What If . . .

This is a poem (or a short story, whatever you want to call it lol) that I penned a few months back and forgot about. Im not exactly sure how long ago, but I remember the situation.

I was sitting in a pub on a Friday or Saturday evening with my father. We were having coffee, and he was doing some art on his laptop. He has a tendency of sitting for a VERY long time (long after you would normally want to leave), and this night was no exception. Normally I would kill time by reading a newsletter/paper or cruising the net on my blackberry, but this place didn’t have any reading material available AND my phones battery was totally drained, so I was sitting there, bored out of my mind. And getting increasingly uncomfortable, as the pub was filling up with the weekend evening crowds, and I don’t like being around people.

On going though my fathers “Art Studio” (a small sports bag my father uses to carry his laptop, drawing paper, pencils and other drawing and art supplies) I found a piece of blank lined lose leaf and a pen. And so I decided to do something ive never done before, write a piece in the presence of people (most of my writing happens in alone, quiet time). Around 20 or 30 minutes later, I had this:

Mable always asked herself, what if . . . what if I had not made the choices that I have made? What if I had stayed home that night? What if I had backed out before the situation got dire? She had always asked herself these questions, having lived though the results of her choices.

The choices, which led her to the bank that night. The choices, which led her to stand and watch as her acquaintance cut open the safe. The choices, that led to her arrest 2 states over, with a car full of expensive loot and cash.

She thought of the day of her take-down. How she had tried to run, but her Mercedes had nothing on the spike strips lay-ed out for her. She thought, what if I had not got out and started running, over the fence and into the bark yard? The back yard, which turned out to be that, of the chief of police.

She thought of herself running around the corner of the house, seeing the “Chief of Police” vehicle in the driveway, and then getting tackled.

She remembered the nights in the prison cell. The days were all a blur, but the nights, she recalled with complete clarity. The long, boring nights in the darkened cell.

And she remembered, how it once was. She remembered, the party’s, the boring yet fun times at work. She remembered, life before John. Before that fateful night at the bank.

As she sat on the porch swing looking out on the open ocean, she asked herself, what if I had done things differently. And, sitting there on the swing, looking over the glassy sea illuminated by a full moon, she realized . . . . . . . if she were given a chance to do anything differently, she would not change a thing.