It could be somethin’… Or just might be nothing …shrug… I don’t suppose it matters, but I have a question
Have you ever died?
Not figuratively, or even spiritually.
The old dirt nap.
Stop breathing, stop everything, even fighting for your life kind of death.
I’m still here, breathing and stuff; fact: I’m a walking, talking, profanity spewing fucking miracle of science and stupidity. Some have likened me to a cockroach, stating that I’m impossible to kill, and nearly as ugly.
Ugly is as ugly does. Survival is never pretty.
If they only knew how close to the truth those obnoxious sons of whores really are. Stupidity, being what it is, makes it possible for me to employ the necessary skills needed to avoid those agonizing recollections that haunt relentlessly, and, for a while, pretend that I’m a person.
I’m not, though, human. I’m not even real. How could I be, when I ceased to exist in 1996. Stop rolling your eyes. I am well aware of the way I am viewed, and I don’t give a rolling fuck at a traveling donut. No one has lived my life, and no one has to live through that motherfucking nightmare every godammed night of theirs. I have that delightful chore
Not that I’d wish those all too real memories on even my worst enemy…although it might teach some valuable lessons to those who think themselves so holier-than-thou. Those memories hurt. They ache and burn and steal breath, driving you to scream and fall to pieces in silence. Why would I shared them, anyway? I can justify until I’m blue in the face, for all the good it does. Why – why Why WHY? – why’d you stay? Why didn’t you run? Why didn’t you FIGHT?
Why’d I stay?
Where would I go? Who would believe me? I was, am, nothing and had less. The ownership papers are real – I’ve seen them with my own eyes. So where was I to go?
I. Did. Run.
There was nowhere to run to, but it didn’t stop me. Not right away I ran; so many times I fled the fists and the and the barbs and the lies, and every time the people I thought I could trust took me straight back to hell. That desperation to be free was all encompassing but I was trapped, a relative prisoner. Do you know how that feels? To sit shivering in a dark corner, falling apart because it’s Friday at 5 and he’s been drinking again? Praying that some drunk angel driving would destroy the monster on its way home because You can’t take being hurt one more time? It feels awful, and you feel like a horrible person, begging for the death of another being, and then praying harder. Then, when the monster stumbles through the door, that energy evaporates out of fear.
Why didn’t I fight. Such a simple, stupidly ridiculous question. I did, at first. I gave as good as I got, for a while, fists and verbal spears, poison daggers. I fought and hard, but a mind can only take efforts to shatter it for so long before self preservation convinces you that it’s safer to take the hits than to throw them. Bruises heal. Scars fade. Life goes on.
Except, I’m not sure it does. The night I died hasn’t faded in the least, not in the sensations nor in the torturous dreams in which it is relived. The fragrance of stale beer, sweat and perfume is imbedded in my nose, as is the scent of my bladder when darkness finally crept in and Reaper stood waiting by the door. The over warm meatiness of hands around my throat, and that laugh lingers even now….