yet?