REPORT A PROBLEM
agent of oblivion
He is making light of dark memories. There is as an overtone of desperation in his laughter, and tears well in his eyes as he is consumed by his past, but he keeps a sharp smile that promises to cut deep if its sincerity is questioned. Inside he feels pity for himself, wanting to escape the ugliness of a tortured childhood. But he cannot forget who he is or what it has made him, and he knows that when everyone passes into slumber he will be left alone in the dark with himself, a manifested nightmare he will never forget.
In the midst of everything, their laughter was like salvation. Their innocence pulled me from the darkness and brought tears of joy to the surface of the agony in my eyes. For a moment I felt the weight of my decisions lifted from my shoulders, and their youthful frolicking flooded me with uplifting memories of hers. The strain of time and the pain of distance were vanquished, and in their place stood two small children who were as in love with their mother as I am with my daughter. It made me feel like everything is going to be fine.
I fell silent and was overcome with anxiety. I had been looking forward to seeing her, and as I sat there and she smiled at me my friends attacked her like wolves, treating her as if she were stealing from them by catching my attention. I was offended, but my frustration was too great to do anything with it. I just sat there and stared, listened to their assault and took it personal, hoping that I could later apologize to her for what was happening. They were destroying something I wanted, and I would never forgive them if they succeeded.
Everything has shifted. Tired eyes that no longer care to see are staring back at me through the cracks in the mirror. The blood on the glass is too transparent to hide the symptoms of life on my face. Dried blood flakes from my throbbing fingers, and I wonder if I struck it from frustration with futility or fear of the facts. Either way, it makes a statement about what is eating away at me. It will remind me in the coming days that these eyes still see, and they will see everything I could want to hide from them.
I was consumed by anticipation. She looked precious as she slept, so small against the backdrop of the world. Her face was so expressive and she made soft noises with every toss of her body. It was hard to believe she was just days old. It evoked memories of my own daughter's birth, and I felt my head swim with nostalgia. After what seemed like forever I was invited to hold her, and she nestled comfortably in my arms. I could feel her heartbeat through her whole body, and the joy that pulsed through me brought tears to my eyes.
Sleep eludes me. The parade of attrition through my head is tearing me apart. It is so hard to face myself and acknowledge that I am human. I have too long denied myself the luxury of feeling, and now that I have let myself feel I feel nothing but pain and bitterness. She struck deep with her critical words, trying to cut out my heart with her tongue for all the wrong reasons. I imagine that it is anguish she feels, but it is a pain that I do not own and if I caused it was beyond my control.
It has gotten so far away from me that I cannot see where this life is going. I look in the mirror and see only lies staring back at me, remember the times I told myself I would finish something and it would be different. But I never finish and it never changes. So now I sink back into a life gone astray and no matter how hard I try I cannot find the time when it all went wrong. It is time to grow up or give up, fight or fade away. It is time to face the day.
I have wandered away from myself, chasing the silhouette of a girl only to have her shadowy elusiveness leave me with empty arms. She called my name and led me astray. Now I stand in this darkness alone, wondering how I could let myself be deceived. I smile bitterly as I reflect upon my naivety, feeling these jaded emotions for the first time. It is the fault in hunting the unattainable, and I have become my own victim. But all of this loss only makes me want her more, so the wounds will heal slowly as I wander back defeated.
She stumbles in the door and knocks over the vase on the table. Water runs away from the fading roses and along the edge of the table. She curses and throws the vase, missing me only because she falls as she lunges forward. She is crying. I move to her, I try to lift her from the floor and from this episode. Her eyes almost look pleading, but before I can kiss her she jerks away, and the violence erupts. Her fragile arms flail recklessly, and her balled fist catches me in the eye. I just cannot keep doing this.
I was too young to be numb to what I was seeing. It should have turned my stomach and left me horrified. It should have scarred my subconscious and flooded my sleeping hours with nightmares. I stood there and watched his body sway, examining the way the extension cord was bruising the dead flesh of his neck. I did not know him, but I had seen him wander in and out of the next apartment a few times. That morning, as I retrieved the newspaper from the road, it did not upset me that I would never see him again.
I flirt with rejection. It is an exercise of will, and often it leaves me feeling insecure and frustrated. My social presence explodes and I become bigger than myself on the stage of interaction, but the aftermath is always the same and always leaves me standing behind closed curtains in awe and dismay. It is the lonely lie of an actor who cannot attain the splendor of the stage in his mundane hours. I am consumed by anxiety at the slightest suggestive glance from desire, and I never present what is behind the mask. The flirtation becomes acceptance of failure.
She tries to scream but the duct tape is secure, and she only manages to let out a muffled sound that does not escape the trunk. The dark confined space evokes panic. The rope binding her wrists and feet is taut, and the more she struggles the deeper it cuts into the tenderness of her wrists. She has burned and cut herself on it and now her blood is slowly matting the rope. It is not enough for any serious damage but it does plenty to amplify her already unbearable pain. She will not see the light of day again.
He listens to her lies and wonders if she knows how ugly her self-pity makes her. She comes from a stable home with loving parents and she is tainted with the lack of appreciation created by never having gone without. Now she sits and pretends to suffer, trying to become what he is, to relate to his darkness and impress him with her fantasies. She will never be anything but a manifestation of wasted potential. She does not understand that he resents her, and when he walks away her tears will be the only real suffering she has ever felt.
You have nothing to fear. They will not find my body and even if they did they would have no reason to trace it to you. You did everything you should have. There will be nothing remaining to make the connection, and I did not tell anyone I was coming to see you. You were a secret, so there is no one who would suspect that you could be connected to me. I will remain lost, a secret you alone will keep. If you can live with the guilt of my blood on your hands it will never be discovered.
Anticipation is like a drug. I sit here again waiting for the hours to pass, waiting for the moment when I rise to face the night. I long for the music and mayhem of another mosh pit, another night of succumbing to violent extremity. I am eager to feel alive in a way that cannot be rivaled by anything else. The brutality of one moment that will intoxicate me for days, lingering in every bruise and scrape and sore muscle, tonight I will come alive in my purest form. Nothing can take the rapture of the moment from this desire.
I fear running out of things to say. How long before I have taken everything I have inside, smeared it across the canvas, stared blankly until I cannot focus, and I just die of a complete lack of anything left? It will kill me if I hold it all in, but how can I believe it will not kill me if I let it all out? I am forced to face that I am nothing more than my own medium. As I come closer to completing my art, I come closer to dying. I will kill myself out of self-obsession.
There was a sweet taste on her lips. Her body was warm and powerful against my bruised and battered presence, and her hands felt so rapturous as they brushed over my tender neck and back. She intoxicated me yet again and I was so enchanted with her playfulness that I lost all my fears and inhibitions. We danced and flirted to the throbbing industrial pulse pushing out of the speakers, but soon we broke from the floor to whisper softly to each other. With all pretense gone we became like conquistadors hell bent on conquering each other. It was perfect.
There is rapture in adrenaline. There is splendor in violence. There is exaltation in aggression. Today my body shows all the signs of this perverse and unorthodox religious experience, and it suffers from the night of glory that passed too quickly. The wounds cry out from centuries long gone, screaming of centurions and crusaders, rebels and raiders, all speaking of the same grandiose obsession. My body may suffer, but the suffering is seductive and spectacular. It is an inebriating feeling that cannot be found in anything but the aftermath of brutality, and it is this feeling that I live for.
I have never missed her as much as I do now. Time heals nothing and does nothing to take the strain of distance away. It makes everything worse, and there is no way to capture the loss its passing leaves in my heart. The hardest moments are the silent ones, when there is too much to say to say everything so we both sit quiet and say nothing. It is too much to bear without tears. I sit here in this empty room looking at her pictures and it hurts more than it helps. This is too much for me.
There is a creeping disappointment arising in me. The window of opportunity is closing, and before long I will be forced into action. I anticipate failure, perhaps because I am too cynical, and perhaps because I am aware of the nature of things. It was so difficult to follow through with my promise, to call her in the middle of the afternoon, but it was even harder to leave a message and hope she would call back. Now I sit and watch the time melt away knowing that I must call her again, and fearing the inevitable lack of response.
He felt like he was going to fall asleep at the wheel. He could not clearly remember the last time he slept, and the night had taken its toll on his already exhausted body. He kept veering off the road and snapping back to consciousness, the fear and adrenaline keeping him going for a few more miles. This long drive home seemed to be whispering death threats at every long stretch of silent road and every sharp curve in the middle of the empty darkness. He turned up the music and accelerated. He did not care if he died anymore.
The lies of a woman are the cause of all this agony. Her words offer poison as fruit, disease as nourishment, and lastly, conspiracy as comfort. She will lead us all astray with her innocent eyes and soft whispers, and from the abyss of her heart we shall never return. Her games make mockeries of our ways, and yet night after night we find ourselves returning to her lecherous arms. We will always succumb to temptation, and from our graves we will curse her for our crimes. And all the while she will playfully smile, content in her destructive ploys.
You will not find salvation in leading others out of the darkness that you have made your home. As long as you dwell within it and allow its charms to consume you, the light will never find you and will never lead you to the redemption your spirit so desperately craves. You are too comfortable in your damnation to ever allow yourself to see what there is beyond its borders. You desire to suffer. It is sad that you will be the savior of so many and cannot save yourself. It is you who deserve salvation more than any other.
She was just another face in the crowd. Nothing that happened between us was important anymore. She was an outlet for my misanthropy in dark moments on desolate nights. Now she could be anyone or no one, and it did not matter and whether she was living or dying. I could see the ghost of our romance screaming in her eyes, but to me it was a jaded and vague memory that had wilted away with time. Her tears made me feel like a monster, but that feeling strengthened my resolve and let me pass by without speaking her name.
When we forget our true names there are none that can call us back from the path we take. The light we have chosen to follow has led us so far from ourselves that there are none left who know us. The voices from the graves are overpowered by the temptations of the walking dead and we do not realize that we have abandoned our heritage. We are so blind in our attempts to craft a new legacy that we cannot fathom the loss of the one we have forsaken. We are the new gods. We are lost to ourselves.
He was a boy without a father suffering the contempt of his mother. He was the regret of everyone that should have loved him, and he was too small and too young to understand. He found comfort in the written words of others from the time he could read, because they were already committed to paper and could not change to harm him. They would never betray him, never curse him for things he did not have anything to do with. They would never love him either, but he was happy without love, as long as he was not hated.
He sat beside her in the car, nervous beyond control. They were both only sixteen, but his shyness had left him untouched while her presence and beauty had left her hungry for the taste of indulgence. He was afraid of her and she knew it, but she could not understand why he had been so difficult to get close to. She had thrown herself to his whims every chance he gave her, and he always responded with awkward withdrawal that left her feeling rejected and confused. Tonight she would not be rejected, and he would no longer possess his innocence.
I will never forget the way they looked at me as she stepped away from her friends and took my hand in hers. They felt betrayed and she was unaware, so enamored with me that she remained oblivious to the damage it was doing. She led me to them in exuberant wonder, and with each introduction I felt the spiritual knives lunge from their eyes and slice through the tenderness of my concern for their acceptance. They murdered what desire I had to impress them, and with that same quiet malignance I carved away their control of this mesmerized girl.
He will never speak to me again. Things were bad for a long time, and our growing apart was strained and painful, but somehow she always seemed to repair the damage I did and keep him from walking away. She would remind him of things from the past, those dark days where he was drowning in himself and I was there to pull him back above the surface and battle off his demons long enough for him to catch his breath. But she is no longer there to bring him back, and I will not chase him. No love lost.
A voice from the past always seems to haunt and harbor a certain amount of malice. It always comes from some place dark and stained with my crimes, and it always carries the accusatory tone of a forgotten or forsaken victim. The tongues of tragedy tell a tale of my transgressions that could easily be read in my eyes, but it is a story I would not like to repeat and will solemnly let rest in the silence of my sorrow while I move forward to face another day. I cannot relive the lies and the losses of the past.
The Tip Jar