Via Dolorosa (journey of sorrows)

Via Dolorosa

I knew it was going to happen, always I knew, though it never comforted me when it came. At least though, we had some time together, five short years. I know I should be happy with the time we had together but still I feel God is wrong and at fault.
The moment I saw her I knew how it would be. For every person I always knew how it would be, that is my curse. It is the reason of my unhappiness. It would be the reason of my suicide if suicide was actually plausible but I know better. Even my own fate is unmysterious and undeniable.
The first time I saw it, that I knew, was in high school. It was the first day of my junior year. Into Mr. Kochenberger’s third hour Psychology class I walked slow. My self-esteem was a little low from my high weight and low social class. The kids usually ignored me like I wasn’t there. The few who didn’t though were actually quite cruel. So, into Psych 101 I entered with my head down.
“Lowder,”(as he always called me) I heard in a warm voice. From my careful study of the white linoleum squares, I looked up. Mr. Koch (as I would come to know him) was smiling. His hair was light and curly often it made me think of Ronald McDonald then I would smile and be satisfied for the rest of the day. He was giving me a big toothy grin and part of me saw this. But the other part of me saw how in seven years time he would be dead.


He would have a major heart attack in his basement. His wife would find his cold body three hours later when dinner was done. I also knew I would be at his funeral more than a little sad. Not just me however hundreds of his students over a twenty year teaching career would come out and touch his wife’s heart with their compassion.
“Hi,” I said with my voice sounding cracked and mousy to my own ears. To the back of the room I went. Favoring the furthest seat from the front. It was nearest to the interior of the school as well as the windows that looked upon the library.



Over the years I met dozens maybe even hundreds of people and for every person there was a death. It was an undeniable chain of events that more often than not were already in motion. Some of the endless names of people had a precious few months or weeks while others had decades. My high school years were definitely affected by this ability. It took over two years for me to learn that fighting this would only make it worse. If I tried to close my mind to it, it would creep in throwing my thoughts and concentration into darkness forcing me to experience their demise.
Most people expired naturally from disease or some other calamity. Though there was a few (isn’t there always a few), whom lived in and for violence. Mostly those whom lived in violence died in it as well. Dennis was the most memorable of this disfunctional group. I had him for fourth period during my senior year. Most people I tried my best to ignore, but Dennis would try to draw me to his fate like a moth to flame. Dennis was the leader of some street gang or another. By March I had dodged him and his circumstances. That was until the fight. It was with a kid that he had out weighed by 20 pounds and at least five or six inches.
The class was supposed to be reading Beowulf. My anal self was doing exactly that when Denis tossed his desk left hitting the empty one directly in front of me. With a start I looked up into Dennise’s contorted cream colored face. His eyes were sunken pits that carried no soul.
“You fuckn crab!” he said to the kid whose name was Matt if I remember correctly. Matt was scared, his brown eyes were moons and his lower lip trembled. Dennis with no other word threw his left fist into Mat’s nose. The scarlet liquid stained Mat’s face instantly as I watched one scarlet drop fly leisurely to the desk in front of me. It created a small pool of such a fierce red that even I got a little scared.
Suddenly Dennise’s fate came to me. It would be eight years and a small stint in prison later, but it would come. Dennis who would be deejaying raves at the time would bring it upon himself. He’d do it by trying to cheat his own homeboy and member of his hood (gang). This would be all over a useless drug called nitrous.




Dennis, who every one know liked to play with guns and shoot, would be so fucked up he could barely stand yet still he tried to punk Cletis. Pulling out a gun and firing but the bullet would only graze Cletis’s check. Cletis will then take the gun, which will be a .380 with hollow tips and fire, aiming totally with fear. The hollow tipped slug will enter Dennise’s left temple and remove his whole jaw. Cletis, who met Denis in his own stint in prison for GTA, would freak out. Inlisting a friend he would steal a backhoe and bury Dennis. Two years later they would find his bonny corps and only his abusive mother would mourn him.
Well that is how high school was few very few friends all whom would die both ripe and old or in some form of tranquility. Though, there was this one guy, Quinn, who was a cool son of a bitch. Still though ten years from when I met him he would be driving down local 180 with a blood alcohol level of 3.23. At which time his pick up would crash through a rail and plummet from a bridge driving Quinn’s teeth into his brain.
When I was 20 years old doing little else than reading books and smoking a blunt or two my homegirl Angel introduced me to Samantha. The moment I saw her long black hair and dark round eyes I loved her. Not all do to my curse either.
I saw a time nearly five short years away when she would pass quietly after a short illness. At which I would be at her side and strong. So quickly after meeting, I knew we would marry. So to be near her I would write. Mostly morbid deathly novels that of course in American culture would hit the best sellers list. After all inspiration was just a glance away in public.
I knew we would fight like all couples do but I would give in easily because of my insight. The good would heavily out way the bad and our short life together would be happy. In her death bed she would squeeze my hand with all the strength she could muster and tell me that she loved me with all her heart and thank me for making her life so full in such short time. And that was exactly how it was!







Two days ago, I buried my dear Samantha in a small cemetery in the Rocky Mountains. Why, might you ask, am I writing this fighting through tears and painful memories? The answer is simple. I loved Samantha with everything that I am but still I did not share with her this secret, this horrible curse that gave me all of my anti-socialness.
So now, I sit hoping that there is a Barnes and Nobles or Amazon.com in heaven. So maybe she’ll know that possibly she will read and understand why I never told her.


The end by Eric Z Fox