Shock Treatment

The embers of nose bloodying wars,
between fanatical player referees,
dimmed to ash.
Report cards were signed, celebrated and mourned.
Steele vividly remembered the dress
the loveliest girl in his childhood universe
wore the last time he saw her.
Her farewell message began with
‘I’m writing on this page because it’s pink.
I am a little color blind don’t you think’
As a siren signaled the end,
Steele was stoic as others burst into nostalgic tears.
He stood alone amidst fervent hugging.

Three years later, in a vast hall of slow dancers,
darkness hid the pain of a solitary teen.
Steele’s mind played pinball
between the dance
and the dying seconds of primary school.
Nauseated by the smug smirks of narcissistic brats,
he crept into the misty evening rain.
Apparently those Casanova wannabes
believed squeezing parts of a girl
was as commendable as circumnavigating the globe in a kiak.

The whisper quiet vehicle closed in.
Steele had heard rumours of a storm cloud grey van,
scouring urban wastelands, in search of slaves.
The vehicle halted between abandoned houses.
Steele wasn’t the dilly dallying kind.
The cinder block he shot putted through the windscreen
stunned the predators long enough
for him to hurdle a brick wall,
vault a paling fence,
and long jump a storm water ditch.

A free roaming Rottweiler dubbed King Kong
and a Pitbull known as Cyclone,
heard the commotion
from their overgrown graveyard playground.
The driver accelerated in a blind panic.
A terrified would be kidnapper’s hand
was jammed in a panel door
and her fingers mauled to the bone.

Steele had covered too much territory to hear her screams.
He felt invincible
as he wrong footed a wallet snatcher
and accelerated down a blacked out street.
The misery of isolation had been obliterated
as emphatically as the torture chamber windscreen.

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