Friday, November 23, 2012

The Present

Rolling on the memory of a distant disaster. Clear the taste from your mouth. You remember it, yeah? That look. The one that made your chest deflate. A little animosity and a lot of pity. You holding that little box like a stupid motherfucker. Ain't gonna change shit.

It seemed simple, didn't it? All kinds of ways to rationalize it until you have to look her in the eyes and your eyes are twitching like tweaker vertigo. And you huh? and well... and look here! and you're the fucking problem.

She's not gonna get over it, man. You need to own that. You need to climb inside it, a cave the light won't reach. You need to feel the pain. You bought it.

It all seemed easy. All that soft flesh and the smell...vanilla and flowers or something. Something that reminded you of childhood cookies and jerking off to Vogue. You were nervous. I understand that. That was part of it, huh? That searing tickle in your subconscious. The sweaty palms. You let her call the shots...why not, you were paying for it. Let her do her job. It all made sense until it was clean up time.

So, now everyone has lost respect for you. And you weasel and make excuses and no one fucking cares.

You killed it, slaughtered it. You're hanging in the closet with your dick in your hand. You're waiting for a second chance, but you're on your twentieth, brother. She was the one who saved you. She held your hand in the ER while you made promises you were already breaking in your mind. She stuck it out. There was only one thing that could have destroyed it, and you did it anyway.

Seven minutes. You get that don't you, dumbfuck? You traded decades for minutes. You're eating frozen dinners in a shit hole apartment. You invited yourself to this party of one. Now, you're drunk and you're telling me and I don't even know you, let alone give a shit about your pussy problems. I got problems of my own.

Keep buying drinks, and I'll keep nodding and silently judging you, swirling my black robes. I am the fucking acolyte. I will be your reflection for a moment. That's all I'll do. That's all you deserve.

It's getting hazy now. You're getting lazy now. You built yourself a victim to climb inside and you think that will get you through the years. Lie to yourself all you want. You're still gonna wake up sweating, thinking about her. You're still gonna see her new husband's face. See him playing with your kids. Wondering if they like him better than you. And guess what? They probably do. The only person who still likes you is you.

Friend? You throw it out like trash, that precious word. I'm not your friend. I'm the fucking ghost in the machine, and I will fuck your mind because you deserve it. And that's my trip, see? I am the solitary judge. I am incapable of human compassion or guile.

You're not gonna like it, but I don't give a shit. I don't even exist, and you're propped up on the toilet leaking from every part of your body. You want to kill yourself, but you can't find the nerve. You get skittish like a dust dawn foal. You're flitting away like summer bats.

You show up drunk at their house on Christmas Eve and you expect everything to be cool. You can't see through the film of liquor sweat that is covering your eyes, your covers everything. You don't see the little faces looking out the window. You don't know that she's in the bathroom crying. You want to fight him, but he's bigger than you. And he's not even mad. You want to fight him, but he's helping you. Just go home and sober up, bud. Don't come here like this. It's not fair. He's right and you slink off into the night.

You open your mouth and the vomit pours down your chest. You open your mouth to scream and the demons force their way out. But you'll never get them all out. So, you might as well do it. You might as well. But you don't. You wake up to the sounds of children laughing, playing with their new toys.

You are alone. You earned it.


  1. Who is the judge here, swirling black robes? Whose eyes are bleak with drink-soaked despair? Cannot tell the observer from the observed.

    Holy shit, bud. Merry Christmas.

  2. The desperate reality of this piece hit me hard. To be candid, there was always someone in my family who was dealing with these demons, taking us along on the emotional, puking rollercoaster ride.

    This story is not for the faint-hearted, neither in the reading or the writing. It takes guts to write something so dark, profane and enlightening.

    You allow the story to go *there* - to go to the pain, the awkward centre and then you slice it open and say: here, look at this.

    Another pat on the hand and punch in the stomach. Well done, my friend.

  3. Thanks, Jo. You gotta lay it bare to understand...


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