Lay Me Back Down (The Beginnings of Hopefully My First Novel)

The End

The sweat dripping from my skull freezes the floor below. I crumble to my knees and beg for solidarity. Familiar faces spiral around me, haunting me with their memories and cold words. My life was not but an elongated nightmare, I wish to give in, to fall into shadow, why wont they lay me back down. The walls melt and there is nothing but darkness. I don’t know where I am, and I don’t know how I got here. I run short of breathe yet the lingering heaves are more painful than this self-suffocation. My fear is not to die; to many my death has come prematurely. I can see while remaining completely blind, I reach out yet can never touch, I imagine and lust yet feel nothing. I’ve come to realize that our destinies lie not in the lines on our hands nor in the alignment of the stars, we are not dealt cards, God leaves no plan for us. The person you are and wish to be reside within you, and now as I quiver in this painful relapse I can see something. My failures and disappointment. Their voices burn my ears and yearn for relief, my best friend beckons for my resurrection, my parent’s wane over my addictions, my girlfriend pleads for me to rise from the ashes. So many people ask me to call upon this inner strength. On this night the stars mask their fires and no light shall shine upon me. I feel weak and I can feel a trigger teasing the tip of my index finger. Through the struggle the rest of the world has a funny way of spinning, in the end we are all left behind.

I arise to the pious sun, my backaches from a merciless rug; its residual dampness reminds me that last night was real. It is not but a blur to me, my clothes stained with blood only embellish the disregard I hold for myself. I need to forget, I need to cleanse my body, and I need submit to the vice. I scavenge for the needle, a moment later the sweet ecstasy enters my veins finally I can hear the music, I can drift, I can erase.

It seems I have become unaware of time; my eyes open to a day I cannot describe. All of our lives, one endless journey all altered and decided by choice. Is there ever a definitive point where we lose our way, where the current overpowers the vulnerable and we are stuck adrift in a directionless ocean?

Coherency now becomes me, yet sobriety is the only time pain is real, the unbearable stabbing of bitter regret send me into agony, I will let go, I will end it. Crawling on the ground I find the lighter I touch it to my shirt. My skin begins to burn and blacken, no warmth is present, the flames flash before my eyes, they dance and taunt as they spread wildly, and they jeer me in my surrender. The smoke penetrates my lungs and engulfs my throat, my eyes are bloodshot and I choke myself to the ground, nothing can escape the confines of my mouth as if I have unlearned breathing. I realize what I have done but its all inconsequential now. It is in this inevitable end that we return to the start, when we took our first steps out onto our path. My eyes roll into the back of my head as everything grows limp, I am catatonic, the fire that burned in me now scorches everything around me, the ceiling begins to shake and as the debris falls I can only ask, how did I get here?

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An End

We pass under the streetlights at what could be one hundred miles per hour, yet in the passenger seat it all looks like slow motion. I didn’t exactly want to be in the front seat, I didn’t exactly want to arrive at whatever the destination was and yet there I sat. It’s this reassured invincibility that always allowed us to be unstirred by the wreck less nature of our actions. We walked away from certain tragedy scabbed but barley touched, and in the blink of an eye saw a new one unfold. We’re by nature apathetic toward our own well being, but when your eyes see the pain and suffering of another, the vulnerability and powerlessness of a moment far beyond our comprehension, that forms the knives in the bottom of our stomach and rattles the quiver in our cold lips. I guess that’s what always brings me back to the front seat, surviving a situation that could have easily claimed both our lives, the brakes on my car giving out as we sped through a narrow path created by a sign and a rock. A cm left or right and this stream of consciousness wouldn’t exist.

Out of that wreck I began to believe in reason, in a world of malice and hatred and confusion, sometimes moments come to fruition that somehow make sense. Why am I alive? To simply continue living a quiet existence? To alter the world? To save lives? The answer simply boils down to choice and action.

There was this girl, I would see her in the halls, I would talk to her, sit on the white plastered wall and hear every word shed have to say. My eyes and thoughts could never escape her. The blue of her eye pierced my body so swiftly, every second I was around her I felt so frail and powerless. Regardless of who I met or talked to my heart held the fateful conviction that it simply belonged to her. However my strained emotions yearned, I would ignore their plight. When you find this unbearable desire to be with another, to find eternity with them, that is the moment when distance must be created. True love only means you must eventually endure the anguish of loss. Bliss and happiness are easily broken, however, “what ifs” can linger and hover until the day we are laid to rest. Sadly the point is to find someone you can stand losing in the end, a person who wont leave a gaping whole in their heart when they die before you, find someone who makes you only wish you could be alone. This girls name would echo in my dreams every night, “Hayley.” We grew so close, saving each other through our endless trip of hard relationships, family crises, and emotional melt downs, yet when the time came to move on to college, the distant I made emotionally grew in a more literal sense. Our conversations growing smaller, seeing each other became faint and hasteful as our lives burdened us with new responsibility.

Then a moment came, as swift and faint as a dream lasting a lifetime. In the confines of my small apartment a phone called, it asked to be answered, it asked to be silenced, with reluctance I was that phones savior, I let it rest, my mothers voice came through, trembling with sorrow. Hayley, my angel, the object of my disdain and desire, was murdered. Three unknown persons acquainted her fragile body with cruelty, on this day it did not rain, traffics suffocating roar did not hush, and the wind blew as it would, the world’s blissful ignorance at the loss of innocence.

Her funeral seemed to disperse the days into minutes, never allowing those close to her to escape the reality that she is gone. At the wake, an open coffin revealed an unreal version of the girl that used to be here. Her eyes shut, her hands clenched over her stomach, although in retrospect it maybe a body with hands clenched over a stomach, with her looming somewhere because even to the departed, death is unacceptable. The next second a valley of strangers are embracing one another in an olive field, as the body is lowered, protected by reinforced wood, no white rose pedals fall form the sky, no white snow purifies the now hollow ground. Lips send their condolences to a battered family, my own haven’t the means to move, I stare out into the depth of their eyes and in that vastness still say things that resemble the insignificance of luxuries. The dirt poured into the hole and it was all over, our mourning and disbelief, could only exist in the immense denial our minds feast on. As it always does again and again, the wind, so unaware of where it moves through, blew as if it were any other day.

It’s strange how the things that are tangible are also the easiest to lose. My car, money, a girlfriend, in the end it all slips away, your fingers are never really powerful enough to hold on to anything for a long period of time. But we can’t go to a store and waste all of our memories on a new T.V, or simply open our palms and let go of regret and agony. The intangibles, the things that eat away at us in till the brightest hours of night, they can be ignored, suppressed, neglected, but like our shadows amidst a blocked sun, they are always there, bathed in a dark hue.

I have a relationship, this girl; she feels things for me that she couldn’t ever for someone else. In her eyes I was not perfect, I wasn’t the valiant prince that exist in the pages of a fairytale, but I was the best form of reality she could find, one of the few and far between. Her happiness brought her closer to me, she clung and in time fell in love with someone not worth a second glance. For me what we had was the continuation of an excuse, being with her kept me away from acting irrationally, from killing a friendship, from killing myself, and in the end just an excuse I could be content with, In her eyes I saw the same disdain my eyes once held, her loving eyes pierced my body trying to see into me, to connect with me, she only knew the soul I showed her, who I was not who she was with. Now in my moment of desperation her hand reaches out for mine, defying the eloquently blowing wind, I can feel the chill, I can feel its direction, but her skin her fingers, her flesh, is nothing. Yet I swallow all of it, suffocated by everything I don’t say, everything I ignore. Our hands grip hold each other steady, in my head my palms are open wide and I begin to go adrift, as she cling to the only part of me she’s found attainable, holding on in every way possible.

Weeks that might have been hours pass, and here I am, back in the front seat. My legs relaxed, my arms steady. My friend and I, both alone in the front seats, his foot gets heavier, trying to force clarity in the ensuing randomness of the world, he controls the wheel, the speed, the direction, and I only control my trust, misplaced or not. Alone in that passenger seat, nothing really exists, until I open that door, and let the cold air in, I can avoid every problem, nothing can catch up to that car, not even the world.

The flickering orange light is a constant reminder that eventually we have to stop, that I have to open the door. With nothing left to keep us ahead in the race we pull into the nearest gas station off the next exit, I wish I could say where we were, but that’s where my life began. The sound of the nozzle of the pump entering the car was alluring, beckoning me to step out of the car and find myself somewhere new, find my own pump. I walked forward, with the intent of buying a lottery ticket, the cheap sensation of hope and self-doubt made two minutes feel like pure ecstasy. The odds always play against you, maybe were never really supposed to get paid out, luck is simply a myth that keeps us scratching way at disappointment. The more you tear away at the card searching through numbers and combinations, the more hideous, and grimmer that piece of paper grows. Hiding behind bright colors and symbols, it wallows praying and pleading to us, the almighty consumer, to let it breath, liberate the 1:4 loser. When the cashier looks at me, her initial response is to ask for an ID, my baby face will haunt me until I miss it. Fumbling through my pockets, I chew up another minute of my considered life, all for the sake of losing. The Glass door hides everything outside, the lights and neon’s block out everything beyond its borders, making the world so refreshing when it always seems to be unknown. This new world I walked out into held noise and panic. At any other time, this noise would be the wisp of the wind or an animal, or some house party, but tonight, it this noise asked for me. Behind the dumpster, I see woman screaming and crying, overwhelmed by the size of her attacker. The victim, she bargains throwing money and watches as she bellows for help. I sit and watch, my catatonic body holds so much potential, deep inside of me an energy wants to be unleashed, a pure adrenaline rush. Out of the darkness I spring, leaving behind my head. I tackle him to the ground and begin to deliver blow after blow. My knuckles are bleeding and he merely smirks. By now the woman has vanished, she cares not for the hero, but for her own safety, I picked the right fucking person to save, I hope karma forgives me. His fists pound my flesh as my blood paints the setting. No matter what he does to me the pain is not real, suddenly I wear his mask, my smirk turning to that of a demonic structure. With my thumb I gouge one of his eyes, his mind is astonished at my ruthless measures, blinded I run at him biting a part of his ear, it tastes as life should. My knees digest the front of his skull, my enemy is now subdued. I could walk away now, maybe he would learn a lesson, mutilated and suffering. I look down on him our fluids mixing to form a red more inspiring than the reflection of the moon in an endless ocean. But do people ever change? We are always students yet no one seems to learn. Life acting as one long study hall death is the only way people will ever change, ever learn. When they are left to reside, knowing all their wrongs, all the things they wont be able to say, the goodbyes they’ll never make, face death and embrace it, now you are a changed man. My hands are numb and yet froth at the mouth, thirsty for another sip of his face. I hear no breaths, but I see the blood splattering from the tip of his mouth, something is still left inside. I struggle to grab his hand, yet I find a way to stand him up, cries sputter now as he sobs, lodged up against a tree, try’s to speak and I nail him one last time, I stare at him with apathetic eyes, the indifference of the living is the most terrifying site, even in the darkness of night that emotional absence is so evident in the eyes. I ask him his name, his head so mangled, no coherent words could seep out, only sobs, and pants grasping the last moments of his life. I find a fallen branch, sharp at an end, just barley. I’m frightened at my lack of reluctance, in one moment, I saw a man fighting for his life, and in the next I saw a body, cruelly impaled. If reincarnation is real, then I created a saint.

I take a few steps back, and the moment is over, I am sober, and I must live with what I had just done, my body cringes into a catatonic state. I am afraid, not of what I had done, but that I realize how easily I could live with it, and that now I can live in a world that accepted the cries and screams. I walk over to the pump again, he stands there staring at me, I wear the blood and bruises like a new shirt, walking with paranoid confidence. His eyes question but his mouth says nothing, I open the door and sit in the front seat, I just stare forward, acting indifferent. When he opens the door, and sits in the drivers seat, I’m disappointed to see him look forward as I do. He says nothing I hear the question. Out of the silence, I break it with “It’s not okay, but I’m fine. Just drive.” The reasons are not so inconsequential to him but the words are enough to push this car forward, to leave more things behind, regret and ecstasy.

I’m stirred from the solace of my nightmares, my phone screams again. It’s never a good sign when I am needed. Someone who calls me her boyfriend is worried, she feels we never talk anymore and are slowly drifting apart. She tries to be my anchor; my excuse wants to be heavier, more grounding, and more permanent. The funny thing is with the ball and chain, you can break the chain, and lift up the anchor, we are always moving, on. Everything she says is true, we are nothing, yet she won’t leave, and I won’t make her. Now she is my excuse for isolation, the reason I won’t meet anyone, or find happiness my beautiful scapegoat. She cries and speak sadness, she urges to come to my apartment, to talk things out, I tell her not too, that we okay, its fine, just don’t drive. Women, ninety percent of the time will disregard your words, this was one of those times. Before I knew it she was at my apartment. Hugging me, making my shoulder a tool, paradoxically apologizing while telling me all of my faults. Words pour from her mouth, vomiting recycled phrases of pain, I try to listen but my apathy roars in my eardrums. Then silence, and unsettling serenity, she sees through me and puts the nail in the coffin. “Do you love me?” I hesitate, try to come up with an answer, a lie, anything, when a person loses all excuses, their miserable existence becomes their own fault. My mouth opens and nothing is there, she scratched this lottery ticket and lost everything, all her hopes and dreams rested behind my colorful front. She yells speaks of wasted time, she shatters my pictures on the wall, reminders of people who cared for me, she slams my door but waits behind it, even in her anger and pain, she would still let her love keep her near me. But I don’t follow, I want her to go, I want her to give me what I have worked so hard for. By every stretch of the imagination she was to good for me, to pretty, to nice, too funny, to friendly, too forgiving, I was lucky and never deserved her, and for some reason the perfection in front of me didn’t matter, it could never make me happy. I suppose it is a curse, at least, that’s my new excuse. Outside the trees dance to the gentle blow of the wind, the ignorant force that once again blows as it would, as it always does, never minding our suffering and confusion, it continues to move along, touching us for just a second then leaving our lives forever, with nothing but the cool bumps on our skin to remind us of it. Her footsteps shake the ground, she has no strength but she leaves anyway. As it was a year ago, before we ever met, we no longer knew each other. I want to feel it, I want to cry but nothing happens. I put my head back down, on the floor; I see a picture of people that used to know me. A brother and a sister, I wish I knew where they were, I am not sure if they ever realized I had left. If they knew I never called, that I was ever even in the middle of them, or that for the past 3 years I had never come home. I kept my distance simply because I wanted to be missed, I wanted to matter if just for a moment. Maybe my brother would respect me; maybe my sister would talk to me, but in the end were all just stubborn. We keep the pictures to pretend that at least one point in our lives, we knew each other. Pictures, the fakest forms of memory, the way we rationalize the worst moments in our lives into something worth looking at. For now, I cant take anymore of this, just like everyone else, the wind is gone, and I reside to the familiar sanctuary of my dreams.

The sunlight seeps through my blinds, it shakes me, pour cold water on my face, doesn’t allow me to hide in bed, but I rebel. My door, however, is beaten at the hands of my friend; on this of all mornings a miracle happens. I don’t open the door, he lets himself in, the knocking is a formality that after so many years seems unnecessary. 5 steps in and he has already reached my room, the mark of my failures. He knows what happened, he’s told me before telling me, he wants to know why, and what happened. On his face he wears a strange victorious grin, I guess sole custody of my time in his opinion is worth having; at least I hope that’s his victory. It seems our conversations never carry within my home, and so he moves us to the diner, the most familiar place we know. No menus, no wait for a random table, our territorial natures bring us to the back of the restaurant, the waitress only comes over for conversation our foods already on the grill. I can see his calculating mind construct questions, he will never show concern for me, but at this stage he doesn’t have to. The bruises have swelled and dispersed by now, leaving faint marks. He wants to know where I have been; my reclusion never fell upon him until recently. I told him something attacked me, a condensed form of the truth, that I had trouble recalling it as it happened so fast, which it did. The girl however, I need not cover up, his prior words of discouragement turned into an inconvenient reality. My like for her was temporary, and her love for me was misplaced. I told him there was no meant to be, not in this world, humans were designed for loneliness. Unlike animals, or plants, or mountains, we can understand how alone we are, a profound tragedy of our existence. We made a word for it, we have a feeling for it, therefore its meant to define us. When I finish his head tilts over, he missed almost every word I said, typical, my best friend across from me, and I am alone. It seems I have blinked and I am home. The sun still makes itself at home, shaking me, four steps from the door and I’ve found my kitchen. I grab a bottle of vodka, the smell stings my nostrils, it burns my throat. Drinking is the way I inflict pain on myself, the harder it becomes to digest, the more I forget about my life, my actions. In the morning it will all just be a headache. I hang no pictures in the kitchen, or the bathroom, the false memories, the unreal happiness; I don’t want to tarnish their sentiments towards me, showing them the places where all of my bad habits lurk. Bottles of pills, glasses filed with an addicting drug that cannot addict. I drown vicaden with Jack Daniels. The room is still and I am spinning. I twist the colors of the wall and floor, they lose their bland nature, I am numb, every step makes gravity less evident, 2 steps and I can find my bed, the only shoulder I have. I need to fall, to fall without arms, I want to feel the impact, but there is my mattress, cushioning my every mistake. All of the sudden, clenching onto my unwashed comforter, breathing becomes something I am grateful for, each one miraculously escaping me. Sleep will save me from fear, if I am even awake. My chin rests between my color bones, my stomach heaving and my mouth jacked open, I am scared, I am afraid, I am scared, I am afraid.

The sun is gone, the darkness ensues half of us, and this night has no name. It is irrational, it covers us without thinking, it blinds me with on apology. 7 steps and I have found my jacket. My eyes are on fire and my head carries 50 pounds but I can move. I need to get out. I want to revel again, bask in my own piety. Our world is a shit hole, like my apartment, you are never 10 steps away from seeing something disturbing. So I walk, and walk I once again listen, look, I wait. Hours pass, and there is nothing, I am not needed. Every so often a street light will paint me orange, I watch the hundreds of bugs frantically circle in aw of the street light, they found their creator, they do not misplace their reverence, that light will never fail them, and when it flickers out there is always a new one to cling too, and they’re to stupid to realize the difference, as long as it shines they are to blind not to be elated. I escape the satanic orange glaze, and the next second glass shatters., it is a busted window. It opens a portal of screams and cries, the sound of agony and violence. Here it is again, catatonic then heroic. My body frees itself of my mind, my legs move faster than any thought process. I am at the doorstep; my foot doesn’t ask if it came enter, it just kicks the door in. I see a big angry man, hovering over his wife and child; the busted door startles them and now the tears stream viciously from their eyes. The man is enraged and confused, he yells at me, demands I leave before he calls the cops. Nothing is said after that, I take a swing at him and graze his nose, it barley moves him. He tackles me into the living room and throws me into a coffee table. He kicks me mercilessly; here it is again, affixation, chin in the collarbone, mouth jacked open, in the blackness I find strength, I find the laughter that the insane hold and the normal lament. I grab him by the ankles and trip him into the mantel. His forehead is busted open he is disoriented. I swing again, this time he plummets to the ground. His wife and child beg me to stop, what do I care, I’ve saved them, now its my turn for satisfaction. My knuckles had been parched for far to long, the blood and bruises, I wear them again. The wife grabs me, scratching my arms and neck, pain doesn’t exist, I’m numb. I take in the air of this moment, the moment a rotten son of a bitch is gone, a new saint is born. She hits me, screams at me I turn around. I look her straight in the eye and she stops, my face is smeared with his blood, her forever and always, my lips quake and grin, sadistic with sincerity, if she doesn’t decide to kill herself, that image will haunt her for life. His son is curled on the ground looking up at me, I rub my hand on his head, leaving shades of red in his hair, and the only part of his father he won’t forget. I walk out of the house, and I continue to walk, out of the night the wind whispers once more, no colder than yesterday, no faster than the year before, nor swifter, it just blows as it would. The first time this happened, the first thing I destroyed, after it looked into my lifeless eyes, it never had to remember me or my face or my malice, that let me sleep at night. This time, two people, will forever be scarred by my face, the one only a mother could love, or a misguided girl, she will lie awake hearing the door slam in, the anger of her husband the senseless violence of me, the blur of that night will leave lingering ghosts in every hallway of her home. The police will ask what happened, who did this, why; her answers will be faint as her frail mind processes what she perceives to be reality. I wont be found, not yet at least. But ill be the main character in every story the newspaper publishes, the rapist behind the gas station, the abusive father, vanquished. I’m not a hero; the difference between superman and me was superman never crossed the line. He never played God; he saved lives, and never took any. I find myself back at my apartment. Several steps to the bathroom, I look in the mirror and stare into my own eyes. I recognize this person, the bloodshot eyes and dry lips, greasy hair and bruised face, my mother’s son. My eyelids cover me in a comforting darkness, and I am afraid, I shouldn’t sleep after what I have done, I find some pills, pretend they’re the reason I lay in bed so steadily and sound.

There it is again, no, not this time, the morning the sun weeps, its tears collapsing on the roof of my home. Each bang sounds as if it could crush the very foundation of my house. My arms are clean, my face in pain but with little swelling. Last night I blacked out, I must have taken care of myself. As I apply pressure to my arms to pick myself up I feel an intense burning. Looking down I see three cuts, buried deep. I hurt myself, I guess why not. I open the door, some steps out of my bed, and read the paper. I am the cover story, some writer’s fat paycheck, if only sent thank you cards for my work. It’s nice to tell myself I am needed again, I haven’t worked in years, I live off of my college tuition money, in a couple years I’ll regret it, but for now pissing time away seems to be the trend. Both victims, proclaimed family men, they leave behind widows and crying children. I read their names; I want to know their stories. As I read I grab a bagel, smear it with cream cheese, I treat eat half as if it were a masterpiece, and cream cheese were its finishing touches, my hands are capable of such poetry. I read, and read, others would act appalled, but I swallow the bagel, bite by bite, I swallow it all. They talk about the death and devastation, the catastrophe, there’s no mention of their sins, all of our misdeeds become archaic and irrelevant. Maybe I should die, that pedestal seems quite comfortable, a seat making us impervious to hearsay. I am a hero; I am self-indulgent and a sadistic saint. With every good hero comes the inherent knowledge that in order to stay a hero, never ever vanquish your enemies. Without malice a hero is a radioactive freak, a reckless vigilante with far too much power. In spite and hate I am the monster, and no matter what I do there will be some insurmountable evil that I cannot eliminate. Surrender to heroic inhibition, be the worst fucking form of yourself. In a perfect world I would be alone, in this one I’m suffocated by my thoughts, and myself. Anyway, the bagels gone, nothing to hold my attention, the only important words stained my mind, the funeral dates and their full names. I could imagine Vanna White standing at the gates of the cemetery, her hands eloquently directing our eyes, letter by letter revealing “human compassion”. No one wins a free car, or a ticket to the Bahamas, just some sympathy, maybe a handshake, and some low-grade sandwiches from the reception.

Time passes, too much, and I am outside, walking in the light of day. I have murdered yet God does not strike me down, I feel the sun only to bask in its rays. A stranger waves to me, a dog might bark. Nothing has changed. If murders not a profound impact I’m scared to see what is. This intense chronic indifference we have to front-page news, reading the paper that involves interpretation, we let the T.V do the talking. I gaze forward only to garner the comprehension I have gone so far astray. I arrive at a hill, the height petrifies me, I have to walk over it and I feel it all crashing down on me, the inevitability. If by chance, or irrational want I found myself right outside her house. Something provided by her parents. Resting on the curb is a distinct car, a rare car, and shockingly my friend’s car. Here it comes, she might extract that glimmer of sadness from me, jealousy, the jitters, the excitement, eye contact with your first crush, and your first pet dying. So close, and then it faded, I looked up, gazed forward and I was over it, the hill and everything over it was behind. Ill walk another ten miles before I realize how innately lost I am. I’ll always find my way back though, that hill will wait for me, that hill, inanimate geographic feature, gave me everything I was looking for.

My legs hate me, it joins the crowd, and it’s a frightening thing when even the things you control turn against you. I burst through the door and cling to the idle water bottle as if it were a goddess, a false superior giving me the immediate gratification no prayer could. I lay in bed, and it is odd, I cannot sleep. I can’t sit still. I sweat; my mind wanders to the gross enormity of my friend’s car in the driveway. He was somewhere I used to be, meaning something I used to mean. I was replaced, at least I think. Why am I thinking, murder is like fornication putting me straight to sleep when the intense moment is over, but a trivial thing, a girl with my friend, its of trivial insignificance. It keeps me up I dwell, and wallow, and I did it to myself. I can kill and kill, but that can’t hold a candle to the mess a girl can create in your head. I think about her, I care nothing for her but this brings out an emotion. Months and months she carved scars into my body, and she finally found the salt, I feel it, a burning inside me. Why can’t I handle this? It’s okay; I’m fine, just, just sleep. Just sleep. Just Sleep. Here it is, my throat closes, my eyes shake and the room shifts with them. Pictures hit the wall, clashing like bullets on an endless battlefield. My bed soars; holes are put into my wall. I scream and the battered walls are frightened. Outside the wind howls over me screeching through the window, the self-indulgence of nature is mystifying. I can’t breathe in here, in this house, I run to the bathroom, too many seconds pass, the fire in my body wont die, my skin is burned and smoke escapes my mouth, the red overpowers my eyes. I try to swallow these pills, they are just a bagel, swallow it all, do it again, I can’t, they end up in the toilet along with more parts of me. In my mind, the torturous projector, I see her face, I feel her touch, her lips, her hair, that scent, the intoxicating aroma of lust and desire, the clench of her fingers down my back and her fingers venturing around my hand, the excuse, my inhibition, my source, everything. The toilet lid is through the door, a chair jumps out the window and glass rains on the dirt. The wind comes in my house uninvited, a lawless vampire, why doesn’t it care, in my home it ignores my pain with the sound of its own voice, and then it is gone, no noise, just the rapid tearing of my insides. What is left, what can I destroy, what isn’t afraid. There goes the dining room table; there go the dishes, and the suppressed memories on the walls. There is blood on my hands, and the flesh of my house covers me, the veins of the walls, the harsh debris pulsate on me. I had nothing left to destroy, and so much to fix, what any sane person does. When we lack purpose, we make ourselves needed. This house needs me, and now I will save it. I breathe heavy and swallow. A step back and I can see everything, the fragmented picture. In the rubble and dust, I wake up, and close my eyes.

The undeniable phone, the only foe I left standing, the only thing I couldn’t see, you can never kill the messenger. Crawling in a dire haze of misdirection I somehow clasp what appears to be the nuisance. I say hello because there is nothing else to say. My Adams apple jumps off a cliff, I hear my brothers voice, an archaic familiarity I could never let go. He asks me how I am, where I have been, what I have been doing. He wants to know…. Everything. There aren’t that many words in the English language that could describe my existence, my answers are brief and uninteresting, the mystery of me spoiled with my eloquent small talk. The response sounds disinterested, his formality implies necessity and desperation. He tells me how hard it was to find my number, how tirelessly he searched for it, sympathetic incentive, he says he misses me and wishes I would come around more, the family needs me, especially now. My whole life I wanted his respect, my whole life I wanted to be someone he might actually like, instead of the odd character in the passenger seat, the misfit at the lunch table, the abnormal second rate version of him. All I could be was myself, was that. He says he has run into trouble, finally I can feel the honesty in his voice; he wants my tuition money, my pissed away life money. Do I need a reason? Let me be a philanthropist feed the ego; I’m a savior, nurture whatever habit plagues him. The proverbial why escapes my mouth anyway, an intolerable insult, a brother explaining himself to another, his mind is racing, reasons, reasonable ones, concrete indisputable ones. My juvenile adoration for him stops all train of thought, I need this, my money will finally help me. I tell him it doesn’t matter what it is for, if he has found my number he can find me too. The money will be waiting, and in the dark so will my self respect, and the imaginative respect I hope he will have for me.

I am disturbed, in my commotion and destruction not one person in the entire neighborhood bothered to call in a noise complaint, or call me. I picked the wrong fucking neighborhood. I open my front door to find my only constant, my paper, my only friend. I skim through the articles, a day ago these murder victims were front-page news and now they are forgotten, and I guess we are all forgotten until we fuck up or die. In the fine print I find the victims names again, information regarding memorial services, and their funerals, one in a few days, the other in a week. No matter how many years you live it always takes less than an hour to commemorate them all, and a lifetime to let go of the pain, that’s if you’re someone far more compassionate than me. A blur of time passes, accumulating hours until the permanency of my actions takes cliché form. Then a day comes not unlike any other day. A lukewarm temperature provides that we can comfortably wear the uniform of black. The leaves change color and grow not so sympathetic to the loss many have suffered. The plants outside this families house bloom on such a day. A little girl rides her bike down the street so carelessly, she will never understand malice and anger, no, that little girl will always know the bliss of her carefree world. The sun rises no earlier, and people still honk in traffic as they race to their jobs, a place to waste away their remaining days. Nobody cares, that is why there is so little to say about such a funeral, those who do care are at a complete loss for words. My tumultuous walk makes my footprints louder and louder, a soothing remedy, even on this day the eloquent noises still sound like music. I arrive and find comfort behind a tree. I am nothing, the funeral is much like high school, and beyond myself I see a crowd of people, I hear the breaking of sobs out of clenched lips. In disbelief many turn away as the Coffin is lowered, what we do not see is never reality, the most profound conviction is the sanctuary we find when we close our eyes. I see a wife; a frail woman portraying fragmented strength for a young boy who is so scarred his face is like stone. It is not apathy that covers his face; it is utter fear, a situation so incomprehensible he just stuck in that living room. His eyes are subjected to the projector in his mind, forever trapping him in that room, impaled by the screams. I wait for the rain, it never comes, I wait to be struck down but I remain leaned on this tree, I wait for the clouds to cover up the son to stop the birds from chirping. Nothing happens, the funeral was there, he was the center of attention, and now he is a tombstone among the multitudes, goodbye forever and always. I watch all of this, and wait for the remorse, my actions are so inconsequential, where is the agony, where are my guilty pleas. I started walking again, the sound of my shoes on the pavement, like vicaden for my aching mind.

It seems I could not untie my tie before the next procession took place. I walk again; with my headphones in I listen to the creation of my footprint. Twice in one week, the ground is a whore for the deceased. Maybe the world is simply bored of funerals, out of spite the sun lingers and animals in glee frolic about, the beloved relatives and friends all wear the same face, greet each other with the same respectful dropped head, waiting around the buried coffin unaware of when they can walk away and not feel guilty. For me it was now, the flood of tears came at a measure of entropy, the real and fake are indistinguishable. This unknown family will never know of their loved ones suffering, or of his sins, but they will now happily live with all of the what ifs, those are what get most of us through the day.

Instinctively I go to my friend’s house, the pivotal best friend that betrayed me and even now I couldn’t even fake outrage. A nicer house, a nicer car, a cleaner room, and better food, he lives the life I could only dream of. I knock, I never understood why, his royalty of always walking in whether invited or not always amazed me, I never understood why closed doors stopped me so much, it’s a very simple action to just open one but all I can do is wait for someone else to open it. The door creeks open and his eyes peer from behind its splintered edges, when I see his face I see no evidence of remorse or apology. Maybe nothing happened, maybe they have known each other longer, or maybe I am dubious as his statuesque expression could fool a hungry wolf. For hours we sit in his living room and spew semi witty banter, we speak words that are so inane they could inspire billions, so insightful they would destroy the foundation of so many lives, but these ideas will never leave the room, I could barley stand conversation with anyone else for longer than five minutes. We belittle strangers and laugh at our depression. Degrading ex girlfriends we will never get over, and simply bust balls. We are profound philosophers in our own minds, focusing too much on the minutia’s this world holds. Our words could be novel, and they could be bullshit but we will never know. In our peripheral fantasy world of meaningless conversation he asks me to go to a party, a party in our town, with kids we used to go to school with. In such a small world it’s funny that I still seem to know no one. The phrase should probably read, “It’s a small world after all (if you’re not invisible or lack self-confidence).” Typically I would say no, throw water on the blanket and wallow on my bed, or what is left of it, the thought of being surrounded by so many people I don’t know but have known for far too many years seems painful. It is less evident that you are alone when you’re physically alone, because you dot have much to make it noticeable, we’ll distract ourselves with books, T.V, animals, text messages, anything as long as we’re busy we aren’t pathetic. But when you’re with a lot of people that you should know, and never bothered to know you, you are looking straight into the mirror of solitude, best to find a nice tree, hide behind it and drink the night away. I say I’ll without any reservations, is he surprised, slightly, is he excited, never, will either of us remember this night, absolutely not. Or so I hope.

His car use to be an escape, but sitting inside of it now feels more like a vice. I actually want to reach the party, I want to breathe the awkward and uncomfortable air, the awkward hellos as I walk into the woods, the most attention I’ll get all night. My friend however, will piss off, enlighten, and entertain half of these people, we may have the same recluse cynical thoughts, but unlike me he exudes confidence and for some reason has never cared what anyone thought, he is the only reason I have ever really done anything. The kegs are tapped and everyone fills up their cups, the obnoxious find reason to exacerbate the number of drinks they’ve had, the attractive and popular girls who should be well past that term stumble about, texting every male in their contact list, finding the most regrettable lips to cling to, while others attempt to drink from dirty cups an infected ball has landed in. This is supposed to the time of anyone’s life, yet in my mind I can break it down into nothing. Ludicrous and frivolous, I don’t know why, I never really made a good teenager and now I make an even worse adult. I walk about, I try not to look to alone so I distance myself from my friend, he is not drunk, but you can never really tell the difference with him. By now he has about ten numbers and three attachments and five days to get bored and suffocated by all of them. I have already drunk myself to the point of imbalance, each step falls upon a narrow balance beam, I can’t see straight or even conjure the idea of forward. Out of the darkness two figures appear, a male whose face I know and name I know but for the sake of seeming not so pathetic I’ll pretend I can’t remember him. A small frail girl who by all stretches of perception should have been in church holds his flailing limbs up, to them this is hilarious, to me it is disgusting. He takes a look at me, even in the less than illuminating light of the night he can tell I don’t belong. “Hey queer you borrow those pants from my sister?” At least that’s what my inebriated mind translated amongst his slurred words. Out of my ass comes a retort to full of wit and satire to complex for him to comprehend, at least that’s what I’ll tell myself tomorrow. The girl is embarrassed by our conflict and walks away unconcerned with what becomes of either of us. I see three bodies in front of me, my head is bobbing all over the place but in the brief moments of clarity I can see his animalistic motions, his body is walking an untraceable pattern, his feet creating the greatest length out of the smallest distance. The whites in our eyes finally meet and he shoves me, an unexplainable force takes him down as I stumble the ground, neither of us can move, the wet ground is a cloud, let me rest here forever. Alas like a desperate phone I am stirred. Even in a sloppy drunken state this kids anger is unrelenting. The meaningless acts of hate I grew accustomed to years ago nailed me down and picked me up in an endless cycle. His fists, if I could feel any of this I’m sure it would hurt, his knuckles will know remorse tomorrow. Does he understand he is hitting a murderer? Here’s the will, I am sober, I think, his hands act like buckets of ice water. I don’t hate him, but I despise every single thing about him, lets call it discontent. I grab his arm and toss him aside; my gratuity towards the mass consumption of alcohol has never been so immense. Dealing with a drunken body is like playing with a rag doll that can slur together irrelevant insults. I have total control, no affixation, I just pound at the ground, his body intercepting each blow, he is nature’s selfless shield. Why don’t I stop, he was blacked out before he even met you. This wasn’t him being an ass hole, that was the hero inside him, the worst fucking form of himself. By the time I make such a realization there is blood everywhere and my fingers seems disconnected from my knuckles. He has o pulse his young eyes are shut and I can’t make them open. I did this; I didn’t save anyone, maybe my self-respect, maybe my pride, maybe that’s more stuff coming out of my ass. It was the alcohol, it was the alcohol, it was the loneliness. Thousands of moments have passed in my life where shutting someone up was my fantasy, and by the time I could resurrect my mind from the blissful joy of inconsequential evil, it would be to late, the moment was long gone. This is who suffers for it. I tell myself his knuckles were not buckets of ice, and my intoxication makes this all okay, we all tell ourselves the intoxication makes it okay, dealing with a hangover is hard enough. But maybe that is not it, once again the dilemma becomes my steady hand, I’m stirred but unshaken. I committed this malice swiftly and with confidence, and now I’ll walk away. I will walk through the crowd and look into everyone’s lifeless eyes, in my head I am telling them all I killed their friend, the one I pretended I did not remember. People are hugging and taking pictures, more fake memories, or maybe simply evidence and validation that they did something before their lives went to shit. Someone pats my back, a mental mistake they can’t recognize, there it is a hint of guilt, and then I am back through the trees onto a road the soundtrack of my steps brings me home. My friend would worry for a minute or two when he woke up, but then he would realize there is a girl he has to escape and I become the afterthought.

In the morning, the whole night feels like a thousand pacing pictures on a broken reel, fragmented instances I cannot make sense of. The effort it takes to piece this all-together plants an ever-expanding seed in my head, I wish it would fall off. The events last night, someone’s son gone, maybe it was all a dream, maybe he just passed out. In the background however I hear the screams I ran away from, his finally resting place became the desecrated mating grounds of the underage. I open my door and find the link, my one constant sitting in wait for me as it does every morning. There it is, on the front page, “Local Resident Killed” journalist were never hindered my subtlety. Then a feeling in my stomach grows, not of guilt, but of fear, that girl, she saw my face, heard my voice, she would tell the police, it was all over for me. I read on and in the quotes all she could muster was she didn’t know “I had never met the kid before in my life, it was too dark to really see any distinctive features on him.” In reality I sat behind her in homeroom for four years, finally being pathetic paid off; it got me away with murder. Like a guardian angel, or 12 bottles of water, the sudden relief took away that hangover, my head was light as a feather, but my stomach was still heavy, I reveled for a moment, and then regurgitated the sad remains of a wasted night. I run the faucet and drench my hands through my hands through my greasy hair; at least that gets a shower out of the way. I look in the mirror, bruises and scars inflate my left cheek, the only evidence of anything I have done. My life has become so existential, every fleeting moment, I am living outside of myself, of my mind, all the departed anguish and reluctance has combusted and something beyond my deepest comprehension has formed, I am afraid, I am worried, I am anxious, I am doomed. To take a life is so easy, put in enough pain we all lose our will, me however, I only lost my way. The quaint safe path has disappeared and I forage through the unknown. Evil recognizes evil, I guess that’s why monsters are the only heroes we have. I am a fucked up person for making any rationalizations, I need help, but I will never ask for it. I imagine the mother holding her child, her full grown baby- boy and the thoughts that race through her mind, his first steps and words, first birthday, first time he fell off his bike and the triumph when he learned to ride it, the gleam in his eye each time he succeeded, the overwhelming excitement every Christmas morning, those moments are gone, and now so is her son, I took away her creation, her happiness. The fatal last words they spoke, I will never know, I cut their time short, I tore up all the future memories, I left his future wife alone and left to settle for the next best thing, his children will never be born, his home will never be built, his grass untrimmed, I robbed him, I robbed his family, I robbed his friends, I took that which I cannot give back, what I am is not sorry, what I am is not happy, but I have finished my breakfast, guess I will have to wait a bit longer to figure this out.

Here I am, outside her house, no elephant on the curb to kill me, her blinds are shut and the windows are all shut, she almost lives inside of me. I want her to walk outside, regardless of reason, and see me; I want her to run to me, to forgive and admit to herself I am the only person she could ever care for. Let me be a false idol, I will always be to stupid to ever accept this amazing girl, I need her to crawl, make me feel like I mean something. But she won’t come outside; I will stand out here all day for that one moment. The wind attacks me, the wind is a pessimist taking us away from everything, the gentle tug and wisp of my hair try to lead me astray, it sees through me, I am without chivalry and virtue. Maybe I care about her, maybe I just want to know someone cares, maybe she is my wife and I am robbing her of a lifetime of mediocrity. Just like that I was five steps away from my where I stood, once you lose your footing you basically surrender and walk away, when your strings are pulled its comforting, alleviate responsibility. I’ll die on the inside tonight, but at least its not my fault.

Waiting for me in my broken home is my friend, he is not concerned at the condition, he found the comic relief in it, mentally we conversed about it for half a second then onto something important. He tells me how he fucked up, it is not a problem going to sleep with a girl, it’s the matter of waking up with them, he is petrified, he will always know her name, he is haunted by an unreasonable amount of ghosts. I find it hard to feel anything but indifferent, while every girl in this universe bores him, the one girl I ever let myself be with, he finds interesting, at least I think. Why is it that I cannot be angry, or confrontational, let it out, its murder, rob each other of the unconditional friendship, its not worth it, nothing is. We joke around and jest about his incandescent fear of attachment, he broke his anchor once and refuses to invest in a new one. Sooner or later our mindless rants lead to question where I went last night, what happened. He looks in my eyes, he will see through everything, I speak every word as if it was the truth, and he nods his head as if he believed any of it. He can’t believe the worst; he’ll never believe I am capable of the worst. In comfortable silence we sit, looking everywhere but at each other, both of us are buried in denial, his leg begins to shake violently, he has somewhere to be, as easy it is for him to open a door, it is never for any of us to walk out. He doesn’t look into my eyes but his head is directed right at me. Again he leaves, a sight of hand and there is his phone, it talks to him and takes him away, I won’t guess where he is going, I won’t stop him, I could be a good friend, or just a pussy, only time will tell. Sitting alone now, his steps were so quiet, the shock made the empty space more apparent. I find the strength to walk out the door, write another check.

Under the street lamps I can see everything. My shadow, the stars, the moon, maniacal midnight joggers, restless dogs, and those with nowhere to go, I have change but they don’t deserve it. Walking through the town center I feel completely lost, am I really in the middle of it all, is this it. All that money and labor and we could only conceive this minimalistic utopia, full of alleyways and dumpsters, I see no culture or inspiration, the bland reincarnation of everywhere else, I could be anywhere right now. But in this moment I am right where I’m supposed to be. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a car ram the side of another, instead of leaving a note he flees nonchalantly. The wheels are magnets and destiny keeps the lights red. Where won’t I follow you? I walked miles broken into inches; we arrive at a steep driveway, put the car in park and open the door, that’s the culmination of your lifetime. He pushes that fatal lever to P, and opens that door, greeting a reaper with broken arms. I ask him if he ever planned on leaving a note for that car he just demolished. Where did you have to be, does home not wait for you? He is quivering, he is normal, and his stability is a curse. He pleads for me to go away, he just needs to go inside, to… I guess a part of me heard enough. I am watching the destruction of this man as everything in me screams stop. I can’t I am crying and pleading with him, make me stop, kill me, this is not me, I am not here, I could be anywhere. Sounds from all over, but this moment is impervious to the world. His wears the hood of his car, I wont leave a note either. There comes a point where I wonder if everything inside me is dead, my fists never stop moving but my mind freezes, there is no self control, irrefutable justice, make him learn something, change this man, he was in far too a hurry to be somewhere else, let me take him there. When it’s all gone and the world once again moves I am left with a soulless frame and a half opened door. I hear cries, and there it is now, jaw resting on the collarbone, a closed throat, immense disbelief. In a child’s seat rests a baby girl, the tears swell up in her little eyes, her limbs flail about, she wants a father to pick her up, and take her away form this unpleasant situation. I see lights, I see a robe and long hair, and underneath there is concern. I see now why he didn’t leave a note, like a coward I run. I guess now in my position the worst thing I could do is not kill someone, it is a sad fact that the only way I could ever make someone remember my face is to show them their mortality. In this man’s last minutes there has no symphony composing the great tragedy of a loving father and neglectful driver, there was no color filter to represent my evil, in all of life’s situations we are presented the same a person and a person, and in every situation there is no way of telling right and wrong, no scene in reality can hold evident truth. One mistake is all it takes to never be forgiven, the uncontrollable sensation in my body tells me so, the deep caverns of my stomach dictate I have reason, I think I’m going to be sick.

There are police sirens everywhere, investigators, and media alike. They’ll never comprehend half of what they see; they show it all to us hoping someone else might make sense of it. In the paper I once again see a paycheck with my signature, a new star is born, the young kid lost his thunder I suppose. I grab some milk and drink, it has already seeped its way down my throat before I can realize it is expired. Today is not a normal day, in the ravels of insanity a letter rested upon the paper. Someone wasted their day, to send me words they hoped I might read. I tear it open, not out of excitement or jubilance, but because my hands are mindless brutes who yield no control. My little sister, the one sibling I swore to protect before I, or we, or she left. Her letter is not cordial and holds no courtesies, she writes me this letter because of her father. Our father, however you look at it, she says he has been lost for a long time now, that he barley speaks, and when he decides to enter the world again he mine as well be a stranger. This is not the father we grew up with, in my head I calculate that this happened a long time before this letter ever came to be. He abused my mother, belittled her to the brink of insanity, a woman so strong with endless love, betrayed by a man who swore to protect her. I could never forgive him for the monster he grew into, and his said reformation is a mask as obvious as a comb over. My entire life, forgiveness was something I couldn’t practice, in my head I held every wrong, every tear and scar, I could not forget and because of this I could not forgive. I don’t remember why I left but maybe that was part of it. Or maybe it was the forgiveness my mother showed, resurrecting the person she loved, ice on a bruise, heal it all, forget and move on. I’ll never let go, it’s the only thing that keeps me human, God gave us this capacity not so we could be like wolves and birds, moving on in apathy. She wants me to come home, to help him, to remind him he still has a son, ever since Steve moved his mental solace has been overbearing. I’ll never respond to her, she will interpret as she might. There were nights I would lie awake until the bleak hours of the morning listening to the drunken cruelty my father unleashed, swing after swing, he impaled my mother’s heart with pain. I sat there, terrified and broken, I needed to stop it, I would shut my eyes and pretend my eyelids could save me, save us from everything; I would enter the world where none of this was possible. I always lived in the middle, never young enough to be shielded or old enough to be trusted, just the inconvenient latter that could never understand his place. It was these paper-thin walls that killed me, they wouldn’t block out the noise, cover the silence in blue paint and concrete. Long ago I lost my father and seems, even when my sister forgave him, and my brother seemed to be oblivious to it all, could not let go, once again the intelligible, they refuse to be let go. This could contribute to my head being so fucked now, it could be that underneath all of my aged skin still sits the chubby insecure kid, who was to afraid to speak, and to depressed to ever break out of his shell. The loner who would find solace at the far lunch table and pain in the eye of every girl who would never care about him, and anguish in the benevolent words only harnessed by the cold and heartless. Inside he felt every bit of it, I would attempt to just smile, the more I laughed and coped, the more it became a simple joke, at least that’s what I tried to convince myself of. It was all there in the bottom of my stomach, I used to turn to my family when I realized I wasn’t enough, but in time we all fell away from one another, my brother seemed embarrassed of me, I never blamed him, my sister shut me out, I never blamed her, I couldn’t subject my mom to any more pain so I just let her be immune to my depression, and my father, or whoever wore his shoes everyday, I could never confide in him again. As it was then, it remains now, I was never enough, and I never will be, as this all batters my mind, I look down to see tears caressing my floor, leaking through the slender frame of the paper, in such a small puddle I could drown. My body is shaking uncontrollably and I don’t know why, my head twitches and my legs are restless, my mouth widens and frightening sounds escape me. I miss having a home, I miss a time where nothing in the world mattered outside of my backyard, when my brother cared and my sister was happy, when my dad would bounce us on the swings and watch awful movies with us. When I revered his presence and I knew as long as he was home I would always be safe. I miss the way my mother would hold me, and when she would sit on my bed and read to me before she left for work. The subtle comforts of childhood I could never realize in the moment, and even now my words could never do justice to the nights spent creating forts out of nothing while contriving the most irrevocable pleasure from just being with family. I’d give anything for one more day, to leave it behind once more would be weltering torture, but the brief instance where I could understand it all would be worth the pain, the greatest truth that “Our Town” never understood.

There are knives in my stomach; some graze the soft edges of my bleeding heart. Whatever this is I can’t take it, I find that peripheral bottle and close off my nostrils. Gulp after gulp, my throat parallels the blue inside of a flame, give it twenty minutes and it’ll be like I was never hear, immense pain for the excuse to have the most excruciating form of fun. I don’t black out but I mine as well have, wandering the empty streets I can think to my self how is it that I can be so liberated in this state, where are the police, investigators and search dogs, this psychotic murder is belligerent and vulnerable, take me. How I have any sense of direction is unanswerable, my feet stop at a small gas station. I see a carless man walk in with shaky intent, my head could be wrong but he doesn’t seem hungry, nor does he seem lucky. I look through the window, in his pocket he threatens destruction, he threatens the end, but he will always keep it covered, maybe it is simply not there. A cashier doesn’t get paid enough to take those kinds of chances. With the few dollars he can fit in his jean pockets he runs out, hunched over like a deranged Igor, kind of redundant. He can hear me and this nerves him, he can’t handle my impending presence, or my intoxicated unmitigated stance. We end up in an alley, he brought me to a narrow lane, a dead a shot, I was duped, or maybe I am giving him way to much credit. He turns and in the darkness I can only a few shapes comprising some sort of thing, I can only wonder what he sees looking back at me. He rambles off questions that were too gargantuan for my state of mind; my tongue is able to rattle off only this eloquent sentence

“I-I…..I do not… I-could never forgive this.”

In his time of passing I can only hope he understood the last words said to him. His hand instinctively moves from out of his pocket, even in the blurs I can see only the shades of a slender finger, he dropped the cards right in front of the house. Twenty steps in the past I watch a drunken body violate the livelihood of this man. I can only imagine the horror his eyes are witnessing. The unfamiliarity of my hands against his bone, what he sees is reasonless, his actions are unforgivable, I must change him, slowly someone somewhere will learn. It all feels like slow motion, gravities enduring power becomes so evident, the articulate motions of my arms angling just right to inflict the most pain, to keep him awake long enough to suffer. With three eyes, I hold new perceptions each is painful and haunting, a horror movie where we relate to the monster and the victim because they’re usually the same. He screams and cries, he is just a low life without a job, he would never harm a fly, but he would threaten violence constantly, I hate anything that comes after idle, a threat is as good as almost. I can’t stop now, I engrave the pattern of the wire fence on his forehead and blood spatters everywhere, why will no one help this man? Are we all deaf? This chronic illness that infects our blood stream and senses, when did we become so impeccable at ignoring? More and more our flesh becomes intertwined until he is no more. The heart stops, the pulse dies, the cool air no longer exits from the nose, he died unforgiven, and for eternity he would know that. The only real thing left in the damp dilapidated alley is a pile of money, resting on the pedestal of a desperate man.

A part of me, somewhere amongst the cracks in the walls and dripping gutters, I was alive, and somewhere in the cool air and reflections of air so was he, so was my father, so the stranger behind the dumpster, so was the enraged father, and so was the carless driver, they’ll follow me everywhere, I’ll never be alone, and neither will my thoughts.

Linoleum

Somewhere, I can hear a clock ticking, somewhere I can hear the faint beats of time, somewhere I can hear the end, somewhere, here. It’s not dark, everything in plain sight, running through the woods, I am afraid. Something behind me, in the distance the tow hands moving echoes, rustling the steady trees. Behind me are wheels, the rustic whine each time they turn grasps my heart and holds it, leaving it in a strained vice, how do I breathe? I stare into infinity but I have nowhere to move, looking into the immensity I am catatonic, my limbs are frozen and my feet are sinking. Falling deeper I stare into the dull grey sky, and the ominous brown trees, just beyond all of this and olive field awaits, I scrape the dirt in front of me, my fingernails are colored with the earth, from my collapsed lungs some pants roam free, sighs and screams echoes over one another. In this horrific daze there is no longer a ticking, the wheels move closer and closer, faster and faster, my mind succumbs to unbridled terror. Then a moment comes, the trees are erect and stiff, the small grains of dirt do not flinch, the world is stirred but time holds their motions captives. I panic, every fleeting second, or not so fleeting second, parts of me are vanishing until my body is submerged in the ground, my legs and arms become roots and I feel nothing. I look up, the Master of the wheels stands in front of me, an intolerable and cruel executioner. A clown, pious in his own eyes, masked by paint and ludicrous colors, the intangible lottery ticket, he taunts me, threatens me with his wavering hands. What I see is not humanity nor is it a monster, it is agony, it is suffering, and it is me. His smile is unpleasant and every irrational fear I hold rests in his eyes, I want him to leave, but I cannot escape this fixation. My eyelids can’t protect me, he is inside my head, yet in the next instance I feel myself floating down an endless waterslide. Each passing second I am moving faster, each second I feel as though I will fall off into the abyss but an indescribable force holds me where I am in the purgatory of a falling action and a conclusion. This water is like ice and it enraptures my body, a heart races and breathing ceases, I am submerged in the endless conflict the water pushes me and something else forces me to descend, there is no free will only patience and self entertainment, I will go with whichever pushes harder.

And I will go with whoever pushes harder… I open my eyes to a life created, leaving the one my mind constructs. I felt everything, the moist pool, the intangible earth, the fear, it was all there, I am alive if only in my mind. My hair remains a pile of grease, stretching afar from my scalp; the rest of my body is damp with the hope of being somewhere else. My fingers are now painted with the color of a soul, my body covered in the consequences of robbery. I am painted with my anger and hate, I am painted with my childhood, I am painted with my broken heart, I am painted with failure, I am painted with self doubt, I am painted with depression, I find a mirror and look in it, I am my greatest fear, I am a clown. I hide behind everything within me; there are no bright colors or unappealing tones, just the bland shield that protects everyone from what’s underneath the paint. I can’t eve look at the men who get paid to label themselves as such, at night when the paint is gone, rest assured they are sadistic fucks. I do not open my door, my constant is there, and today, this morning, I haven’t the apathy to see her. Her black and white exterior, no interpretation just regurgitation, quotes and overlooked epiphanies, she looks as front page news should, tired and broken, subdued by the cruelty it is branded with everyday. Everyday a new tragedy is printed over, names are forgotten and stories wiped away, the mental strain my constant suffers is only embellished when I apply my mental angst to her words. Breakfast is non-existent this morning; the air I breathe becomes hard enough to digest. Today is the day I wonder what I have done, today might be the climax of my life, my murder was the remedy for my mediocre life and now I can move on. There is a knock at my door, and it does not open. There is someone else on this planet who would want to see me I am bewildered.

Through the small diamonds there she is, I say her name, “Hayley”, I say it again, validate everything I see. My eye lids shutter uncontrollably, I thought I woke up. Maybe everything, maybe it was all just a dream. Maybe my home isn’t destroyed; in my morning daze my eyes are still restructuring reality. I open the door and there she is. Her smile makes me feel everything I have been missing, with a burdened soul, I wept, on my knees I tried to hold her legs, but there was nothing. Swallow it again, just a bigger bite. My hands and arms are trembling; the ghost still stands there tormenting me, a monument to my greatest pain. Lurking in the back, the clown sits emotionless, expressionless, on his rusted bike his eyes stare into nothing, and under his eye a black teardrop is painted. The why, the why we all hold inside of us, finally breaks free, the neighbors and playing children hear me, for a moment I detour them from their utopia, and a second later it never happened. The insanity I polluted the air with could have intoxicated and army with hysteria. In my head, on my knees, I can see the subtle mayhem that enraptures everything around me, the kids on their training wheels, out there everyday so they can learn how to get out of here, the neighbors closing their curtains because only the walls should know their horror of their lives, even the sun chooses to hide, hoping to hide all of God’s missed spots. The door stays open, and I walk out, off my knees out of my head, joy and despair, triumph and loss, I can no longer see the difference, if you fail, people immediately know you suck, if you win though, its only a matter of time before the pedestal becomes to weak to hold you. There are nights when I walk hoping to find trouble, hoping to find a sinner, someone who disrespects their own gift, but on a cloudy day I am convicted not hopeful, someone will suffer.

On the sidewalk a homeless man asks for some change, I bash his head into the brick wall, I break his nose with the sole of my shoe before choking every pleading breathe out of his body. A pedestrian knocks into my shoulder, I grab him by the neck and jam my elbow into the back of his countless times, he can’t even stand on his own, I lay his head gently on the curb and then graceful stomp all the humanity out of him. Walking further, I am bathed in flesh, a man and a woman stare uncomfortably at me and in a soft whisper say something before laughing, the self indulgent pious fucks. I walk over, picking up an idle trash can, and lay them both out, both of them scream for reason and sanity, non existent words used to make the truth unnatural. Capturing the man by the strands of his well-groomed hair, I bite his face and then brutalize the irrevocable scar. I can feel his tears cleanse me, I don’t touch the girl I simply make her watch, I make this last, the way she will walk after this, will make her the subject of every whisper for the rest of time. In the madness panic overwhelms, he can’t fight back and no one else sees the benefit for themselves, he is half dead already, slowly giving up his will. Consecutive knees to the skull and now all I’m hitting is a worthless excuse. I breathe as a savage should, like a man possessed, I look at everything around, this image, what just happened, now more know my pain, I’m creating a real world. At least that is what I wanted to do. In the haste of life I had time to only sit back and dream, to imagine my anger and act it all out in my head, the only cure for insanity are dreams and fantasies. This is why humans are not instinctive creatures, if all simply acted out our first reaction, let all the fucked up shit out of our minds, very few of us would make the walk back home alive. I move through the crowds, my body is violated by stray hands and bags, coffee cups and mindless walkers who fail to see anything except the fluorescent light of their cell phones. Their bodies made a treacherous path that I braved, silently and passively, every unintentional bump curled my fingers and forced my teeth to taste the extremities of my lip. Through the multitudes, piles and stacks of faces I will never know, I see her again, except this time I know its not her, I could have walked anywhere, any direction, any length and at any time, and in this exact moment our minds had to coincide. It was not Hayley, but she had always been close enough. I walk to her, just close enough that may incandescent and pathetic need to have some visceral contact with her. To make her notice me without doing anything to make her notice me, without acting in a manner to be noticed. In the end, after my steps lessened always remaining five bodies behind, I gave up I walked to her. She turned, the quick glance set her forward again, not out of indifference, the only things we ever avoid are the things we love and hate, the worst situation would be if she said hello that would be a dagger in my thigh. I have no voice I was walk next to her, thousands of sentences pulsate through my body, questions and answers, I could salvage us and save us, and in the end I stopped walking. The silence between us could crush a giant the things I want to do are the things I wont let myself do. It was apparent this was no fleeting moment, unlike the climb over the hill, where I found myself far past the pain; all I could do was stand. I watched her walk drenched in solitude, all the people and faces and voices, and none of them knew me.

She was out of sight, and behind me I could hear a thunderous roar. The most familiar noise, the vastly too recognizable sound of the car, the black mammoth that shattered me, from the driver seat he could see me standing so oblivious to anything else around me, I could ignore anything except him. I was never a presumptuous person, I stood there looking at him, him looking at me, his head moved to the left, at least I think it did, I acted on cue. We drove off, faster and faster but it felt like nothing, I don’t wear a seatbelt; this car is kryptonite to tragedy. Looking at him now, sifting through hundreds of songs on his IPOD to play the only one I hate I feel a sort of odd transition. In the moment we are here together but life will tell us this will not always be true. He has no idea who I am, the constant comprehension we have had with one another completely beyond words has deteriorated the friendship. He has always been my brother, he has taught me a lot, fucked with me a lot, pissed me off a lot, and that constant flickering of emotions was an odd constant. Now we go days and nights avoiding each other, averting eye contact, lying to each other and ourselves. We are best friends now because we always have been and neither of us knows how to peel off the label. I would like to say it was the girl forcing this abrupt change, that we were torn apart in the most cliché fashion, but that wasn’t the case. He was a different person, more popular, busier, he had a life and I was still looking for one and it clearly wasn’t the same as his. We drive on and on, maybe we stop and get dinner, maybe we sit in silence and maybe he texts people on his phone, people I will never know. Maybe he puts too much money in and maybe I don’t say word. Maybe we both look for an excuse as to why I need to get home and he needs to get in touch with somebody. Maybe I sit in the passenger seat and feel a sickening sense of jealousy for he never needs an excuse to leave or talk or anything there is always a reason for him and maybe he sits there disgusted with the fact that the only girl he can stand for more than five minutes has to be my ex. I say maybe because for now neither of us will accept that any of it is happening.

I have already forgotten the words he spoke to me before driving off to the place I used to be. As I walk through the rubble once more I glance over at all the fallen pictures, they lay there so still like an infant experiencing its first dream. There is my dad, the big black car, the mammoth, his smile and character’s fragility eluded us for so long. This is just more shit I cannot handle, and ill cope with whatever my body will hold. Sleeping pills or painkillers, recently I have lost track of what I keep on my shelves but it all goes down the same in the end I feel nothing just the endless drift under my eyelids.

Here I am again, in the short-lived hell of middle school. Gliding down the hot pavement on the bikes, the frail clicks of the gears guiding the pace of our travel. In front of me my friend rides his bike effortlessly, his hands are relaxed at his side and he waits for me to catch up. My first hints of immortality come about, no matter where we rode our bikes for some reason I knew he would always get us back home. Which came at the moment he got us lost on the woods on our bikes, I bitched and he laughed, it was the status quo for us usually. I guess that’s what I always needed as an insecure kid, an unrelenting push to do the things that scared me the most, which was essentially everything. We would spew semi witty banter in the parking lots of pharmacies and piss away entire afternoons taking our blood pressure in the back of Brookes. By any stretch of the imagination what we were doing wasn’t fun but it was some of the best times we ever had. In the midst of the eternal sunlight and merciless heat, our friendship was immortal, we were brothers of on relation, always probably when you have the rest of your life in front of you and you can’t see any of it clearly. Change was still undefined, dreams were tangible, and our proverbial bullshit was fact. The hardest part of it all, throughout our entire friendship came that he always influenced me he always changed me, but what did I ever do for him. The young chubby sidekick version of myself, the depressed loner, how could he have changed any life let alone his best friends? There we were again this time on a basketball court, the only time I ever held any sort of superiority or reason. He couldn’t beat me and in a pathetic way I needed that. It was all I had. I used to try and convince myself I was smarter, that one day I could possibly be stronger, that maybe I could get more people to like me, but I could never do it I was always an awful liar. But I could put a ball in a hoop like nobodies business; even in my daze I know I’m sad. They say with every death comes birth, or maybe it’s the other way around, and now that our child-like bond is disintegrating I wonder where the birth is, if it is true that we will never have friends like those in the days of our youth, what else do I have to look forward to? No girlfriend, no love of my life, no best friend, sometimes I feel like Johnny cash just minus the talent and public adoration.

From what I can tell I am awake again.