Daemons Rise

Demons rise, in the soiled waters, kicked up by the penetrating self-evaluations of the last weeks, months, years. Demons that haunt the waking hours, the moments during which concentration lapse, seeping at the soul, begging for attention.

In my sleep, last week, I kneed a hole in the wall, near the head of the bed, a circular depression that left scratches on the flesh but otherwise did no discernable damage. I fear for myself, and those who may share my bed before the daemon is either confronted or reburied.

Reburial is not an option. Not now, not after it has reared its ugly head, and shown itself as the root of many problems, the root of the staunch reluctance to respect the self, to take responsibility for those around me affected by my actions, by my omissions, by my judgmental eye, probing for weaknesses in my fellows and myself, seeking for ways to hurt, for angles of attack, the hidden Achilles tendons we all wear so openly and concealed at once.

As quick as I am to lash out at those around me, I lash out at myself more quickly, without pulling the punches of veneer, without adhering to the unspoken protocols, the opaque rules that allow humans to interact.

With blinding certainty I currently see the need to simply speak one’s mind, bugger the consequences, meaning every damn fucking syllable spoken, and sticking your guns when the obviously controversial bumps up against the willfully restrained. Perhaps this view will fade, as all violent things do, and become mediocre, routine once more, but now, now it pervades the mind, popping up with near every thought, always there as a filter, sieving through possible arguments, comparing them against the original against the argument itself, consulting books, conversations, ideas, the core of the being, to see if the words that are about to be spoken truly reflect the opinions and views of he who speaks them.

Sometimes, the filter fails, and those utterances escape that make jaws drop, that send those more accountable running, scurrying off so as not to be seen with such a knave. But in those cases, sticking to your guns is more important than when trying to explain to the hottie in the checkout counter the underlying significance of the selection of items she is loading onto the belt, how every little thing clues you in to her current and potentially perpetual feelings of self-worth, how the arrangement and succession of items coming out of the basket gives you an idea of who the fuck she is, what she loves, what she cannot stand, what she cannot do without.

Then there’s the potentially homosexual checkout dude, mildly probing the waters, you pretty much letting him know what fucking dilly is, that XX is the only road for you. But in a nice way, like the guy in the PG 13 movie you really hope makes it.

But all these things you see, all these images flashing through your mind, watching her soft hands place item after item onto the rubber length, they are all false, they are all mind-fucks, self administered, telling you far more about what you WISH she were like, even perhaps that you WISH the buttonpuncher WERE in fact mildly probing your anus with a shampoo bottle. But that’s neither here nor there. And I’m pretty sure we’ve established heterosexuality, all systems go.

Pornstar found on Uranus.

The event in question occurred very shortly after it was discovered that I had been involved in a heinous crime, the forced acquisition of money or monies from an individual unwillingly or supposedly forcibly coerced into such. Pretty much armed robbery, and you did take the money, buying yourself a tastykakes fucking warm beverage to boot.

The police are notified, jailtime is issued and served, banishment from the school grounds on which it occurred, and the inexplicable sense that some higher authority, Feds, American fucking monkeyboys, were alerted to the occurrence, marks were made, panels were adjudicated, with the inexplicable feeling fading after a year or so, perhaps from decreased paranoia levels, perhaps due to removal surveillance, a closing of the books on this seemingly rehabilitated young, righteous bro.

But before all this, before the nights behind bars, the food poisoning, the elongation of sentence after meeting with the state case review officer, before all that, came the ultimate punishment.

Darkness. Outside at least, fear and hopefulness inside, inside my head, soul. Fear of what could come, hopefulness that it will be quick. It is not. They sit, at the table, not in their accustomed spots, but switched, listening to the initial rantings, to the warmup for what was to come.

Asked to explain myself, given the brief opportunity to mount a defense in the promise of unremitting onslaught, already tears welling in the corner of my eyes, the tears that flow when I let them, when I am moved by a book, or movie, or by the sheer reality of happiness, love, fear, pain.

My defense, my attempt to explain my actions, talk my way out of responsibility for what I had done, how I had at once brought shame and excitement to the small town, giving the lifers something to jab about for years to come, the tale of a young foreigner, offered the best medical services, allowed into their homes, given food, seen cycling through the streets, known as a child. This, this foreigner, comes here and takes money from a good native boy, with a KNIFE. Dangerous, unkind people. That’s what I’d be tempted to think at least, what I can see many saying in the privacy of their hearts, homes, while denouncing the thought in public.

But back to that moment, that intense rush, time goes crazy, accelerating and crawling at once, , which has perhaps been clouded over in my mind, as nerve receptors go dead after abused too long, perhaps it has made my recollection of that night hazy, but, one lucid, clear moment remains, when the last then viable option, my trump card is played to calm the best, to beg for mercy, to beg for a quick kill, to beg for death.

Death. Loss of the will to live. What’s the fucking point? I see what you mean, how my actions were so grievous, so utterly base and inhuman, that they leave me without a real reason for existence. So why not end it now?

There, the barrage of cruelty, the knife flensing away the coating of self-worth, me allowing it to slice away the thick skin, to see the tender vulnerability, the young boy, peeking out at the dark closet, for fear of the blood that seeps from under the door in his dreams, the hope that he could please this stoic, stern man dying, the hope that he could tackle any task, do anything well enough to please him ripped apart, entrails dragging on the floor, the figure stumbling towards the door, and a lonely death.

Is it that moment, when words finally worked their way through my swollen throat, when my face, plastered to my arm with snot and tears, left its spot, the mind remembering that the two were there, in their switched positions, crying with me, for me, and I cried out, slurred words stating purpose, the purpose of futility, the desire for it all to end, for the uselessness that my life had become to cease, for no more air to be wasted in my inadequate lungs.

Surprise. Surprise, perhaps even awareness that he might have cut too deep, that his words might have robbed me of too much, that I had taken them to heart, that they, while perhaps meant to help, had purposefully been used to hurt, or only seen so by me, the recipient.

Either way, the damage had been done.

The damage persists, hidden, I hazard, in a propensity to see the negative, to see the futility of things at times, obliviousness to damage to the self and to others. But also it is blissful, it is easy to squelch the dreams of doing something u-fucking-nique with this life I call my own, not being a cubemonkey, chasing the pipedream of corporate employment, wrapped up in the complexities of cubelife that the horizon can no longer be seen.

The damage is merely a scar, like those on face and head, arms ,elbows, knees, back and shins. What is this, but not another scar, something to caress at times, remembering the old times, remembering the pain and fear upon infliction, but then letting go, secure in the knowledge that the future is, to filch from a wiser man, tabula rasa, a blank page.