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agent of oblivion
Everything hurts. I can see the black and blue marks under the tattoos on my arms. My leg is nearly impossible to stand on. I feel like I have been hit by a train, and I love the soreness in a way that I could not explain. It reminds me of the adrenaline-fed violence of last night, of flailing arms, thrown elbows and drunken fists. The buzzing in my ears reminds me of the loud music that was the pulse of the mosh pit. There is a proud sense of accomplishment in my suffering, and nothing will kill that satisfaction.
I am the centered man in this contest of violent will. Each song brings new participants, new threats and more adrenaline. Body after body, collision after collision, and still I stand strong at the center of the pit. Nothing can stop me and nothing can take away the high of this moment. I am a momentary god, living beyond my own grace, and I am destroying my body to exalt its power and glory. Bruises, blood, black eyes and broken bones are nothing to be concerned with. I only care about the next shaved head or thrashing mess of hair.
The residue of an evening of excess is flooding through my skull and buzzing in my ears. It has scarred the inside of my eyelids with images of indulgence. Another night, another crime, I was engorged in decadence and surrounded by friends and enemies alike. They wore the same masks, they kissed with the same lips and they bit with the same teeth. Too hard to tell them apart, I enslaved them all with the same tempting tongue and arousing fingers. A night without betrayals from the conquering rapture, I have endured and walk once again under the oppressive sun.
I never knew him. I should have but things do not always work the way they should. I met him once, and I thought to myself that I wanted him in my life, but it was my life that got in the way and kept me from getting to know him better. Now he is gone, and I will never have the chance to fix the damage done by a broken past. I am emotionally crushed, not so much for the loss of the person but for the loss of the chance of knowing the person. He was my grandfather.
She answered the phone with hostility. I asked for him in my soft-spoken manner, and she increased her aggression and asked me to repeat myself. I made it a point to speak slightly louder and clearer. She blurted something out and asked if she could take a message, obviously irritated at the call. I thought about declining and hanging up, just pretending I never called and going back to hiding from the past and the unresolved pieces of my life. I could keep hiding, but did not. Instead I spoke my name to my sister, and suddenly things were different.
Her suffering is romantic. Her desires are desperately bold. She screams my name at night and longs for my touch. She would murder the world to kiss me again. I loved her and I did not tell her. She offered me everything when I wanted nothing. I cast her aside and she has drifted away. She is beyond my reach but not beyond my sight. I can hear her cries both in my waking and sleeping hours. I could pull her out of her hell and into my darkness, but I fear I would only make things worse for her.
Love is a hallway, each potential lover a door. Open doors are passed by with disinterest. If the door is closed, I will charge recklessly and fruitlessly into it. Sometimes the closed doors open, and fear keeps me from accepting the invitation. I will wait until they are closed again and bash my skull to trauma with the rejection. I will wander through an open door from time to time to find what I need, but in the end I am always back at the closed door, longing to be inside, knowing I would never enter if given the chance.
He stares out the window because it is easier than looking at her. She is yelling again, but he is not listening. She is always upset about something, and no matter what he does there is nothing that will prevent it. Anything he says makes it worse, so he stays quiet. So she hates him for the silence. He does not flinch when she throws the plant or slams the bedroom door. He has seen it before, and he knows it will never change. He grows a little darker inside, lost in the oppression of a marriage he never wanted.
Consumed by memories of being pulled under, the leathery tendrils of something unknown wrapped about his ankles and feet, he sat staring into the dark water with tears streaming down his weathered face. The idea of getting back in the lake scared him beyond comprehension. He knew it was still down there and that no one believed what had happened. It would be a matter of time before it grabbed someone else, and the next time they would not be so lucky. He braced himself as he sat in the boat, not wanting to think about the horror lurking beneath.
Her stare like a death threat and lips like an open grave, her love is like suicide and her lust is like a disease. She is gorgeous and intoxicating, promising to hurt me with her capricious desires. Her eyes pull me away from a forgotten lover, from the comforting safety of innocence and compassion. Her whispers lure me from the warm embrace of the dying light and into the enveloping malice of her endless night. Her feverous kisses cut me like razors and her seductive caresses consume me with the promise of drowning. Never have I wanted anything this much.
From somewhere in the darkness crawled something that could not be alive. He tried to scream but could not break the silence. This monstrosity before him projected the sensation of buzzing insects and rotting meat, though it made no sound and had no distinctive smell. It scarred itself into his eyes, though afterwards, should he still be able to speak at all, he would not be able to describe it. The thing that crawled towards him was an abomination beyond human conception. It was a perverse promise of death laced with a precursory madness and an aftertaste of horrific negation.
He is miserable. He pretends that there is nothing bothering him. He takes a drink. He will not admit it to himself. He will not face the truth that he is suppressing. He takes another drink. He will not acknowledge how much she hurts him. He wants to hide his depression. He drinks. He wants to scream until he can no longer hear his thoughts. He wants her to walk out of his life. He keeps drinking. He wants to take back everything he said. He wants her to hate him. He drinks a final drink. He wants to die.
It hurts to know that everything that is wrong with me will linger somewhere in her. I will hurt her with the choices I make and the choices I do not make. She will remember me for the hard times and she will resent me for my inability to always be there. She will cry and I will not be there to kiss away the tears. She will long for my arms and I will not be there to hold her against me. I only want her to be happy, and I fear that I may be her greatest pain.
It would kill you to try and live like this and I could never be one of you. We are different. We were always different, but circumstance forced us together and it just felt like the awkwardness of youth. If I had known then what it would be like this far away, I would have resented you more and tried harder to hurt and exploit you. I would have focused all my energy on destroying as much of your world as possible, so that there was that much less of it to look at from down here in the trenches.
Sitting across from me and trying not to make eye contact, she takes another drag off her cigarette. She is nervous and self-conscious to the point of agony. Her food will remain uneaten out of fear that she may do something embarrassing or that I might watch her too intently. The need to impress me was apparent when she walked in, overdressed and trembling as she walked. I regret asking her to join me, not because I am annoyed or offended but because I feel terrible for making her so uncomfortable. I excuse myself and head silently for the bathroom.
Seeing these pictures of her is like a dream. It has been so long and she looks the same. I forgot how much I loved her. The subtleties of her gestures and the smoothness of her features infuse me with memories of an unlived childhood, like somehow through her I would be able to erase the scars and smile in the sunshine of the past. That is how she made me feel, staring at me in wonder as we ate that night so long lost to the circumstances of parted ways. She was salvation and I watched her walk away.
This is not what it seems. I am not trying to force everything out, but I will not pretend that any of it deserves to make its way in. There are places where some things cannot exist, and there are dark places where some things will flourish. This life is not normal, and I will not dress it up in Convention's clothes and pretend that everything fits. You cannot cover the truth in its eyes. You cannot bury the things that make it live and expect it to still breathe. I will never be what you want me to be.
I am just smoke passing through her pursed lips. I am an exhaled breath, exquisitely tasted and instantly discarded. A moment of satisfaction in a lifetime of disdain, I will be no more than a glimpse into surreal dreams. The tyranny of the world in which she must pass her days will force me out of her memory, but somewhere under the dressings of necessity I will leave a stain of something desired or feared, but never remembered. It is tragedy that we could not be more than a moment; this capricious existence has stolen the majesty of our rapture.
Her scent lingers in the soft fabric of her jacket, which has somehow ended up in my possession. The whole incident seems insane as I reflect upon it, sitting here watching the night fade into morning. I could have taken so much more, but the subtlety and restraint has made the flirtatious interaction more playful and intoxicating. I sit her holding it in my hands, smiling, cherishing this moment. Her smell reminds me of something wonderful from my past, but the details of that memory elude me like a forgotten dream. I am drunk on the scent of a woman.
Write yourself a love letter. Shower yourself with romance and rapture, fulfilling passing fantasies and half-dreamt whims as you please. Please yourself. Touch the dark recesses of your heart with a tenderness never known from another. Your understanding and appreciation of your inner impulses gives you such power. Give in and do not feel guilt or practice restraint. You deserve to be worshipped. A whispered indulgence and a sensuous grazing of fingers across flesh, this night is yours to conquer. Every fetish and secret unchained and allowed to flourish; there is nothing that can snuff the fires of self-sustained ecstasy.
His eyes are full of fear. He knows what happened but will not speak of it. He did not expect to find me here. He may have entertained fantasies of meeting me, wounding or killing me, but now that we have come face to face he can only think of getting through the rest of the night alive. He stares nervously and hopes that I will leave quietly. He will get his wish, but not how he wants. She is just beyond the peripheral screaming at him, or maybe at me. Just another night, and I could use a drink.
There are events in our life that come only once, and they hold such significance that we will cherish them forever. They will be our fondest moments, and we of get so caught up in them that we do not realize they are happening until they are over. They will imprint themselves upon us, linger in our dreams and consume our thoughts for days and weeks to come. We will reminisce in the years that follow, always wanting to somehow relive those blissful moments. We will never fully capture their glory, but it will never fully fade from our mind.
The house was still there. The sun was shining but muted. The world was overcast and surreal yet crisply in focus. He was standing before the house, as if it was still standing and he was still alive. He was trying to take me inside. I just kept shrugging him off, too consumed to stop and appreciate what was facing me. It was in agony that I awoke, realizing that it was all a dream, and even in my dormant hours I did not make the time to embrace it. My childhood is dead, and I cannot connect with it.
She grasps at the remnants of my failures, looking for something of me that I have left behind. She longs to be close and have a connection to who I am, but there is nothing to be discovered in the discarded pieces of my past. The human in me dies more with each sunset, and in the place where it was there is now a monstrosity, an artist obsessed with something he cannot find the means to make real. His efforts are not fruitless, and he will not surrender. In time there will be nothing left for her to find.
It was late, and she was on my mind. I just want to head home, slam down a few shots and crawl into the silence of slumber, hoping I could stay asleep long enough for all this to pass. I knew it would not because my tension came from within. I made myself wait, savoring the thought of salvation in her arms. But I waited too long, and she grew restless and left. I missed her because she thought I was not coming. So now I sit awake in the company of an empty bottle and my own personal hell.
There is pleasure in her suffering. She needs it to feel complete. It makes her real and gives her a connection to the world around her. It allows her to suck people in and court their sympathy by displaying her wounds like desirable merchandise. I feel no remorse or guilt, and I do not repent the rapture I taste in her sorrow. She comes to me with fear and fascination, and I allow her to develop a fixation for the crimes I will commit against her flesh. The only way I could truly harm her would be to walk away.
I only fall in love with things that terrify me. I am overly fascinated with the inner darkness of the people, madly passionate about their secrets and conspiracies. My emotional response is destructive and my social attractions are always for the dressed up transgressions of degeneracy. The more harmful something is, the more it consumes me. I have indulged in a string of reckless relationships that have threatened to kill me, and I have walked away from all of the madness with a smile, knowing that what did not kill me has left me standing to try and die again.
He stood in the corner quietly, watching her as she moved throughout the party. His eyes never left her, and hers never fell upon him. He was unknown and unseen, and her complete obliviousness to his existence enraged him. He wanted desperately to approach her, to fling his arms about her and rescue her from her tragedies. He wanted to be the prince she dreamt about, but he was so afraid of rejection that he did not move, and he watched as others courted her. When he saw her take my hand after asking me to dance, something snapped inside.
You never get away from it. You can walk away but it always pulls you back. Its sight will suck you in, and suddenly you are in the center of it trying to find a place but you have been away too long and everything looks different that you cannot believe that it is the same. Then everything snaps back into focus and you give yourself over to it. It is eating you alive or it is nourishing you or both at once, but you suddenly remember your love for it and wonder what it was that drove you away.
I will craft something beautiful from this tragedy. Pieces of a broken heart make savage tools, a sort of primitive and cruel painting of our frailties. Pain is a delicate medium, and I have had the practice and demonstrated the patience to make my hands the perfect executioner of their artistic expression. Cry for me, and I will bleed for you. Together we will be wed in suicidal desecration of life and canvas. Your death could only crush me, but from the dust of my tattered remains the most elegant and depressing sculptures could be born. I worship this suffering.
I can taste the conspiracy on her breath. It is entwined with the lust in her eyes and begging to take shape in our indulgence. It is the poison lacing the wine, promising to kill me as I partake in its decadence. A consumptive rapture, her innocence is absent as she promises brutality with frail hands. She will offer me suffering as salvation after tempting me with her treasons. Her lovelorn reflection pledges to linger in my stare as it fades with my weak breathing, and my death instills a sorrow in my aspiring killer that arouses my deepest fantasies.
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