First draft Lives of the dead (1) (1)

When i finally stand up i realized i was still

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felt it was safe enough for me to stand up. When I finally stand up I realized I was still clutching Max's leash, but Max was nowhere to be found. The loss crushed me. I ran around the park shouting his name. I looked everywhere, places he liked to hang out, places we usually stopped at, but he was nowhere to be found. I wasn't there, I was weak, I didn't save him. Shame, revulsion, and thoughts of my failures were all I knew. Wallowing in myself pity I had an epiphany. Maybe Max got scared off; maybe he couldn’t find his way back to me and simply ran home. I had to get home, I would find him, and it would be alright. I couldn’t have been unconscious too long, but the search for Max seemed to last an eternity. Ask the parents of a missing child and they’ll tell you every second is forever, moments pass but mean nothing. Time just becomes a measure of pain, the only remedy: reunion. So by the time I started home the sun had already begun its decline. In the few hours I had spent wandering through the park the world had gone to hell. I had seen riots on TV and I felt as though I was walking in the wake of one. Cars crashed and abandoned, fires burned in homes, shattered glass in the streets. Signs of struggle and death were everywhere. Blood stains and bullet casings became common sights. As I got closer to home I began to increase my pace so that by the last mile I was in a dead sprint. The run was corrupted and aberrant. Sweat ran down my face, muscles pumped, everything worked to push me further and further. It all made no sense, a body in discord and submissive, emotions raced through my mind. that moment, that obscurity, why wouldn’t it end? When I was child I lived in some pretty rough areas. Because of this I had always had bars on my windows. They put me at ease, my house became a fortress. A few bars on my windows transformed my house into an impenetrable citadel. I remembered looking out the window through the bars feeling safe and happy. So of course when I moved into my home with my wife I insisted that we get bars. They would keep us safe, and in fact, they had. Our home was untouched, pristine.
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My hands were trembling so badly I struggled getting my key into the lock for several minutes. The whole time I thought of my wife, alone, scared, and I was filled with such embarrassment. When I finally got the door open I shouted to my wife. I yelled and searched, but she was nowhere to be found. Max wasn’t there either but I had always known he wouldn’t be there; he just couldn’t be. I walked into my kitchen and sat down. I needed to drink some water; I needed to collect my thoughts. As I was sitting there trying to sort through the wreckage of the day I noticed a note taped to the fridge. It was in my wife’s handwriting. I read it slowly and repeatedly, the words struck my eyes like a flagellant’s whip.
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  • Spring '11
  • Benavides
  • Max, 2007 singles, If You Have to Ask, Private Durey

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