Charlie Evoletah’s War Within

December 11, 1998
I believe that I am a prisoner of war. I’m being held captive. My name’s not important anymore; I’m nothing more then a number in here.  This is the most terrifying thing that’s every happened to me, or anyone for that matter.  My stomach feels as if it’s being pierced with the tips of a thousand knives ablaze. The anxiety that embodies me is too much to try and cope with. My ears tingle and legs shake as I sit and bide my time, helpless and pathetic. The air I inhale is full of hate and despair.  The mood is depressing and draining. A giant shadow always seems to be cast over head…and I fear the dark. I gaze emotionlessly at the burning bodies. For I cannot help them, so I do not sympathize. I hear people screaming and babies crying. Bombs are falling from the sky like the first hard rain in April. I anticipate the shock that runs through the earth when I start to hear the whistling in the air, BOOM, Its getting easier to ignore it. Sometimes I fool myself into believing that I’m having a dream to escape reality, so I try and scream to wake up.  I’m always conscious of the fact that I ‘m sleeping but scared because I’m trapped in my own head with these tumultuous thoughts and frightening dreams. Then I realize it’s just a trance that I fall into when I think of the culmination of tragic events that has lassoed my heart and branded it with hate. They took my soul and put me in a small box with a window. I feel like an old toy with no batteries that was thrown back in the box, only to see the darkness under a small boy’s bed.  When I looked out of the window I became a witness of genocide.  The whole idea of what I am apart of is really hard to grasp and understand.  This may be because I don’t ever talk about it. But in my defense there’s only one person to talk to, and I’m afraid of him.  He just stares aimlessly out of the window weeping. I hate when he cries.  I try to ignore him because oddly enough the man looks exactly like me and it makes me uncomfortable. Although I haven’t seen my reflection in a while I remember the face to some extent, like the first girl you’ve ever had drunken sex with.  The man’s sunken bloodshot eyes glare empty through black framed eyeglasses.  His tangled greasy hair lies still on his shoulders. He often runs his hand over his full black beard as if in a train of thought before he begins to cry.  I fucking hate when he cries!
        His physical features remind me of the late Charles Manson.  I freak myself out on occasion when I think about it because if the man by the window looks like Charles Manson, and I look like the man by the window, then that means I look like Charles Manson.  Am I subconsciously associating myself with a serial killer because theirs a secret horrifying act that I desire to commit?  Maybe, maybe not, but I can’t kill the man by the window. He just doesn’t deserve it.  Although he does cry a lot and I despise a man who cries.  Who am I kidding I couldn’t end a life if I wanted to. Though the more I think about it the more I feel compelled to do it, and it doesn’t help when he WON’T STOP FUCKING CRYING. I feel like screaming until my trachea bleeds and my veins pop to draw my attention from the whimpering.  I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to kill the man by the window, but first I will make him speak.  I will force him to ask for forgiveness.  I want him to ask our savior to forgive me.  I never wanted to do something this dishonorable, but I have no other options.
Try to understand those who are troubled. 
GOD BLESS US ALL,
Charlie Evoletah



         “Hey Bill come in here and see this.” shouted Mrs. Miller. “Yes dear?” replied her husband strolling into the living room.  “The pastor and his family are on the news”  “Well I’ll be dammed, looks like his son finally ruined everyone in his family’s lives,” mumbled Bill irritably under his breath.  “Bill Miller you should be ashamed of yourself. The boy is dead.” “I have no sympathy for a coward who would take his own life.  I feel bad for his family I truly do, but that boy has put them through hell,” calmly stated Mr. Miller.  The conversation ended and the two crawled into bed, a goodnight kiss was exchanged and asleep they fell.
         
         “How was school today Ty?” asked his mother when he got home from school the next day. “Ok I guess” replied Ty a little shaky. “What’s wrong did something happen to you today?” asked his mother with a nervous tone in her voice.  “Well I had to get a new lab partner,”  Ty says.  “Well that’s no big deal you’ll get used to him in no time,” said Mrs. Miller encouraging. “Yea I guess,’ mumbled Ty. “So what happened to your other lab partner sweetheart,” asked his mother. “He killed himself last night.  Charles Evoletah, the pastor’s son, he ate a whole script of Oxycodon. They found him dead with a note,” explained the distraught and confused seventeen year old young man.  “I’m so sorry honey I saw that last night on the news and didn’t even think about the fact that you could have known him. Were you guys close?” asked the concerning mother. “Not really no, but mom I have a question,” stated Ty.  “What’s that honey,” said his mom. ‘Do you think Charlie will go to heaven or hell?  Dad always says that cowards who kill themselves go to hell, but his dad is a pastor. It doesn’t seem just if he were to burn in hell!” exclaimed the now curious adolescent.  “That’s a question I can’t answer bud.  It would all depend on if God forgave him or not,” explained Mrs. Miller.  “But I thought suicide is unforgivable,” said Ty. “I guess it all depends on your motives.  We didn’t know his and it’s not our job to speculate. Be concerned with yourself. Take a look in the mirror and appreciate all you have. You are blessed.”