Twisted Kreation (twistedkreation) wrote in teenpoetsociety,
Twisted Kreation

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Too Much Trust

I did this about 4 months ago.

Too Much Trust

He opened the door, glanced down at the newspaper, which had a dried out dampness to it because of last night's rain, and then slowly bent to pick it up, not bothering to look around before he shut the door and returned to his armchair. Every day was the same. He knew before he opened the paper that someone had been shot over night, someone had been robbed, and most likely a candidate for presidency had visited a nearby town, spouting their lies and hatred for their competition.

Life was routine. His life was routine.

He knew that tomorrow, Monday, he'd return to work. He'd sit down at his desk like he did every day, wait for calls, answer them, and help people sort out their problems. Everyone had problems. He worked for a crisis line. Everyone seemed to have a crisis.

A teenager lost her boyfriend. She wanted to end her life because he was her life and now it was gone.

An elderly Lady believes that her Doctor should euthanize her and wanted to do it herself because her Doctor wouldn't "help" her out. 

A Mother's child was taken by an unjust God via a car accident.

"He was my only son. God is so cruel." She wails. "WHY!?!?"

"Why" is the question that they all ask.

"God doesn't give you more than you can handle." I say to them but in the back of my mind I wonder why he trusted them so much.

I try to talk them out of killing themselves. It works every time. It doesn't work because I'm good at it. It works because they just want someone to talk to. Someone that will listen to them cry, someone that will not judge them, and someone that doesn't know them.

They are anonymous in their pain and they all like it that way.  

He tossed the paper to the table beside the chair without looking at it. He didn't need to open it to know what it said.

Routine. That is all it is. Routine. It is was if God was playing a record and it kept skipping and saying the same thing over and over again though just like with a record, you put new life into each skip, hearing the same words over and over until they become sounds instead of words which no longer make sense.

That was like life. The same thing kept happening and you eventually became deaf to it to the point that it no longer made sense. 

He reached under the chair and pulled out a pistol. He held it in his lap and pointed it toward his face.

He had life figured out. Life was routine and there was no answer to "why" because there wasn't anything more than this.

"God doesn't give you more than you can handle." He repeated.

The echo of the gun sounded through the small apartment and then silence.

This time, God was wrong to trust him so much.

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