Michael Dyer's The Unforgiven

An elevated, infantile boy ran through alleys and echoes of antagonism echoed behind him. His filthy hands greed inside his black jacket pockets; His black shoes stomp on a New York Times newspaper dated 1993. He darted to Brooklyn and jogged to an immense six story high apartment building. Bouncing up the stairs, ascended to the fourth floor, and revolting room 4C. As the door rusted open, a deep voice came from a shadowed corner.
“Where you’ve been Michael?” His Middle-aged father, David Dyer, would inquire his 17-year-old son Michael. David gazed at Michael’s hands smothered inside his jacket pockets. “What’s inside your pockets?”
“Nothing”
“Don’t lie to ME!” David stretched out to reach his pockets as Michael resisted. Shortly after, David held the leathered wallet of elderly Tristan, the bartender’s wallet stored with Michael.
“You snatched old man Tristan’s wallet? Why?”
“Dad, I need the dough to get into those writing programs at college-“
“Aw, not this crap about college again? I told you before, that we could not pay for college. Besides, you are not responsible enough to go to college…”
“…like yourself?”
David pulled his belt and swung it across Michael’s left cheek and a diminutive stream of crimson blood pour down as he raced to his room. Michael enjoyed writing as he wrote a short poem-

Light shines above me,
Darkness beneath me,
I’m split between both.

By 3:09am, Michael packed his belongings in a grey sports bag and darted to the wooden front door, but abandoned a letter and a tear from a short glance at the family portrait. A letter to his parents: David & Maria Dyer and his 13-year-old brother: Dan.

  Mom, Dad, & Dan,
Forgive my sins, my passion for writing has swept my soul away.
Writing is in my blood, my gene, and my heart.
I write to thee and ONLY thee Unforgiven.
David- Unforgiven
  -Michael.

Two Years Later…

Hidden among shadows, Michael wonders through New York in search of money for the writing classes held at a college he wanted to attend. He wonders through the streets of New York marauding innocent citizens, pickpocket innocent, and raiding local stores. His obsession led to the brutality in the streets of New York, rumors kept going roughly about the amount of green dough stored with Michael. From street wising every day, Michael makes $3,600.00 a year and has $7,200.00 as of December 30, 1995.
December 31, 1995: 11:49pm. Michael returned from a robbery at a petite market by Brooklyn, and returned exhausted, he lay in a heap of trash hidden in a dark alley and at a snail's pace shut his eyelids. His grey sports bag at his palm and a silent whisper from his lips.
“Happy New Year,”
A fist dove into his left cheek and a lofty, shadowy, hooded man threw another round of punches to reach out for all of Michael’s riches. The hooded man chuckled, threw his rock hard leg, and pounded it on Michael’s guts effectively. Michael went unconscious, but awakened the following morning at 10:01am.
“Uh-that hurt last night, I sure hope-“. His grimy hands searched for the grey sports bag and ruptured with antagonism.
“Where the hell is MY money?” He searched and searched, but could not locate a single dollar in sight. Resentment swore down his throat and tears trembled from his dimness black eyes.
“I need money”

December 23, 1996: 7:52pm. A .38 revolver in Michael’s palm and a black sports bag aside him, he waited in a murky alley in Brooklyn. Gently, It began to dispense raindrops and then light rainfall. Until, Michael gazed at an upcoming white Mercedes and fired a quick shot at the front seat. Immediately the car stopped, the bullet reached down on the left side of the chest. When Michael galloped to the Mercedes, he whimpered. It is David laying helpless and dieing in that Mercedes, David held out an envelope and a goodbye.
“I’m not Unforgiven…you are”
Inside that white envelope hid a check able for Michael to attend those writing classes at college, but the date had been inscribed from three years ago, poor David has been wanting to give it to Michael ever since. Michael sprinted to the pay phone on the other side of the street and shoved in quarters. He called his mother, Maria and passionately chattered with Maria. “Mom, it’s been a long time. I want you to know… I love you and I want you to forgive my sins. Father is dead, I take the blame for his awful death; Goodbye Mother”. Michael hangs the phone while Maria still calls back to him. Maria drove to the scene and tumbled with numerous tears and endless shrieks and lying on top of David’s lap lay Michael’s unloaded .38 revolver.

December 29, 1996: 3:58pm. David’s funeral had taken place, all friends and family had attended, all except for Michael Dyer. Dan and Maria gazed through the group of tearful people, David’s first son did not attend his funeral that day. After the funeral, Dan felt heartbroken and depressed so he inquired his mother to let him go for a stroll.
“Dan, we’re all going to need one after this gruesome day,” Maria poignantly uttered.
Dan paced down to the Manhattan Bridge and stared into the clouds reminding him of one of Michael’s poems for a children’s book:

Hovering over me, flies a fluffy pillow, when it becomes lonely it showers rain, when it is depressed, it pounds us with its watery tears, oh how it feels to be a cloud.

Dan darted at the middle of the bridge from a bench he sat on, and remembered when David took Michael and Dan to the Manhattan Bridge for the first time together. Dan looked into the blue and spotted Michael, staring at the bottom of the bridge and as excited Dan reacted he scuttled to him, but remembered Michael slaughtered his father. Dan stood in the middle of the road and a hooded man behind him honked the horn of his grey Ford pick-up truck.
“Move out of the way kid! Move! Move!” The driver bellowed.
As Dan move out of the street, he noticed the other three men in the pick-up truck and they all held a gun. Dan became panicky and saw the face of the hooded man and back to Michael.
“Michael! They got guns!” Dan screeched to the peak of his voice as Michael gazed at the grey pick-up truck and the hooded man he met before. Triggers were pulled, screaming was heard, and bullets pounded on Michael’s chest awfully and endlessly. The pick-up truck drove off the scene and left Michael about to tremble down the Manhattan Bridge, but as he was about to tremble, he darted at the heavenly clouds and requested an ultimatum.
“Father, don’t forgive me… just love me, as your son, Michael-“. Michael slipped and banged his head on a metal bar and plunged to the waters. A nearby ship, The Quagmire caught him, but was too late; Michael had lost too much blood.

January 01, 1997: 4:13pm. Dan, Maria, family and a quantity of Michael’s high school friends attended Michael’s funeral. Michael departed this life at the age of twenty years old and yet will always be remembered. The minister told everyone that Michael may have caused a pinch of sins, but should always be remembered for the superior deeds that Michael has every accomplished. Maria submitted all of Michael’s short stories and poetry to become published. She felt depressed over the fact that Michael never accomplished his dream of a writer and decided to send them all to be published. By 1999, Michael’s work had been officially published into a book of all his poetry especially one of his most popular poems that is still recognized today; the entire poem: The Unforgiven.

Forgive my sins, my passion for writing has swept my soul away.
Writing is in my blood, my gene, and my heart, every day.
I write to thee and ONLY thee Unforgiven.
I can sense the pencil writing in my hand, once again.
I can feel the passion of my poetry,
Nevertheless, why can’t the Unforgiven feel my poetry free?
~~~~~
I can hear the words in my poetry,
However, is the unforgiven deaf from my words?
He sees my passion for writing, twaddle,
My father bears himself as The Unforgiven.

The End.