Serving the Moment

I didn’t do it. I was in the moment.
I hear a lot of that here.
I could see the hate in her stormy blue eyes, could feel it as a chill on the back of my neck. She glared at me as though I were scum. My palm was greased in sweat despite the cold winter air. I nearly lost my grip on her thin arm, but I held her tight.
Why don’t you love me? Haven’t I done enough for you?
She never replied. She never had the chance to reply. The moment reached into my chest. It ripped out my heart with its clawed hand. I don’t remember slamming her into the mailbox. I have no recollection of her body twitching in front of me. The moment watched as her life trickled away.
My first memory after the moment relinquished its seize on my injured heart was the icy tears frozen stiff to my cheeks. Just ahead, my daughter’s tiny corpse painted the snow with her still steaming blood. She was the world’s most beautiful snow angel.
Apparently the men of court have never been in the moment. They don’t understand that the moment is a killer; the moment is what puts innocent men to jail. So here we’ll stay, serving time for the moment because the moment will never be caught.

Serving the Moment

kinewa

Joined January 2008

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

The paragraph in which the moment takes over is meant to be read very quickly, as though the narrator is trying to get the words out like ripping off a bandaid. I hope the shortened sentences got that idea across….

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