Two Sides Of The Coin. By John Patrick Robbins

                     

I remember drinking with Bruce  swapping stories around the fire.

We were both far from saints but we were close as friends .

I remember him speaking of an incident he had, when leaving a crackhouse one time and a unlucky soul who was stupid enough to try to rob him when he was leaving .

I remember the odd glee he took in speaking of killing another man.

It wasn't bullshit, it was ruled a justifiable homicide.

“He got me in the shin and I put one  between his eyes.”

He laughed as he took another hit from the bottle we were passing back and forth.

Bruce was a different sort or cold , he found glee in stupid shit I found only regrets and images no amount of poison would ever erase from my thoughts .

I didn't say much when he rambled. I only kept my guard up knowing no matter even if you took care of a predator it could turn on you at any given second .

Bruce enjoyed the chaos and simply collected a check.

Two men in the same business who held respect for one another  and shared occasional laughs .

“You know dude eventually one day your luck's going to run out  if you keep playing with fire .”

“Last time I checked we all die eventually so fuck it I'm going to enjoy every  single second I can !”

Bruce had a point in that statement and I didn't kid myself into believing my story would end any better than his .

We were  dancing upon a razors edge living a life few would know and most simply read about or watch in some bullshit movie upon the screen .

Violence lends itself to a certain freedom most truly never fathom.

And our willingness to cross that line made us monsters to most, but no matter the perception we were simply men existing the only way we understood how.

We both lived that life and did things I rather bury with the past.

We knew it couldn't last forever. I am still standing and Bruce went to the table too often and found others who were willing to cross that line as easy as we did .

I knew it was time to leave the shit behind, that night as we sat swapping stories around the fire.

Not because of fear of what Bruce had done in the past .

I just simply didn't want to have to be the one that closed his chapter myself .

They found him in the woods beaten to a pulp unrecognizable aside from a tattoo that helped identify his body.

He found his end, hands tied behind his back, his head caved in from a baseball bat. I read the story in the paper and had to think of the man I once considered a friend.

I imagined his pain and knew I deserved no better.

That day I buried his memory with a good binge, he was no longer a monster .

Just another cold case, I got out before someone decided to pen  my final chapter for me .

To bare the scars doesn't make you lucky it just makes you smarter than the rest.

I am the last one standing and the loneliest fool you will ever truly know.

Monsters are all mortal just the same.

John Patrick Robbins is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review, Under The Bleachers Drinkers Only , The Abyss and The Black Shamrock Magazine.

His work has been published here at the Dope Fiend Daily , San Pedro River Review,  Ariel Chart,  The Blue Nib, Oddball Magazine, Heroin Love Songs,  San Antonio Review,  Red Fez, Punk Noir Magazine and Piker Press .

He is also the author of If Walls Could Speak Mine Would Blush punished under his pen name Frank Murphy form Syndicate Press.

His work is always unfiltered.