||[10 Jul 2004|12:37am]
Alright, before you read this, I'm sorry for wasting your time because it's terrible. Quick update on my life, only because it pertains to this community.
I moved from syracuse, NY to memphis, TN. Somewhere in the move, my computer got messed up, so I had to reformat. I had a cd with ALL my writing on it, and I LOST IT. All my books of the originals I accidentally left at my parents house, and before I left I told them they could throw away everything in my room that was left because I no longer wanted it. So, I'm completely pissed off at myself now.
This is a story I wrote in an hour and a half, and as far as I'm concerned it's drivel. But tell me what you think anyways please. It was a concious departure from my usual style (stories of mostly description, now an actual story) just to see if I could do it.
I also have a proposition... that being if someone would like to actually try and write a collaborative story (someone write a starting paragraph/few sentances, sends it to the other for them to write for a while, and it continues) I would like to try it. A clash of styles may come up because of influences/vocabulary/etc., but it could be interesting.
I always associate the noise of doors slamming to the pain I feel in my fingers. Every time it gets damp I can feel it in my knuckles. His face flashes in my eyes as I massage my hands. When I heard the police say that she was dead, and he opened his mouth in a false exasperated choke, I could see blood on the tip of his tongue that led down his throat like a tunnel to hell. When we walked into the house that cold night three weeks later, it didn’t seem the same. I could hear her tortured screams echo down the halls, bouncing off the walls and drilling into my head. She was still alive in the room. Her voice hung in the white textured curtains and parts of the green and red floral carpet. The blood red walls held no trace of her except the color was reminiscent of what was sprayed all over her crème colored rug in the master bedroom.
I knew what his plan was. He had come after me before. It used to just be on drunken binges when I was younger where he felt he had an excuse for his actions. It soon progressed to when he wasn’t drunk, and it turned into his means of dealing with the smallest situations. When I got older and he slapped me for getting home late, I punched him in the throat. He fell back and caught himself with his left hand, holding his neck with his right. After he stumbled around and regained his breath he threw me to the ground and stood on my neck while he wrenched my shoulder, breaking my arm just below the elbow. I understood that day that he would always win. The way he talked his own language when he was kicking or beating me, muttering in a low rumble of syllables. He spoke in tongues. Or the way his face looked contorted, his brow furrowed and teeth clenched, while he was disciplining me. I also understood that day that he wasn’t human, and that he didn’t deserve to live.
He had hit my mother for as long as I could remember. She had always been a release for him, drunk or not. If something went wrong at the office for him, it was her fault and therefore she would get backhanded as soon as she opened her mouth when he got home. I remember once, his ring on the pointer of his right hand caught her in the corner of her eye, ripping the skin and causing her eye to droop slightly down in its socket. From that point on she always closed her eyes when he first walked in a room. That was four years ago, and I saw her wince so much at him that I developed her same action as a twitch.
I was obsessed with my father. The hatred I felt for him made everything else in my mind rot. It strained my perception of emotion and feeling. I remember mother coming in and telling me “He loves you. Don’t think that he doesn’t.” She hated him. I saw it when she would open her eyes to him. It was so strong that she got lost in the strength of it. It attracted her to him. It brought her closer to him. I saw how they acted with each other. When he was the worst he could be, I gave him the most respect. Not out of fear, but because of his power and the adoration I had for it. I began to love him on an august day. My mother and I were getting food ready for him when he came home from work and it wasn’t finished. He took the pot I was boiling water in for corn on the cob and threw it on me. It scalded my whole body and left me temporarily paralyzed on the kitchen floor. All I could do was look up at him while he ripped at her hair with one hand and choked her with the other, yelling at her about how she never had things done on time and that from then on they would be. After that, he let go of her hair, and his lips curled into a smile as he moved his head slowly towards her and kissed her. He left me with a constant reminder of that day. The day that love and hate melded into the same deep, obsessive feeling.
The way he walked was magnificent. He came off as meek when you looked at him, but I knew the power in his hands. I knew that he demanded and deserved what he wanted by the way he controlled my mother and me. When he hit me, I felt privileged that he took the time out of his day to acknowledge me. I didn’t want to be like him but I idolized him. The obsession teetered on a savage lust I felt for him and an unbridled rage that I had just by catching a glimpse of him. He was always in control of a situation, and I admired that he knew just how to take care of something. I also admired that he was confident enough to do what he thought was right. But I hated him for his arrogance, and for being in control of everything and hungry for power. My love for him was contradicted in every way.
Even now, sitting in this shack in a poverty stricken shack in Morocco 3 years later, I remember it all perfectly. Her body was hanging half off the bed. Her legs laying on the black comforter with its wide white horizontal stripes. Her torso stood straight up, upside down, with her broken neck connected to it. The side of her head lay flat on the floor and was staring at me. There was a gash in her forehead, which was swollen heavily, and blood splattered on the floor, wall and bed. Her eye was still twitching as he walked out of the bathroom, wiping his hands with a towel. He was muttering to himself again, and I had learned his language by then. “She’s no longer a problem here. I finally took care of it.” When he saw me, he ran after me and caught up to me, grabbing me by the neck of my shirt. I was already crying. When he told me that I hadn’t seen anything, and that I better go along with whatever he says, I couldn’t speak to agree. He pulled me towards him and broke two of his already bruised fingers on my right cheek. He asked again and I wildly shook my head, showing any sign of understanding that I could.
I couldn’t see what he had set up in order for the police to believe his story. All I could see was black from the swollen skin and membrane around my eyes. There was a lot of noise coming from his bathroom and bedroom, like the sound of shelves being ripped out of the closet and everything crashing to the ground. I heard footsteps rush by me, mumbles, the sound of a window breaking, water running, and a series of dull thuds. At the end I heard his side of a phone call to the police explaining that someone had broken in to our house, beat him unconscious after he attempted to fight back, raped his wife and then killed her, and that he didn’t know where I was. He stated he was too scared to look for me, in case someone was still in the house. When I heard him hang up the phone, I felt the side of his foot smash into my head. When I came to, there were police everywhere and 3 medical technicians swarming around me and everyone screaming, “He’s awake!”
He was the smartest man I knew. He was standing there, crying, his face was bloody and bruised. His left hand was wrapped up in gauze and he wouldn’t stop asking to see me. I couldn’t feel anything. Everything felt numb. I felt like I was floating. I could hardly see anything, but when the police asked me if I knew anything that happened and handed me a pad of paper, I could see his stare. I knew not to say anything. I didn’t understand the pad though. It was then that I tried to open my mouth to say that I didn’t know what had happened to me, and I realized that I had no control over it. I touched my face and realized I had gauze wrapped around the lower part of my head. My mouth was hanging open and the bones that held my jaw on my right side of my face were protruding through the skin. We were both in the hospital for weeks, and the news followed everything. They ate everything my father handed them too. His description of the assailant, the way he said he felt, what had happened… all thought out beforehand to perfection.
The way my father had acted with everyone else he knew or came in contact with made him out to be the meekest, gentle person to ever live. It was impossible for him to do anything like murder his wife and beat up his son. Everything he had always done was covered up so well. The fear and respect my mother and I showed him made us never say a word about what went on in our house. He never drank in public. He never lost his temper with other people. Everything negative about him was completely void to everyone else. He got it all out with us. It was such an amazing scheme. I explained it all in the letter I wrote and sent out to all the news channels and the police station.
When I murdered him, I didn’t go through all the trouble he did of trying to cover everything up. My plan was to kill him and leave. And it worked. When my father left the hospital, I was still in there for 2 weeks. I asked for a copy of all of my visits and injuries. When I got them, I hid them in my suitcase when he came to pick me up. I made copies of all of them late at night. I scanned in all the reports, except filled them in appropriately, changing things such as “Fell off bicycle” to “Father kicked him down stairs.” Copies of those and my x-rays were sent to everyone that mattered, and I walked into his room later that night. He was sitting on the bed, his knees bent like her waist at the edge and in the same place. His hand had a cast on it and he was putting on his shirt. When it was going over his head I rushed at him and drove my elbow into the base of his skull. His arms were still tangled when he doubled over himself, and I kicked him in the face, breaking his nose and sending him crashing back to the bed, gurgling on his own blood. I grabbed him by the knees and dragged him over to the edge of his room, setting his head in the doorway. It left a trail of black blood that stained the carpet like blueberries. The first time I smashed the door into his skull, he came back to reality long enough to see me spit in his face and put my foot on his chest to hold him in place. I slammed the door again, and blood sprayed into my face. I could taste it on my tongue. I remembered how he looked that night. It was just like when I started to love him, and he leaned towards my mother and kissed her after. He had done it that night too. I did three more quick slams on his head and then stomped on his chest when he started to writhe on the floor. There was a pool of blood at my feet and he was no longer recognizable. His face had turned into a bubbling swamp of red. I looked down at him and quickly leaned over to examine him more carefully. I couldn’t make him out anymore. He was powerless. His voice was just a choke. I wiped off a spot where his lips were and kissed him. Standing up, I grabbed the door and slammed it once more, catching the top part of his skull. It squeezed his head and caused the door to slam shut, breaking all of my fingers except for my thumbs, and ripping the flesh back to the knuckle. I couldn’t feel it until later. I kicked his convulsing corpse until it laid still, and stepped over him to leave.
I snuck on a cargo ship to Europe that I knew was waiting to leave that night. I never felt regret for any of what I did to him. I’ve been drifting from place to place in Europe and western Asia, doing various grunt work jobs. I shoveled coalmines in Germany, helped build poor housing in Istanbul, even did small bouts of drug dealing in Spain and Hungary. I do what I need to move on, and leave. I’ve stopped being a human three years ago. I don’t have a name, identity, or background. I have a face and the shell of a body, so I exist. When I kissed him, I breathed the last part of my humanity into him so he could die and feel it. He needed to know what pain was. He needed to feel what he did to us. And he needed to feel what he taught me love was. There was the white of his eyes that shone through his blood, and I saw the fear there. I brought him back to life. And he deserved it.