Þetta er lag sem ég samdi um daginn…
——-
Eight hundred-twenty-one
Normal number.
It has another meaning to you,
hasn't it?

I know what happened,
when you were hitching on the interstate,
Interstate 821,
your greatest source of brutal hate.

You were alone,
your friends ditched,
so you began to walk home all by yourself,
but suddenly your luck switched.

As you were walking down the road,
away from the woods,
just before reaching the airport,
there stopped a van with every possible goods.

You politely nodded,
said you only needed a lift to town,
he said: “ok, hop in”
but whispered so you didn't hear: “let's get down”.

“You want some juice?” he asked.
You accepted and smiled, judged
Ooh! You didn't know,
that it was drugged.

Quarter later,
feeling dizzy,
car has stopped,
“c'mon boy, lets get busy”

“What's wrong with you man?
Why are you trying to take my pants off?”
“Shut up, boy,
I'll kill you if I hear a cough.”

You see the knife,
cry, and get pushed up to the seat
it gets worse and worse,
by every single little heartbeat.

When he finished,
in the middle of nowhere,
he threw you out,
good, now you're not with him there.

You crawled up to the next stone you saw,
just sat there to cry and yell,
a couple stopped their car,
“Honey, aren't you feeling well?”

“Can you please take me home?”
then passed out from the drugs.
Next morning you woke up,
holding two hospitalmugs.

There was a nurse,
you asked where your parents were
“I'm sorry honey,
tell us your name, your parents will be here.”

821 days later,
you killed yourself,
cut your wrist out open,
and your neck half.

Every touch,
every sigh,
every thought,
everything, memory burned
forever,
everything that happened on interstate
eight hundred-twenty-one
- Tinna O'Rielly