ForEverAfter
Ex-Bluelighter
I don't have an excuse; I'm a junky without the junk. I wake up on the floor at: 1:00 am, 1:30 am, 2:00 am. Freezing, edging my way across the carpet. My inadequate blanket hardly covering me. My hip bone hard against the floor. I turn over. Lie flat on my chest. Try to ignore the pain. I only need an hour. A decent hour of sleep.
Wake up at 2:15 am. There's a cat sleeping on my leg. I reach down and pat it. Joylessly, like an exhausted parent. It offers me some comfort to think that I function as a bed, despite not being able to sleep. I remain still, careful not to move – for fear of waking the little animal. I can smell the shit from the litter box in the kitchen. There's no way to disguise the smell; I ran out of incense two weeks ago. I lie there, face pressed into the dirty carpet, breathing in dust.
Somehow my pneumonia is getting better. The bronchitis is clearing up, too. Probably on account of the antibiotics they prescribed me. It came as no surprise to discover – from my over-achieving paramedic brother – that they gave me the highest level of antibiotics prescribable. An auto-immunological dose. The sort of meds they give to people with stage 3 cancer, or full-blown AIDS. Makes sense, since I'm sure I have both. It would explain a lot. The slimy film I find floating in my toilet water every morning; my mouth ulcers; receding gums; lack of appetite; enlarged lymph nodes; and various infections. Not to mention, my head is misshapen and I'm going bald. Probably brain cancer. I deserve brain cancer, the amount of drugs I've pumped into myself over the years. I've started going blind in my right eye, too. It's like a curtain being drawn across one side of my face. It happens at night. Five, maybe ten, minutes. Might be diabetes. Or Crohn's disease. God, I hope it's Crohn's disease. Anything but HIV. I've come to terms with the fact that I'm terminal. I'm going to die; I've accepted that. Explaining to my parents that I have AIDS, on the other hand. It would break their hearts. Better to just die slowly, undiagnosed. Waste away in silence. As long as I outlive them, they don't have to deal with the shame.
Of having a faggot for a son.
A junky; a low-life.
The carpet smells of sweat and dried mushrooms. I breathe it deep into my infected lungs, because I deserve nothing more. I give up on the idea of sleeping, and open my eyes. In the dim candle-light, I can see Amanita crumbs nestled among the carpet fibres. How long has it been; seven – eight – weeks since I experienced death? And how long has it been since I believed? The after-effects of those glorious mushrooms turned out to be less permanent than I had hoped. Nothing is permanent, except this low. My right knee is throbbing with pain. The cat perched on my leg – overweight, whichever one it happens to be – is pushing my kneecap into the ground. My ribs, lopsided, displaced, hard against the floor. I am pinned down. Held in this position. Always, and for ever.
Without moving the bottom half of my body, I manage to unlock my mobile phone. I log in to the blue light. A place where – unfortunately – my virtual life reflects reality. Another place, in which I insist upon reality. Truth, for better or worse. Though, always the latter. I've contributed to a potential suicide. I scan through a dozen or so posts, trying to remain indifferent. Struggling to project my anger; struggling to blame the world for not accepting the Holy truth, as I see it. Justifying this disgusting perspective, that I inflict upon those around me.
I feel nothing. I am apathetic. Incapable of feeling. I don't cry when I'm sad, because there are no tears left. Or too many to shed. If my mother died tomorrow, I would merely blink; then, curse myself for blinking. I am jaded to life; the way nurses become indifferent to disease; or teachers tired of children.
The momentum of my past is slowly fading away. My ex-wife. The essence I drank from her soul, like a parasite – insisting on the harshest truth, the coldest reality, so somebody could share in my pain – it is running thin. I need to feed again. Climb my way out of this depression, by way of sacrifice. Push someone down, deep into my hell. I need to inflict myself upon someone.
I turn off my phone, and let the emptiness engulf me. It washes over me, this numb feeling that replaces everything. This melancholy.
I shift my leg, ever so slightly, causing my feline companion to wake up and scurry off into the darkness. I get up and sigh. It is four o'clock in the morning. There is no point in trying to sleep. You grow to accept insomnia after a while. You come to terms with it.
The candle fizzles out as I stand up. I can see my breath in the cold night air. With every exhalation, part of me escapes; these ghostly fragments, I envy them. I put on my hat and my trench-coat. Decide to have a cup of coffee. Stumble through the house, in search of a clean cup that I know does not exist.
Every plate, every fork, every glass is coated with filth. My kitchen cupboards are full of dirty dishes. This is how I clean; like a child pushing his toys under the bed. Yet I still look – day in and out – for a cup, or a plate. Because I like to be disappointed. It's appropriate. Disappointment is truth. I walk into the kitchen, past jars full of mouldy poppy seeds and rotten apple cores. The ammonia stench of cat piss, thick in my lungs; I idly inspect cups full of cigarette ash and congealed milk. The stench is overpowering. I want to go back and lie down. I want to sleep for ever.
I curse myself for being tired; for being weak.
Finally I find a suitable jar, full of beer nuts. It's the cleanest thing in the house. Undoubtedly cleaner than I deserve. I wander through the pitch black house, navigating by memory until I reach my computer. The monitor illuminates the room. I dump the nuts on the desk, in a pile. Return to the pantry. I don't know how long it's been since I've had a cup of coffee. Six months, maybe. I turn the jar upside down. Cheap instant shit, stuck together forming a brown block. I open it and try to chip some of the coffee away with the back end of a spoon, but it's rock hard. I curse God; then, curse myself for cursing. I put the kettle on.
All of my shoes have been destroyed through overuse. I wear a pair of sandals, over my socks. Step outside. The streets are dark and empty, like my heart. I walk through dormant suburbia until I reach the petrol station. The smallest jar of coffee costs twelve dollars. It's a luxury I can hardly justify. I don't deserve it; but I buy it anyway, because I have to write something.
When I get back to the house, the kettle is whistling. I run some tap water through my beer nut jar, and tip a little pile of coffee in after it. Add some boiling water. Shake the jar.
I sit down at my computer and write an apology, as best as I can; I sit down and write...
"Dear Thou,"
Wake up at 2:15 am. There's a cat sleeping on my leg. I reach down and pat it. Joylessly, like an exhausted parent. It offers me some comfort to think that I function as a bed, despite not being able to sleep. I remain still, careful not to move – for fear of waking the little animal. I can smell the shit from the litter box in the kitchen. There's no way to disguise the smell; I ran out of incense two weeks ago. I lie there, face pressed into the dirty carpet, breathing in dust.
Somehow my pneumonia is getting better. The bronchitis is clearing up, too. Probably on account of the antibiotics they prescribed me. It came as no surprise to discover – from my over-achieving paramedic brother – that they gave me the highest level of antibiotics prescribable. An auto-immunological dose. The sort of meds they give to people with stage 3 cancer, or full-blown AIDS. Makes sense, since I'm sure I have both. It would explain a lot. The slimy film I find floating in my toilet water every morning; my mouth ulcers; receding gums; lack of appetite; enlarged lymph nodes; and various infections. Not to mention, my head is misshapen and I'm going bald. Probably brain cancer. I deserve brain cancer, the amount of drugs I've pumped into myself over the years. I've started going blind in my right eye, too. It's like a curtain being drawn across one side of my face. It happens at night. Five, maybe ten, minutes. Might be diabetes. Or Crohn's disease. God, I hope it's Crohn's disease. Anything but HIV. I've come to terms with the fact that I'm terminal. I'm going to die; I've accepted that. Explaining to my parents that I have AIDS, on the other hand. It would break their hearts. Better to just die slowly, undiagnosed. Waste away in silence. As long as I outlive them, they don't have to deal with the shame.
Of having a faggot for a son.
A junky; a low-life.
The carpet smells of sweat and dried mushrooms. I breathe it deep into my infected lungs, because I deserve nothing more. I give up on the idea of sleeping, and open my eyes. In the dim candle-light, I can see Amanita crumbs nestled among the carpet fibres. How long has it been; seven – eight – weeks since I experienced death? And how long has it been since I believed? The after-effects of those glorious mushrooms turned out to be less permanent than I had hoped. Nothing is permanent, except this low. My right knee is throbbing with pain. The cat perched on my leg – overweight, whichever one it happens to be – is pushing my kneecap into the ground. My ribs, lopsided, displaced, hard against the floor. I am pinned down. Held in this position. Always, and for ever.
Without moving the bottom half of my body, I manage to unlock my mobile phone. I log in to the blue light. A place where – unfortunately – my virtual life reflects reality. Another place, in which I insist upon reality. Truth, for better or worse. Though, always the latter. I've contributed to a potential suicide. I scan through a dozen or so posts, trying to remain indifferent. Struggling to project my anger; struggling to blame the world for not accepting the Holy truth, as I see it. Justifying this disgusting perspective, that I inflict upon those around me.
I feel nothing. I am apathetic. Incapable of feeling. I don't cry when I'm sad, because there are no tears left. Or too many to shed. If my mother died tomorrow, I would merely blink; then, curse myself for blinking. I am jaded to life; the way nurses become indifferent to disease; or teachers tired of children.
The momentum of my past is slowly fading away. My ex-wife. The essence I drank from her soul, like a parasite – insisting on the harshest truth, the coldest reality, so somebody could share in my pain – it is running thin. I need to feed again. Climb my way out of this depression, by way of sacrifice. Push someone down, deep into my hell. I need to inflict myself upon someone.
I turn off my phone, and let the emptiness engulf me. It washes over me, this numb feeling that replaces everything. This melancholy.
I shift my leg, ever so slightly, causing my feline companion to wake up and scurry off into the darkness. I get up and sigh. It is four o'clock in the morning. There is no point in trying to sleep. You grow to accept insomnia after a while. You come to terms with it.
The candle fizzles out as I stand up. I can see my breath in the cold night air. With every exhalation, part of me escapes; these ghostly fragments, I envy them. I put on my hat and my trench-coat. Decide to have a cup of coffee. Stumble through the house, in search of a clean cup that I know does not exist.
Every plate, every fork, every glass is coated with filth. My kitchen cupboards are full of dirty dishes. This is how I clean; like a child pushing his toys under the bed. Yet I still look – day in and out – for a cup, or a plate. Because I like to be disappointed. It's appropriate. Disappointment is truth. I walk into the kitchen, past jars full of mouldy poppy seeds and rotten apple cores. The ammonia stench of cat piss, thick in my lungs; I idly inspect cups full of cigarette ash and congealed milk. The stench is overpowering. I want to go back and lie down. I want to sleep for ever.
I curse myself for being tired; for being weak.
Finally I find a suitable jar, full of beer nuts. It's the cleanest thing in the house. Undoubtedly cleaner than I deserve. I wander through the pitch black house, navigating by memory until I reach my computer. The monitor illuminates the room. I dump the nuts on the desk, in a pile. Return to the pantry. I don't know how long it's been since I've had a cup of coffee. Six months, maybe. I turn the jar upside down. Cheap instant shit, stuck together forming a brown block. I open it and try to chip some of the coffee away with the back end of a spoon, but it's rock hard. I curse God; then, curse myself for cursing. I put the kettle on.
All of my shoes have been destroyed through overuse. I wear a pair of sandals, over my socks. Step outside. The streets are dark and empty, like my heart. I walk through dormant suburbia until I reach the petrol station. The smallest jar of coffee costs twelve dollars. It's a luxury I can hardly justify. I don't deserve it; but I buy it anyway, because I have to write something.
When I get back to the house, the kettle is whistling. I run some tap water through my beer nut jar, and tip a little pile of coffee in after it. Add some boiling water. Shake the jar.
I sit down at my computer and write an apology, as best as I can; I sit down and write...
"Dear Thou,"
