I was supposed to do two. One was supposed to be Alex’s 17 but Lucian made a better one and mine sucked so yeah. Mind you, this still sucks but I’m going to go ahead with it anyway. I chose this piece because out of all the things I’ve read here on tumblr, this one stuck to me the most and it probably means more to me than any other words I’ve read. It means a lot to me because the guy in this story is the perfect dream guy I’ve given up on ever having. So this is all I get to keep of him.
Don’t believe her, it doesn’t suck one bit. It’s really, really great. I’m so fucking happy now, really. Two pieces I wrote lately that have been really important for me have now been read by others. It’s amazing.
It’s from an amazing young writer and beautiful girl Alex, from littleact. She didn’t name, just numbered it seventeen. It’s powerful and filled with emotions. I took about fifteen takes so I know it by heart now.
I tried my best with what I had. It’s allergy season though, so you have to forgive me if I speak through my nose. English is also not my first language, so I tried to put on a general English accent, hope it doesn’t sound forced.
Something I have heard countless times by a number of writers, “I love words”. I guess it’s common for writers to love words, they are the tools of the trade.
And now I have a confession to make. I don’t love words. There are many emotions I have for words. When there’s a word on the tip of my tongue, but still escaping my grasp, that’s when I hate them. When there’s a word I hear and instantly like it, that’s when I want to shout that word from rooftops. There are so many words, some stupid like swag, some beautiful like ambiguity. So many nice words; yet, I do not love words.
Try writing a single word. Look at it. What do you feel? Anything at all? Words have a way of stirring up emotions. A word can remind you of someone, a memory, or maybe you just like how it sounds. And that’s great, but in comparison to a sentence it’s nothing. A single word can give you an emotion, but can’t give you a roller coaster of emotions that a story could. Words can never come close to a well written story or a poem. They can never make you feel fulfilled or happy like reading a great poem does. They can never surprise you like a hidden twist can.
I find words necessary. I need to words to create, to express myself. I crave words all the time, but I do not love words.
She’s damn right. I know her kind. She’ll drain every particle of my being and make me the happiest man on earth. Her milky thighs and her soft lips will be the only things I think about. She’ll make a living zombie with only one thing on my mind, her. She’ll have me where she wants me and I’ll be powerless to resist. She’ll leave me tattered and hurt, bruised and dazed like a boxer after a fight. She’ll hurt me.
"No. You won’t do that, babe. I need you," I tell her.
"I’m pretty sure I’ll leave you hurting. I couldn’t live with that."
That’s true. She’ll crush me like a bug. For the few weeks after the break up I’ll live on beer and sleeping pills. She’ll make me cry like a baby. I know all that.
"Everything will be fine," I tell her and lean over to kiss her lips.
"If you say so," She whispers.
All the hurt in the world is worth waking up beside her, tangled in sheets and staring at her pretty face.
I asked you what hero I would be. What kind of a hero you need and what hero do you see in me.
You thought for a second and said you need a Superman. You need someone to love you like he does Lois. You need someone just and strong, someone pure and happy. You needed someone perfect. You said I’m your Superman.
But the truth hurts. Superman isn’t of this planet, he’s an alien. And darling, I’m exactly the opposite.
You see, I’ve never wanted to be a superhero, never wanted to be a classical hero either. I always wanted to be “The Punisher”. I always wanted to be a foul-mouthed, grizzled badass motherfucker. Not an All-American pretty boy who wears underwear over his tights. I always wanted to work under the cover of the night and wear black trench coats. I always wanted to blow bad guys heads clean off with sawn-off shotguns, torture them with knives and choke the life out of them with barbed wire.
I’ve never wanted to be a superhero. I can’t be your Superman. And I can’t be your Punisher either, his family is dead and he’s a loner. I was always a loner too.
They say you make it on tumblr when you get anon hate, which I still don’t have. I’m going to say it’s because I’m so awesome no one can hate me.
I disagree though. I believe you made it when someone puts you url in one of those poems or prose pieces. When they write something using urls and all. And let me tell you my url is perfect for that dammit. It can be sexual, non-sexual. It can be used in so many ways, really.
Desires to be respected by others in order to gain their trust and support for his own personal gain.
Your Stress Sources
"Needs to meet people who have the same high principals and values as himself, but finds the need unfulfilled. His need to feel dominate and superior leaves him feeling isolated and does not allow for him to give freely of himself. He would like to surrender and let go, but sees that as a weakness he must not give in to. Holding back will allow him to stand out for the crowd and earn a higher status, recognized by others as unique and important."
Your Restrained Characteristics
Has strong emotional demands and is picky when it comes to choosing a partner. He chooses to remain emotionally distant and uninvolved in relationships.
"Feels he is not receiving his fair share and is unable to rely on anyone for support or sympathy. He keeps his emotions bottled up, leaving him quick to take offense to small things. He tries to make the best of his situation."
Current situations have left him feeling overwhelmed and tormented. Needs to avoid further activity or demands and concentrate on relaxing and becoming emotionally sound.
"Is emotionally demanding, especially during intimate moments, which leaves him feeling frustrated because he is unable to find a perfect union."
Your Desired Objective
"His current situation is viewed as unpleasant and demanding to much out of him. He is stubborn and close-minding, feeling his way is the only correct way."
Your Actual Problem
"Struggles with his need for respect and admiration from others; feels he needs to make a name for himself and stand out from the crowd. He acts out by insisting he be the center of attention, and refuses to step back, stand down, or take on a minor, insignificant role."
I have to admit I took the damn test two times, because it makes me sound like and egoistical bastard. But it turned out pretty much the same. Motherfucker. Oh well, I’m an egoist, what else is new?
It does make me sound like a serial killer a little though.
Thanks to the editor/s who featured “Protect Her”, “Bathroom Floor Conversations” and the latest “She Asks for Poetry” in the last few days.
I know some people don’t like thanking the editors, but they do a hard job, reading other people’s work. And then they don’t get the respect they deserve and people insult them. They don’t get paid to do this, but they still do. That’s why they deserve a thanks, a big one.
She’s resting her head on my chest while we enjoy the morning sun after a night of not sleeping. She turns her head and looks at me while biting her lip.
"You’re a writer, but you never write about me. Why is that, babe? I want you to write some poetry about me. That would be romantic."
I let out a soft hmm and she recognizes it’s a bad one, “What? What did I say wrong?”
"Where to start?" I ask her. "You don’t want me to write poetry about you. You really don’t."
She raises an eyebrow, “Why? Are you being self-critical again?”
"Once I start writing poetry about my women it’s the beginning of an end. Trust me. I can write about beautiful things I see in you. I can write poetry about the way the sun shines your hair when you sleep, they way our bodies interlock like two pieces of a puzzle, how your moans raise goosebumps down my body. I can write the most beautiful piece of poetry in the world about you, but it won’t hide the fact I hate you, and I love hating you. Once I start writing poetry about women it just goes downhill from there."
She nods and kisses my cheek, “Okay. I can understand that. So, no poetry for me?”
I get up from bed and grab a cigarette and light it, “You’ll get poetry. It’ll come, it always does. No point in turning a blind eye. I’ll write poetry about you when you throw plates at my head, when you pack your bags and slam the door behind you, when I take a bottle of scotch and enough sleeping pills to knock out a race horse. That’s when you’ll get your poetry, darling.”
She sighs and waves her hand dismissing what I’ve said, trying to ignore what will eventually come.
"Until then, darling, you’re going to have to settle for prose."
The trail of broken glass and empty bottles greeted me when I entered our apartment. I set my things down and decided to follow the trail she left like bread crumbs. The spilled drink and bottles ended in front of the bathroom and door was closed.
"Babe, you in there?"
No one answered but I heard her shuffle and a bottle rolled across the floor. I opened the door and found her sitting against the wall. A bottle of Jim Beam in one hand and a razor in the other; she hovered the razor over her upper thigh, where her older scars were. She didn’t cut herself though. I got here on time.
She tried to slide it across her skin when she saw me, but I leaped and pulled the razor out of her hand. She instantly hung her head down in shame; she could feel my look on her.
And she knew what I was going to ask before I spoke, “I’m sorry. I really am. I just can’t be what you want me to be. I can’t be normal. I’m broken and don’t deserve you.”
Her words stung me. I knew something was wrong, but not like this. I sat down and put my arms around her, pulled her close.
"Normal? You and I both know that’s bullshit. There is no normal, everyone is special in their own way. And what’s that bullshit about being the way I want you to be? I didn’t get into this relationship to fix you. I don’t want to take your broken pieces and make you whole. When you love somebody you love the whole package. You have to accept their fears and their flaws. And let me tell you, I love you. I love you with your cutting, with your mood swings, with your depression, crying and insecurities. Babe, you can’t just look at what you believe is wrong with you. You need to see the good side too."
She finally looked up from the floor and looked me in they eye.
"I also love your smile and laughter, your sense of humor, your wicked blowjobs."
She laughed playfully and hit me in the arm, “Stop.”
"What I’m saying is… don’t try and be what I want you to be. Because I want you to be yourself. I love you, not what I want you to become. Now I’ll help you with anything you want, but I don’t want you to change for me. I just want you, the real you, with emotions and fears and problems. I want you."
She smiled and kissed me, “That’s what I needed to hear,” She said and put her head on my shoulder before going to sleep.
This was the time I was sure I’d do it. I stood on the edge of the old bridge, the one people call “Suicide Bridge”, and I was staring at the long drop and the murky waters below. I thought about how much time it would take them to fish me out, and will I be bloated and smelly. Yes, this was the time I do it, after all those times I chickened out and returned home.
I put one of my feet up on the railing and took a deep breath. She cleared her throat; a girl just standing near me. She was wearing a floral summer dress and her shoes were mismatched. The girl just stood there with the wind blowing her black hair in her face.
"Yes?" I asked.
"Well, I’m here for the same thing, but you were here first. So, you know, you can go first."
What fucking bullshit. A man can’t even commit suicide without being bothered, I thought to myself. Slowly I raised my second leg over the railing and did the same thing with the first one. I was standing on the the other side of the railing, holding it. If I just let go I’d fall down. This was the closest I ever came to it.
The girl was still looking at me; it was embarrassing. She must have seen the weird look on my face, “I can turn around if you want. If you’d like some privacy.”
"No, it’s okay." I told her and let go with one of my arms. My life was now hanging by a single arm.
I closed my eyes and got ready for it. I was ready to die.
"Wait!" She yelled and I turned to look at her. "It will be weird won’t it? When they fish us out, they’d think we killed ourselves together or something. They’d think we were a couple, we made a suicide pact or something."
She was right, but I couldn’t go back, “I don’t care. I was here first, you can find another way if it bothers you.”
"You’re not going to kill yourself," She said and climbed the railing next to me. "If it takes you this long to let go, you won’t do it."
She was right again. I couldn’t do it. I’d climb the bridge countless times and I never managed to let go. Dying is scary, but living is hard. I climbed back to the other side and sighed. It was both a relief and a burden. I couldn’t look her in the eye; she had more bravery than me, at least I thought that was bravery at the time. I started walking away from her, but something made me stop. She was sobbing, crying.
Her floral dress and her black hair waving in the wind, tears sliding down her face, she was standing on the railing with both of her arms spread wide. She was ready to jump, ready to die.
"Wait," I said. "I’m not the one to talk, but don’t do it. Why don’t you and I go and get a drink together?"
She turned her head and looked me like I was insane, “Now?”
"Well, it’s not like you had something to do. You were about to kill yourself, so I’m guessing you have time."
She bit her lip and thought for a second, “Okay. I can still kill myself later. I could go for a drink though.” She climbed back down and started walking towards me. I couldn’t help but laugh at her two mismatched shoes. She looked down and only saw it then. She started laughing herself.
"Imagine if they found me like this. How shameful that would be," I just nodded and took her by the hand. We started walking back to town.
"I’m Alex, nice to meet you," She said and I shook her hand.
Girls usually told me I was bad at dating. Dates always tended to end up wrong, or I’d make a fool out of myself. This time more depended on it. I didn’t want to disappoint Alex. I didn’t want her to kill herself, and to be honest, suddenly I didn’t feel like dying either.
A few days ago I saw this post that was featured in poetry. It’s a message for all the boys who self-hurt, feel bad and so on, and they’re all beautiful and their princess will come, that’s what it says. The post has almost 23,000 notes, and I have nothing against it, but I don’t see the point. If I cut myself, would somebody’s message to everyone like me really make a difference.
A couple of days ago I’ve read a very personal piece of writing from a girl I’ve been following for a while. She wrote about her cutting in the piece and it made me sad. I’ve never done any self hurting myself, so I can’t begin to understand it, but I feel this girl is absolutely beautiful. I’ve talked to her before and she’s awesome and great to talk to. I wanted to let her know that. So I did.
I sent her message asking about her cutting, and I let her know I thought she was beautiful and she must never forget that. Now, I’m not fooling myself, this doesn’t make people stop, these are deep seated issues. But she responded and told me how much it means to her, and I really believe it does. And I’ve talked to her about it a few more times since then.
Everybody needs kind words and motivation now and again, even from strangers on a place like tumblr. Therefore, the next time you want to reblog a message to anybody who self hurts, or suffers from depression. I advise you not to do it. It’s a nice gesture, but a gesture. Why don’t you take some more time and send a message to somebody and tell them they’re beautiful, tell them what’s on your mind.
Don’t just reblog pictures and thoughts, and recycle them over and over again.
Some take sharp, steel razors and slide them across their skin until warm blood pours out and they feel alive again, or it feels like they deserve it and they embrace the pain.
Some drink alcohol day and night, they search for answers on the bottom of a glass, but they never find them so they go to sleep with full bottles in their hands and drink until they pass out; these people befriend bourbon and beer, scotch and brandy hoping they’ll make them feel better.
Some open little boxes that rumble like maracas and they take pills, the white Vicodin the blue Valium and the orange Adderall, they swallow pills until they can’t feel anymore and nothing really matters as they walk trough life in a daze.
Some tie ropes around their arms and stick dirty needles shooting heroin into their bloodstream so they can feel peaceful and quiet.
There are many ways and many variations, but these are all weapons of self-destruction.
There are only a few things no one can take away from you. And everyone prides these things, these things that make us who we are. We all have beliefs, personal values and stances. Pretty much we know how we stand on all kinds of politics. Stuff like same-sex marriages, church, war on terror, crime, abortion, God, religion.
These stuff make us who we are. And many times I would find myself arrogant and narrow-minded in my open mindedness. You see I could be a liberal. I don’t really believe in political parties. On some accounts I’m a complete leftist, some issues maybe less. Therefore I believe no one can completely agree with every thing one political party stands for, but I digress. What I wanted to say, I tend to look down on people. I see far-rightists talking about gay rights and I find myself disgusted. I see religious cults and think I could never be so stupid to believe in stuff like that. Every day I think to myself I could never turn out like someone else.
Yet, the truth is, the things that make us unique and everyone has, they’re completely random. If you got raised by a family just a few houses next to you, you could have turned out a Mormon. If you started hanging out with the wrong crowd in school, you could have turned out a Skinhead. There are so many scenarios possible. So many things that could have happened that would alter you completely.
Everything you stand for, everything you believe in could have been different. Just by pure chance. That’s what I realized after seeing these people. People that promote God and still stand against everything he believes in. People that discriminate other by race, sex or sexual orientation. I realize it could have easily be me. If I was born into a religious family I might have ended up a real Catholic. If I was born into wealth I would probably become a spoiled asshole, and so on and so on.
Everything that make you who you are could be easily different and that scares me.
She may seem like a doll with long, auburn hair that glows red in the sun, with her tiny waist and milky white skin, with her big blue eyes and thin, red lips; she may seem like a delicate tiny doll.
Her hair is sharp as barbed wire and red with blood; her heart is black as tar and pumps battery acid through her corroded veins, behind the stunning smile and pretty, thin, red lips are porcelain jagged teeth she digs into her men until they don’t move, on top of her delicate fingers are long, black claws she uses to pierce your skin.
Beware of the china doll girl, first looks can be deceiving.
Sometimes things are too beautiful and I want to destroy them, the trees are too high and proud I want to cut them down, the grass is too green I want to soak it with blood, people are too strong and good, I want to see them go corrupt.
Sometimes things are too beautiful for this fucked-up world we live in.
Sometimes, just sometimes I want to watch the world burn and perish along with it.
I shamelessly stole borrowed the title. In Fight Club there’s a couple of articles the Narrator reads, for example I’m Jack’s Colon, later it’s used by the Narrator for example “I’m Jack’s cold sweat” when he finds out how his condo blew up.
Jack used to be one of those people. The people who are always there, but never present. He was that kind a person in multiple ways.
Firstly, Jack loved to daydream. He’d find himself carried away in a scenario while listening to his boss talking about recycling. Jack would think about blowing Milly’s head when she came over every single morning to tell him about the book she read last night. He asked her once, and she took it as permission to bore him every single day for the rest of his life. Jack would spend hours at his job staring at the wall, thinking about God knows what. He was always there, but never present.
His asocial nature and quiet demeanor made him one of those people in another way. Nobody actually paid him any attention. He was always there, when the pipe burst in the man’s bathroom, when Milly and Jenny had a girl fight, when the boss fell down the stairs and broke his leg. Jack was there at any important event at the office, but when these events were recollected and spoken of, Jack was never mentioned. He was always there, but never present.
This feeling of being invisible and nothingness was too much for Jack to handle. One morning he didn’t see the point anymore. He thought it didn’t make a difference, if suddenly he wasn’t always there, since he was never present anyway. He jumped off his building and landed on an 90 year old woman, killing her.
Suddenly everyone remembered Jack, and would tell their friends about the guy that killed himself and the old lady. Suddenly everyone was talking about Jack, but he wasn’t there to hear it.
You were never merciful to your men. Who was I to think you’d change for me. You’d never put them down fast and without pain. That isn’t your style. You torture the poor men that fell into your trap. You push them to the edge, when they’re begging you to finish it, and you give them a little glimmer of hope. You give them a tiny straw to hold on to, before taking it away and making them suffer some more.
When things were over, you didn’t shoot me in the head and leave. That isn’t your style.
You shot my gut full of buck shot. You can die for a long time from a gut shot, the acid in your stomach spills out into your body. There it destroys your bowels, liver and kidneys. It takes a long time to die from a gut shot.
And you know that so well.
That’s when you grabbed a big fucking knife. A hunting knife; one that skins a bear like it’s slicing butter. You pushed it slowly into my abdomen. It pierced my skin and cut through flesh. That’s when you yanked it down, splitting me open, from my chest down to my pelvis.
You slid your hands into me. You searched and dug your way through my flesh and bone picking out the buck shot. One by one you pulled them out and lined them near me. When you were done you took them all in your hand and pried open my mouth. I couldn’t resist. One by one, the buck shot went down the rabbit hole, back to where it came from.
You weren’t done, yet. Once again your hands were inside my body and they grabbed something. You started pulling and pulling until my bowels fell to the floor. The shiny, pink tube lying around me, like a skinned snake. And you laughed. It wasn’t enough. You took my bowels and hung them around my neck, like a sick Hawaiian flower necklace. You wrapped it around my neck and started pulling, started choking the life out of me. Second after second the end seemed near. Then you stopped.
And you pulled out a gun, a big shiny gun. And you leaned it against my temple. I begged for it all to stop, I wanted you to finally finish it, but I wanted you to continue. You gave me a slight ray of hope, just enough to keep me conscious, before putting the gun back and tightening the grip around my neck.
You were choking me dead, but I didn’t hate you. You were torturing me to death, but I didn’t hate you.
Randall snickered and turned his head to Jay, “See this. We need to teach this kid everything.” Ray nodded his head in agreement and lit a cigarette.
Randall who was standing in front of Billy now sat down on the bench. He sat between Billy and Jay and put his arm around Billy, “Don’t worry Billy boy, I’ll tell you all about it.”
"He taught me the same stuff." Jay added.
"Sure did," Said Randall. "Now listen, Billy. You and Holly have been doing mighty fine from what I’ve heard. I even heard she gave you the ass. Good job man, not that Holly needs that much talking into. Still, good job—"
"You’re calling my girlfriend a slut? Fuck you!"
Randall shook his head, “No. I’m just saying she’s eager to please, that’s all. She’ll go the extra mile to keep you satisfied. That’s good, that’s good.”
Jay got up from the bench, “Listen, teach the kid, but I gotta go. Third period is math. I can’t miss that.” Jay waved and walked off, leaving the two boys alone.
"Now, I’m going to tell you all about the donkey punch…"
Randall’s words were the only thing ringing out in Billy’s ears while he pounded Holly from behind. A cheap motel room was the place; Billy decided to rent it so they can be as loud as they wanted to. Usually they fucked in his room, with his parents downstairs.
Holly was on all fours and moaning. Billy kept his hands on her buttocks, so he rammed her down with every thrust he made. They were both sweaty, having been going at for ten minutes already. Billy knew he was going to cum soon; Holly knew it as well. She started bucking her ass back into Billy’s dick.
"Come on! Fuck me like you mean it Bill!" She squealed.
And Billy sped up. He dug his nails in her ass and started to pound away. Each thrust bringing him closer to the edge. Holly could sense it, she bit down on the pillow and grabbed the sheets. Billy was pounding away like an animal now. Holly’s pussy tightened and he knew she was cumming.
Randall’s words rang in his ear again. That was it. Holly was squirming and screaming, he could feel the brink coming up.
Billy clenched his fist and raised his hand.
"A donkey punch is the best thing, man. I’m telling you. I tried it with Sarah and loved it. She was a bit angry later, but she forgot me later. You have to try it," Randall told Billy with an evil smile across his face.
"Okay, let’s say I want to try it. What is it?"
"You’re pounding away in doggy style, anally or vaginally, anally is better though. When you can feel it coming, you know? When you’re about to cum; you hit Holly in the neck or the back of her head."
"What? You’re fucking insane. Asshole."
"No, no. I’m telling you, Billy. It’s the best feeling in the world. There are some muscles there, in the back. When you hit her, she’ll get surprised and all. The muscles contract, and those muscles are connected to the genital and anal muscles. It anatomy really."
Randall sighed, “If you say so, but I’m telling you. It’s the best thing ever. You’re missing out. Holly may get mad for a second, but she’ll forgive you really soon. Your choice. Do you want to feel the best thing ever?”
Billy was exploding, his fist in the air. In the middle of the orgasm he decided he wanted to know what the fuss was all about, and swung his fist. His fist swooshed through the air and hit Holly right in the back of her head.
Nothing happened. There was no heavenly feeling, no tightening of her muscles. She just went limp.
Holly’s body fell to the bed, and Billy’s dick slipped out of her pussy. She wasn’t moving; she was lifelessly sprawled across the bed, face down in the old mattress.
"Fuck!" Screamed Billy.
He grabbed her head with both hands and leaned over. Billy put his ear next Holly’s mouth. She wasn’t breathing. Shock overcame him; he released her head and it fell face down again. He killed her, thought Billy.
Billy quickly regained composure and flopped her body over. CPR, CPR, he thought to himself. He knelt near her and opened her mouth. Just when Billy was ready to blow air in her mouth, he finally saw it. No amount of CPR will bring back Holly; her neck was broken, her head dangling around like a rag doll.
Billy jumped off the bed and sat on the floor. Tears started to slide down his face. He started thinking of his parents, her parents, started thinking of jail. I fucked up, thought Billy. And Holly’s body just lied there, Billy’s semen still dripping from her pussy.
He picked up his phone and dialed a number. After a slow wait someone on the other side answered.
"Randall? It’s Billy. I need your help. I fucked up."
I have an idea floating around my head. And it could possibly turn out really dark and fucked up. Now, I’ve written some fucked up stuff around here, but this could really turn out scary. I don’t know how to proceed.
Fuck it. I’m going to go ahead and write my fucked up story. This was actually pointless, just giving you a heads up. I’ll delete this afterwards, most probably.
Hot streams of water fall on her body while she scrubs herself, tears slide from her eyes and mix with the water disappearing forever.
And she scrubs and scrubs until her skin is red and the bruises hurt, bruises she’s full of from head to toe, fresh bruises.
And she cries.
No soap and water can wash away her pain; No soap and water can wash his stink his smelly breath and his greasy hands from her skin; No soap and water can remove all traces of his gruesome crime; No soap and water can delete the memories of rape.
Everyone writes love, in way or the other. Love isn’t an universal emotion. A quote I’ve read about books can be used on love. “No two people perceive love in the same way.” It is the same with writing love. Everyone writes differently.
How do you write love?
Do you write of the everlasting, destined love? The “true” love, with white picket fences, coffees in the morning, nights under the stars and candle lit dinners in the evening. Do you write of love that fulfills and makes you happy?
Do you write of teenage love? The first love that makes you feel strong and bulletproof. Love that seems able to last forever, love that feels true and new. Love that can leave you depressed and sad. That first love that tends to hurt the most.
Do you write of bold love? Love that may be looked down by society? Love between two people that shouldn’t be in love. The taboo love, one they show and display, not hide and keep quiet?
What do you mix with your love? Every piece of writing has emotions and motives mixed in. Do you write of angry love, unrequited love, kinky love, boring love? Which emotions and motives accompany your romances? Lust, greed, jealousy, depression?
I write violent love. Gun toting, chain smoking, fatal love. Love filled with twist and turns, knives in the back and women in red dresses. My love is violent, twisted and broken, but that’s just me. No one writes love the same way.
The perverted life of mine was created on March 12th 1997, I was just 12 years old then. A normal 12 year old, slowly entering puberty, learning about all those things, sex, girls. Everything was going according to plan; I lived with my family in a small town called Red Falls. We lived on a farm on the outskirts of the town. Everything was great until that night, until that god-forsaken night.
My mother called me into the home; I was sitting on the porch soaking the night breeze. It was a warm night and the sky was clear. Everything seemed peaceful, nothing alarming about what was to happen in just a few minutes. So I entered the house and went up to my mother. She was a fragile yet strong woman with rough black hair. She worked hard every day and I looked up to her a lot.
“The dinner is ready. Go look for your dad in the barn,” she shooed me back outside.
I looked at the table, mash potatoes and meat loaf lied there. Dinner smelled delicious, I tried to put my finger into the potatoes. My mom swatted my hand away.
“Don’t touch the food, go find your father and wash up.”
So I ran outside into the yard and left towards the barn. I yelled, “Dad!” but no one responded. I figured he couldn’t hear me and ran straight into the barn. But what I was greeted upon in the barn was a most vile of scenes. It wasn’t my dad with another woman, neighbor’s daughter or even a goat. All those scenarios I would accept better that this one.
In front of my young little eyes my father hanged. A tight noose around his neck, tied to the central beam of the barn. My dad’s eyes were still open, they almost popped out of his head. Around the corners of his mouth vomit and foam dripped down to the ground. On the ground something even worse lied. A pile of shit, as I looked up I’ve seen a brown snake-like stain coming down my dad’s pants. A trail of shame, a trail of shit. You see, my father killed himself via the short drop, the one you see in westerns. He got up the ladder, tied the unforgiving noose around his neck and kicked the ladder from under his feet. Then he struggled, choked to death, all his muscles in the body contracting in a violent symphony, he choked and gagged until he went limp. So did his bowels, and the contents of his breakfast slid down his leg and unto the floor.
What a shock it was for me, the man I revered all my life, hanging helplessly, dried shit clinging to his leg. He looked like a small child, unable to control his bladder. The most humiliating position one could ever find himself.
I screamed from the top of my lungs, screamed my dad’s name, and called for my mother. She rushed to the barn and saw him. Then we screamed together.
Our cries of disbelief echoed in the dark warm night.
The police and the coroner came pretty fast, it was a small town after all. They got him down, zipped him in a body bag and shipped him into the ambulance. The detective than started the barrage of questions for my mom.
“Did he seem depressed?” He asked, though obviously not interested, thinking about what he’s gonna have for supper.
But mom couldn’t help him, she said she didn’t know of anything. She told him he didn’t have any illnesses, and as far as she was aware everything was fine. But he kept asking, one question after another. Mom still couldn’t help him. She turned to me and told me to go into the house, she said I should eat something. I’m in shock; I could faint. She rushed me off into the kitchen and went outside again.
I looked at the table and the same food was there; the food that looked so enticing and delicious just and hour ago now looked sad and untasty. I wouldn’t eat if it was the only thing in the world. So I went upstairs to my room. Sat on the bed for a while before succumbing to sleep.
I dreamed that night, nothing nice though. Nightmares, only nightmares.
In a couple of days came the funeral, the house was full. All the family here, everyone dressed in black. Outside, it was fucking hot. One of the hottest march days I remember and everyone was wearing black. Everyone hugged me, asked me how I was holding up, how did I come upon him. They tried to make it sound they cared, but they were just hoping for a gory detail, a first-person recollection. My mother did keep a good eye on me, taking me to her side every time she thought I was overwhelmed.
We drove to the funeral parlor then where they put dad’s coffin on display. I went up to it and I was shocked. It was nothing like I remembered him the dreadful night. His jaw was shut with wire into a perverted peaceful smile, he was cleaned and didn’t smell like shit. I couldn’t believe that was him. No sign of what he had done to me and my mother just a few nights ago remained. Everyone came in and saw this peaceful man. Not the man that just left me and my mother to fend for ourselves without telling us why. Not the man that obviously kept something secret from us, something that made him kill himself.
During the whole funeral, even when they carried him out and buried him, I couldn’t stop thinking about that night. I knew that the image of my father is going to be etched into my mind forever, but not the image of him carrying me on his shoulders when I scored the home run in little-league last summer. Not the image of him working on the tractor, not the image of a great family man. For the rest of my life the first image that comes to mind when I think of dad will be of him, hanging by the neck.
Later on everyone went back to our house and we prayed and ate. On one of the many plates there was a meat loaf and mash potatoes, I wanted to eat them, I really did. They were my favourite food after all. But I just couldn’t. every time I lifted the fork up and tried to take a bite I almost vomited. You remember how certain smells reminds you of something, freshly mowed grass reminded me of playing in the grass at summertime. Smell of burning wax reminded me of candles and birthdays.
And the smell of meat loaf and mash potatoes reminded me of my dad, hanging in the barn. And most importantly it reminded me of my dad’s smell, smell of shit. And that is the story of how my dad ruined meat loaf and mashed potatoes for the rest of my life.
This is the first chapter of something that is supposed to end up as a novel. I have the whole thing fleshed out, but now I need to write it all.
She’s standing on the doorstep. The last boxes with the last of her things are packed and in her hands. We’re both looking at each other like a couple of idiots, because we both know it’s over, and we’re afraid. Do we kiss, that last goodbye kiss? Do we hug?
"What do you think was the moment everything went to shit?" She asks, all the while avoiding my eyes.
I want to say it’s the moment she fucked another guy, but it ain’t true. I want to say it’s the moment I got drunk and we argued, but it ain’t true.
"There isn’t a moment. There is never A MOMENT. You may think this the moment we finally end things, but things were ended long before. You see, we love to tell stories, but we remember moments. Yet, a single moment in time means nothing, not without context. A single moment means nothing."
Now she’s looking me in the eyes, she’s taking in my words like a sponge.
"Try and remember the moment your first relationship ended, remember the moment you broke a bone, or any moment really. It doesn’t matter at all. What happened before that moment is what matters. Every single event is caused by a string of events before it."
I raise my hand and move the strand of hair between her ear.
"Relationships don’t go sour in one moment, a specific point in time. It’s an endless string of moments that slowly lead to the shipwreck. Relationships don’t die with gunshot wounds to the head. They tend to die slowly from cancer, from a gut shot, a rare disease. It takes time, and it takes hundred of moments, each responsible as much as other."
She nods in agreement and leans over planting a soft kiss on my cheek. She turns around with her boxes and walks out. Out of my life.
The gun is firmly in her grasp; her hands are shaking; tears are sliding down her pretty face.
"I can’t do it. Please, don’t make me do this?" She says, but doesn’t put the gun down. It’s still pointed right at me.
"Baby, you have to. I’m dying either way. Do you know how it feels?" I clear my throat holding back tears. "There is a thing inside me, and it’s killing me. This thing is made of my flesh, but it isn’t me. It has grown inside me and it feeds of me like a leech. This thing is a parasite, and it’s devouring me whole."
She shakes her head, “We can still try. You take chemo and you get two more years. Two more years to spend with me.”
"Two years of shaving my head, puking my guts out each morning, shaking and sweating. Two painful years that will burden you? These things suck the life out of people. I’ve seen it, and I won’t let it happen to you."
I walk closer to her and grip the gun’s barrel. I pull and lean the barrel to my chest, where my heart ought to be.
"It’s killing me, babe. And it doesn’t have a reason, and it doesn’t have a face. It’s killing me and I can’t help it. That’s why I need you strong baby."
She breaks down crying and shaking her head.
"Baby, if I have to die. I want the woman I love to kill me."