Richard has been my friend for many years now and I have always been impressed with his writing and him in general. I think his enigmatic personality makes his writing even more attractive because I never know his intended audience and maybe he doesn't either. He is a wonderful father to the handsome young man in the image above. J is proof that Richie makes beautiful things no matter what he does. May I present the writing of Mr. Marsh. Warning: this piece contains profanity.
"If God was present, and it wasn't my birthday nor Christmas, would the gifts bestowed have any real reason to be given? "
The heavy silver metal rested at a small, circular point on my forehead. It was gleaming with the innocence of a misguided function, like watching a child play with a butcher knife for the first time. From the point of personal contact the gleam extended up a barrel, past the chrome plated trigger, and into a hand robed in a white glove. The white glove was amazingly clean, as clean as what you'd imagine an angel would wear to a dinner party, or one of Jay-z's private party. I wondered, "how could my death, or anyone one else's for that matter, come from a vessel that only has a purpose of function, that's being held by an angel's colour?" The thought made me smirk. That smirk got me smacked down to the floor by the sliver 45.
"The fuck is funny?" "This shit's amusing? Do I fucking amuse you?" The two people tied down and restrained in opposite ends of the room both gasped and screamed. It was as though the pain my cheek bone had then experienced surged through their veins at that very moment. It's funny how being in the middle, only a few feet from those you want to protect, can feel so far from them that you can't remember what it was to actually touch them.
"So what's your answer?" What's it gonna be?" "It's all up to you for now?" "But don't fucking waste my time!" "Someone here's gonna die....and they're gonna die by your choice."
Dazed, dripping, maybe from blood or sweat, and completely at odds, I tried to regain control of the mind that was once mine, but at this moment was in the hands of function....in the hand of the white glove. "Someone has to die. Ok, if I die, but I have a son, people who depend on me, responsibilities, and..." my thoughts were instantly separated from my body with a kick in the chest with a white, steel-toed boot.
"The fuck are you doing!" Without so much a moment of hesitation, he turned to his left and shot one the tied observes in the thigh. "Does that help your concentration?!" "No, I said calmly."
Evidently my response was unnerving to him, cause he darted down to the floor and lifted me to a seated position. Gripping my neck so tightly that the act of breathing now was being controlled by that angelic white glove, he held my head even and steady. "Look at the funny man now," he said as he put the 45 against my eye. "I'm willing to bet you that right about now you're seeing God huh?"
I don't know how to describe what had happened. Maybe I realized that we three would soon die, not so much because of the choices I was going to make, but because of things already decided, acted upon, and reacted to from my past. But, after a couple of seconds of swallowing blood, and focusing my eye on the face of the man who held function with an angelic grip I said,"Nah, all I see is that no matter what I've done, who I've hurt, and how I've lived, we all are gonna have blood on our hands. The only difference between you and I is that I don't, and won't ever try to hide my evils behind the white."
I can't say that God was there when life had failed me, nor can I say that God has taken favour on any of those who have had times too rough to write about. But I can say that, no matter your past, no matter your obstacle, no matter how difficult or insufferable your vision may see your circumstances may see things, you are given a life that you should live as best as you can. You will falter, learn to laugh it off. You will be hurt, learn to cry through it. You will triumph, learn to share it. But always live knowing that nobody, angels, people, fate, nor function wears gloves that are white their whole lives through.