My Name Is Peter King

My name is Peter King, and I am committing a crime.

A crime of what you ask? This I cannot tell you. That would divulge the secret of my success in this ugly world. I'm not what you'd call a criminal though; that's all I can tell you about the current situation.

In my life I have seen that a crime can be justified as two things. The first is a crime that is something that is considered by the state, government, religion to be wrong. This means of course that it could be anything from parking on the yellow line to stabbing my girlfriend in the neck with a kitchen knife.

The second is a more personal definition of crime. A wrong thing. A crime that is considered evil – whether is it illegal or not, to be the wrong colour, a different sexuality. Depending on the person, and the peoples it effects it is still considered as such a crime.

I guess, in the scheme of things it is up to you to see what my crime is defined by.

Rain is pouring down the back of my neck, a tingling sensation of running water, slamming against skin and reminding me cruelly that I am alive. I fight the urge to shiver and pull up the collar of my coat jacket.

I stare out into the streets beyond my fogged sight. I can see flashes of living room lights and a sense of emptiness.

No one will be bothering me in this part of town tonight.

The wind decides to get nasty with me, adding to the discomfort of the rain it soars through my pocketed arms and sends me clumsily to stand in the discomfort of the deserted bus shelter to my left. Broken glass crunching below me and the feel of cheap metal under my fingers.

I pull my sodden jacket closer, with any luck my friend will be here soon and the dreaded deed will be done.

Lights, blinding and foreboding bring me to look out from the emptiness of the broken bus shelter to the car that pulls up with the window coming down to project a voice.

“Mr King?”

The voice is a drawl and more machine than human; a definition of very little regional accent and a snarl of contempt seems to linger on the edge of my name.

I answer, a timid submittal. I get no reply and the lights go dark as the engine switches off.

I sigh, relieved, shivering in my coat as the stranger gets out of the car.

I know my relief is in vain but I can at least prepare for the worst.

“You know what your crime is, Mr King?”

“I've had all day to think about it” I reply, this time with more vigour. The strangers face is still shielded by shadow and I feel the need to look into this man's eyes. You get a feel of a man through looking into his eyes.

“Bet you did...”

I barely get a chance to think about the snap reply. 

BANG.

BANG, BANG.

The broken bus shelter is the only thing that keeps me standing, fingers clutching to the front of my chest. The word pain isn't even enough to describe the discomfort and shock that's causing my body to collapse.

His shadow reaches my body and my failing eyes try to look on to an image of my killer. There is no trace of light on his face, hidden by a hood.

“Why?” I splutter, something is seeping out of me and making me feel dizzy which I can only assume is blood.

“Your crime did this to you. The crime you've been committing all this time.”

I get it, for the first time and a smile creeps to my lips, heaviness is going away and there's only something light and a trace of light to keep me occupied as that too fades.

“I lived...”

“That you did, Mr King. Goodnight...”

BANG.

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Heavily inspired by watching old and new TV shows on Netflix....

Written in 20 mins as a musical writing practice.

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