Oh god... Where to begin? I just cannot seem to take my hands from their position on my face, distraught in entwined locks of hair that fall between them. There is just so much agony, so much confusion, so much hate bottled into one little body of bone and flesh. How long can I keep my rage contained in this shell? Not for any great length of time, that I can tell you.
How can I hate so much, so many, and so often? There is no room left for love in this heart already bursting at the meniscus with vitriolic spite. I find that there is only one substitute left for tenderness and that is obsession which results in igniting a jealous flame that would devour both I and the object of my affections.
The myriad of tasks my individual is being asked is eating me alive from my soft viscera out to the toughened skin.
A voice calls from a nest of couch cushions, “How was practice?”
Honestly, who gives a ******** in the long run?
“Fine,” my cracked voice answers. My throat is too dry from sucking in too little air to give more than an utterance.
“So you had another bad one.”
Silence ensues. Sweat from my sopping gear drips onto the long carpet lining the hall in the uncomfortable lack of human noise.
Dammit. I am going to have to shampoo the carpets again...
I can feel the frown I cannot see burn another brand into my subconscience. Great. Another night of restless nightmares is undoubtedly ahead of me.
“No. I did alright,” that was a bull-faced lie. I dared not elaborate the subject, but diverted into the kitchen where I dumped my empty water bottle into the stinking sink.
When was the last time anyone cleaned in here?
Last night when I did the dishes.
“Go outside for a bit then. You don’t look like you had a particularly hard practice.”
My eyes ran down my chest to survey the streak of wetness that stank to high heaven. My back felt chill as a wind blew in from the open window onto the dark shirt and I shivered as I cooled down a few degrees. I felt like a football player at half time.
Go work for another hour then. You don’t have enough bruises. I see a few dry patches on your shirt. Your ankle isn’t in enough pain. Your back can still bend, slightly, so you must have not worked at all. You are worthless. You do not try. You are not worthy of my company. Go away until you can prove yourself to me.
My reply was terse and submissive, “Alright. Lemme just go get a ball and jump rope...”
So I can hang myself.
I did not linger to allow the voice’s attention to fall from the murmuring illiteracy of the television characters onto me. Attention I shirked though I craved it without satiation. My rigid shoulders relaxed to droop like in neanderthal man’s posture when I walked out veiw. My exhaustion extended beyond physical or verbal expression.
In my omnipotence I could hear every insult shrouded in fancy verbs, reprimand shouted through silence, and displeasure dripping from the wide smile in eyes I could never, ever, find the courage to look into. Such is a curse, my curse, something that is seemingly without substance or base, but is unarguably present.
Smilodon-Fatalis · Sun Oct 29, 2006 @ 05:06am · 0 Comments |