Categories > Original > Drama
Everyone, we all mostly pray for the same things. "Please let me get that job I interviewed for last week." "Please let me have enough money to make rent." "Please let so-and-so ask me out."
But every once in a while, we pray for different things, things of of a much darker nature. "Please let my family live to see tomorrow." "Please help me stop this." "Please save me from this hell."
Anymore, all Artemio does with his free time is watch the news. He doesn't have a TV, let alone cable, but Sophia has both, so he spends most of his afternoon or morning or whatever sitting with Oceana on the couch while Sophia's at work, eyes glued to the television where CNN flickers behind the glass.
The war is getting worse, and Artemio's stomach is sinking a little lower every day. All he can feel anymore is the tightness of his throat closing in on itself and the stiffness in his hands, paralyzed by hours of clutching at the knees of his pants, white-knuckled.
When he was a kid, when he was a teenager, until December of last year, he used to pray for normal things. But now, the only thought that runs through his head in the dead of night, despite what he said last winter when he was cold, naked, and having his heart ripped out, the only prayer he can think of is:
"Please let me see him one more time before he - or I or both of us - dies."
But every once in a while, we pray for different things, things of of a much darker nature. "Please let my family live to see tomorrow." "Please help me stop this." "Please save me from this hell."
Anymore, all Artemio does with his free time is watch the news. He doesn't have a TV, let alone cable, but Sophia has both, so he spends most of his afternoon or morning or whatever sitting with Oceana on the couch while Sophia's at work, eyes glued to the television where CNN flickers behind the glass.
The war is getting worse, and Artemio's stomach is sinking a little lower every day. All he can feel anymore is the tightness of his throat closing in on itself and the stiffness in his hands, paralyzed by hours of clutching at the knees of his pants, white-knuckled.
When he was a kid, when he was a teenager, until December of last year, he used to pray for normal things. But now, the only thought that runs through his head in the dead of night, despite what he said last winter when he was cold, naked, and having his heart ripped out, the only prayer he can think of is:
"Please let me see him one more time before he - or I or both of us - dies."
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