Moonlight in Park

Since before life first dared to crawl from its cave in the middle of the night, the Moon has shone in the sky. As cats cry on fences, wolves howl, and lunatics exercise their right to be crazy, people have blamed strange behavior on the light of the Moon. Most horror movies encourage this superstition as they cast the Moon as an actor in its production. Scientists will explain that the Moon is not magical. It doesn’t even create its own light. It is not a star, but a reflection of the sun’s brilliance. But could it be more? Could the Moon change the wavelength of the daystar’s energy? Could Moonlight be a catalyst of violence?

Sitting on a park bench, staring at the Moon, these thoughts play incessantly in my mind. I watch as a Funyun bag tumbles down the walking path. The wind greedily keeps the snack to itself, as it continues its journey out of sight. Flexing my toes, I attempt to release some tension. My encounter in the park has left me with chest pain, forcing me to rest and contemplate life’s biggest issues.

Several years have passed since our small town fell victim to a murder. Murder seems to be a daily occurrence in big cities, but not here. I admit that the Midwest’s reputation as easy-going folks no longer applies, but taking a life is another thing. Angry men channel their energy into false theories and impossible rumors. These people believe that the world is out to infringe on their right to be hateful racists. In our town, time has only stood still. Backward attitudes and narrow-minded zealots rule the town, using their beliefs to dictate policy and law. Escape is only possible for those worthy enough to attend university or enlist. For me—there is no escape.

I didn’t have the rich parents or make the right decisions in college. I wanted to save the world, not accumulate wealth. Searching for the perfect partner seemed less important than good sex. How would I know that the best sex she had was with someone else? I worked jobs, not careers. I fought the wrong battles at the wrong times. Job hopping was my profession. I would say I was ordinary if I wasn’t so broken. My slice of the American pie was small and unfulfilling. I never wanted 15 minutes of fame, but I did want 15 minutes of peace.

Raindrops begin a light rhythm on my felt cap. My coat shields me against the weather. As the blood washes off the knife, I watch the red river stream along the bench, falling to the paved path onto nourishing the grass. The light of the moon reflects off the blades handle. The perfect silver metal plagued by red fingerprints. Images of the knife slashing again and again, blood spraying from the punctures and movement. Death was assured due to the ferocity of the attack.

Coffins are one of the worst inventions of man. Our bodies should nourish nature, not allow our bodies to rot in a box. I will not decompose in a coffin. When my time comes, I will be planted with a tree and grow through its branches. Reaching toward the sunshine, my spirit will flow with the wind until the stars wink out from exhaustion. Humans are a pox on the cycle of life. We are a predator who feeds off our planet and leaves nothing but crap behind.

The cool wind keeps me awake. Blood loss sets in as my mind becomes fuzzy and my brain runs down. Soon, soon…there will be sirens and flashing colors of red and blue to signal my rescue. But salvation won’t come in time. Darkness claims me as I thank the moonlight for keeping me company.