Lefty

Good morning. My name is Lefty. No, no last name. You can just call me Lefty. I know it’s kind of an odd name, but Lefty it is. What you’ve come to understand about me is just me holding up a mirror. I trade one mask for another. I’m that nagging little voice in the back of your head. I’m the whispers in the darkness. I’m the get-up-and-go. And I’m the sit-down-and-stay.

The only light dies with every gasping breath. The only hope dies with every shuddering gasp. We’re heading into dark, turbulent times. The pacifist is addicted to blood. No use in being cute, no sense in being coy; if you’re gonna land on your feet, you might as well grab the cream on the way. War rears its ugly head on the horizon, and it’s not just across the Pond. It’s here. It’s a different kind of warfare, but it’s here. But I, Lefty No-Name, I can’t just give up. I want things to be better and not just for me. This doesn’t have to go on – the ugliness, the war. There’s got to be a future somewhere, a future that I have to help make. A time that’s brighter. Bright enough to know better than to kill the innocent. Some people think that I’m wrong. Maybe they’re right, and fighting – in any kind of war – only engenders more fighting. But sitting around on your rump has never brought any peace, either. I’m only doing what I think is right. It’s the only thing that I can do.

But I’m really nothing more than a puppet who is constantly at war with himself. I’m pulled by the bourgeois in one direction, and I’m being pulled by the Little-Man in another direction. I’m stalemated. It’s a silly time to learn to swim when you’re about to drown. So, maybe I’ll have a thousand sins on my soul. There’s no redemption for sinners like me, so what’s the sense in forgiving anyone?

  My voice whispers dry past my throat like the tongue of a corpse. My own whispers die. My death could save a life – at least here at home.

Apologies are breaking me. Constants aren’t so constant anymore. In our pathetic blood-stained hands, we hold the fate of so many people. Ha. We are God’s gift to the world. Hallelujah.

On one hand, I question you because no man’s ideals should be taken on words alone. I act recklessly when everyone else is sitting on their rears trying to figure out a plan. I try to make everyone think less of you because they shouldn’t be following you like sheep to the slaughter. Please, if I die, don’t let there be nightmares.

And on the other hand, my brothers are dying just trying to live. What am I to do?

In the end, what am I but a mask? Like I said: what you understand about me is just me holding up a mirror. Who am I?

I am Lefty. No, no last name. Just Lefty. It’s a bit of an odd name, but Lefty it is. But what does it really matter what you call me? Because really, we’re all just monsters in the end.