His rite of passage
From soldier to mercenary
Began before he knew
The significance of his knuckles,
For they served a greater purpose
When he was only six.
Back then,
He knew not why
He was cordially invited
To private functions
In confined aquatic spaces,
Nor could he appreciate his actions.
Years pass and he still feels shrapnel
Wrapped and tied in flesh
Around a guilty conscience
Within his left hand.
Not a month goes by
When his skin feels less than immaculate.
He would travel through life
Carrying this shame and taint
In the folds of his stomach,
Regurgitating rage
In order to protect his pain.
Long walks from school to home
Would involve intermittent glances
Over his shoulders
Heavy and burdened with fear.
Locker rooms and communal showers
Were his torture chambers.
Restrooms without the luxury
Of locks or doors
Harbored catalysts for asthmatic spasms
And hyperventilation
Memories of the molestation
Were magnified by his mind's eye
Many a time
Crippling
Embalming
Weakening
His will to live.
Eventually he retreated into
The depths of terra firma
So he could not see light
Beaming from an omnipotent sun
Emphasizing the evil embedded within the digits.
On days when he withdrew his withdrawal
He was conflicted,
Craving affection yet fearing it.
Loathing violence yet committing it.
Seeking happiness
While feigning it.
Trapped within his body
Is a soul
Buried alive
In a four-chambered casket
Pleading to be excavated.
So many routes to take from there.
He drove through terrains
Surrounded by shrubs and marshes
Of self-hatred and isolation,
Doing what he could
To shed his skin,
Toxic and caustic,
Or at least intoxicate himself
To forget about his wretched body
Drenched in soot,
All the while exposing it.
The early years
Left him behind
And filled him with vengeance
And depleted his faith in trust and humanity.
Fifteen years have passed.
Silence is broken.
New fears greet him at the end of his rope.

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