PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Kristelle ran out onto the balcony, desperate hands clutching wildly for the guard rails. She leaned over gasping for air. Closing her eyes, dizziness crashing over her like a wave. It passed and nausea continued its work. She swayed, feeling incredibly sick at what she'd just seen. All the time her mind was singing, “How?” over and over and over and over again in an endless litany. She opened her eyes and it was like there was a projector casting it's horrific image before her eyes. She closed them hurriedly, trying to escape the sights and the sounds behind her. The shouting continued, the arguing, the blame, but nothing was equal to that sharp sound, the shot, that had rung out in the hotel room. Nothing could compare to the spray of crimson that had fountainhead out of her Father's corpse, and nothing could ever be so horrific as his warm blood spraying over her face and her hands. They'd told her it would be bad, that she'd have to steel herself to pull that trigger, but nothing could have prepared her for that. She stayed at the rail, frozen in her endless nightmare, and all the time she was reliving the tableau that had played itself before her. She had been helpless to prevent that final, terrible, conclusion. No; that wasn't right. She'd caused it. No matter how much she tried to run from the truth, she'd been the one that had pulled the trigger, and she'd always had a choice, even if it was between doing what they wanted and death. And now, they stood over her Father's body, trying to decide who should call the police, and when, and how she should be when they arrived, whether they should pose as people who'd been 'passing by' when they heard the shots... Their arguments went on and on, meaningless in front of the one truth that stood out in her mind. Her father was dead. She'd been the one that killed him, and she'd never be forgiven. In an instant, her imagination ran loose, and she could see the look of horror and disgust on people's faces as they realised who she was and what she'd done. She could hear the accusing voices, the look of betrayal on her Mother's face. No one would understand that she'd had to do it. Again, she corrected herself. No. She'd had a choice. And most of all, she could imagine the propaganda. The paparazzi. They'd have a field day. The President, killed by his own daughter while his security guards stood by. Something along those lines, she imagined. Something flashy and attention grabbing. And suddenly, she didn't want to see it. She didn't want the scenes of her imagination to come real. Opening her eyes, she looked over the view before her. The harbour spread in front of her, a busy  Sydney street beneath her feet, people walking around on the ground, never once looking up, going about their busy lives. She was fifty floors up, and, looking over at the deep blue of the water, the sun setting on the horizon, with birds flying, graceful on the wind, she could almost imagine that she'd fly. Spreading her arms, she closed her eyes, and felt the wind through her hair, the smell of salt tart on the breeze. Leaning forward some more, she felt her weight shift forward, and almost pinpoint the moment that she started to fly. After that first exhilarating second, she opened her eyes,  and the sight of the ground rushing towards her greeted her. Her illusions fell away, and she screamed. She wasn't flying. She was falling.