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Addict
Join Date: Oct 2004
Location: Beyond the Grey Sky
Posts: 151
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Freedom Toast
The only thing you could see in the darkness is a little circle of red for each of them, the brooding shadows. Cigarettes are not the most subtle way of keeping calm, but for some of them, I guess, it works. I didn’t really care if I had to wait in there for three years…I had told myself many a time, I will have my freedom. The darkness brought back memories, and since light would not come soon…I was forced to deal with that.
I am a piece of French Toast. My parents were French Toast, their parents were French Toast, all my relatives are French Toast; you get the idea. But I remember the day when all of that changed. My parents had always said that if war came, and the English Muffins began bombing with the egg shells, that I would have an alternative. I never knew what that was, but it gave me hope.
Until they actually told me. I forget their exact words, but I hate poignant moments. They told me I was, in fact, not from France! I was not French Toast, I was American French Toast! In the words of those fighting this war, if I could make it to America, I would be Freedom Toast. Not an hour had passed after their revelation when I left, distraught with the disarray of the world. The death and dying of France I was to leave behind, in an attempt to embrace this chance at freedom. The air was humid and it was raining that day, but since I’m soggy anyway, it did not matter. I did not look behind to wave my family goodbye, though I knew they were all doomed when the English Muffins came. I wish I had.
It was a disturbing day, two weeks later, when I had hidden in the kitchen of a plane destined for America, when I found a newspaper with pictures of the destruction in France. Right on the front cover was a picture with some humans in the front, but in the back, I could see a pan. And in that pan, before my very eyes, were the remnants of many of my family. They had not been eaten. They had been broiled to a crisp and exploded into thousands of pieces by the eggshells. Body parts and syrup lay strewn everywhere, and I just stared at it. I don’t know what kind of toast it takes to be so cold, but I could not feel a thing. No tears of butter, no harsh breakdown. I just stared, feeling odd, and hating myself for not feeling anything. I haven’t felt a thing since.
I was the last to survive the crash. The plane I was on was intercepted by the supposedly neutral Swiss Cake Rolls, and imploded after hitting the ocean in pieces. We were only a few miles from shore, so I floated my way there, soggy as ever. Funny…the broad horizon of freedom seems empty when you’re alone. By the time I got there, apathy had consumed me.
On shore, I was seized, tried, and convicted of crossing the border without a passport. They wanted to send me back to France, but I was too swift. One night I snuck out, and met a band of immigrants like myself. We hopped into the back of an eighteen wheeler and set off to get as deep into America as we could. I guess, by then, we were Freedom Toast, but it didn’t feel like it.
Not until I learned my sister had survived. I saw another newspaper with her in the background on the third page. She was in America! She was Freedom Toast too! Suddenly I no longer felt that horrible apathy, and I felt, all at once, the horror of losing my family. But when the butter had dried, and my texture had become tougher, I sat down in the back of this eighteen wheeler, which happened to be a cigarette transport, and waited. I knew the truck was headed for California; I had heard the trucker talking about it before he put on his pink tanktop and heels. That’s where my sister was. All I had to do was wait. Three weeks later, we had reached California.
The truck stopped. All of us held our breaths. We could not be found, not now, so close! I had glanced out before, and seen the sign of the town where my sister lived. We were too close to being Freedom Toast. The light flooded as the doors were ripped open. The Big Macs had found us! They were all holding AKetchup-47’s, and grimacing. We dropped our cigarettes and ran.
I heard the shots behind me, and felt the specks of sticky maple syrup on my back. I kept running. I looked up and saw my sister’s street! I had found her! Praise America, I was Freedom Toast! I was Freedom Toast!
And I had just enough time to kneel in happiness before three rounds imploded my chest, and one moment to feel the maple syrup on my hands as it seeped onto the ground before I fell dead. But I was free, damn it. I was free.
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~Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any sense of compassion~Tool
~Don't ever let life pass you by~Incubus
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