October 24th, 2006

J.S.R. - A New Short Story

...for Renea & Michael, with love; and Mr. Morgan, who understands...


Here's when I knew you had to die, when I knew I'd be the one killing you, as clear to me as any revelation preceding it and in just as similar a vein. It was when you stood there with my dripping, scarlet red love in your hands, freshly ripped from the safe steel of my chest, and then had the nerve to say to me "I made cookies y'know, if you want one". Just so cavalier and sterilized as you please, like you cutting me apart had not just happened, and somehow a single cookie would erase it away and make it disappear into the air like smoke.

You took what was mine and tried to claim it as your own. It could have been suicide if you had any real guts, but alas you don't - so the choice, MY choice, is murder. All you ever had to do was ask for it and I'd have given it to you, and you fucking KNEW that all along. Fucking spineless suicide or at best its mirror in abstract. By stupidity, no less. Or arrogance, it is a question of angles. Mined my soul to its end until it was nothing but destroyed fragments of broken, jagged pieces and then bartered a cookie for a lifetime of loyalty and honor.

This is the thing I don't get. I say that like I get lots of things, which is really amusing to me if I think about it, but I digress. Why, this confusion? I don't get why it is so hard to comprehend that when I'm staring you directly in your eyes and bearing witness to your last meaningful breath on my Earth, why this confusion? Where exactly does the wrong turn get taken that somehow I've been misleading up to this point, this singular series of moments, where it registers that I'm serious, you'll be dead in a matter of minutes - hours - and it will be exactly what you asked for?
Same as it ever was...
I suppose the answer is one that lies with these kinds of people, and I'll never understand them, not any of them, not ever. Answers? It is almost an insulting concept to me, really. It's an absurd turn of phrase when the tangible part of it, the meaty, substantial part that one can sink teeth into (deeply enough to find bone and snap it in two if you're eager like me), and yet it always comes down to the pleading and the begging, the lame effort at legitimizing the behavior that got us where we are. Shaking, crying, begging, pleading. You were capable of this all along, you did exactly what you wanted to do no matter the consequences, so it is useless faking sorry now. You made this bed, now fuck in it. No matter, nothing does except for what must be Done.

Way too little, way too late. I don't hear any of that, it's all empty and as hollow as I am and there is nothing you'll say that is going to resonate or reconcile. My switch was thrown on in a blinding jerk, and until I've pulled from you a final breath; one last solemn, spooky twitch and watch your light glow down and away to its last cinder, it won't be Done. Rituals take time in this theatre of finality and you won't believe how long I can make a minute feel - but you will.

You will believe, though. Maybe when it finally clicks that you're in no control and that you never had any once this got set into play, maybe the last time your eyes meet mine and the effort of faking some meaning from it all comes flush in your face, and still, nothing is going to stop This. You will Believe. You will Know. When my anger gets the best of me from your woeful blubbering, the fleshed, ruddy red of your cheeks, it will be all I can stand to not bite them clean off of you and spit them right back in your ragged, juiceless, weeping face.

I know a thing or two about abject hatred, it's forgiveness I know next to nothing about. It is all automatic, clean, simple, uncomplicated.

I know what you're thinking, I'm not stupid. I know you're spinning drunk in wonder. How can I end up being so callous and frozen after being such a soothing, tailor-made quilt - all warm, generous, wide-smiling-open-armed love? Oh FUCK you, no answer I give will change the fact that I'm going to remove every speck of you from my world, obliterated from all the canvases of all my tomorrows in numbing, midnight heavy black ink until all traces of you are past gone, so what does it possibly matter? Here's all you need know, be grateful I'll give you this much. You never had any reason to question me and it was failure on your part to do so. I never gave any indication that I wouldn't do exactly as I say I am going to do, it was a fatal bluff you tried calling. I gave every reason with starlight clarity, all shiny and polished, and you never counted on the one thing that unmade you whole, the fact that I'd counter the bluff. But here we are, aren't we?

You need not wonder the hows and the whys, just know that it's the feast you made for yourself and I'm sitting you down now at the head of the banquet table. Justice with all the trimmings - my favorite. And you'll sit here and you'll eat every bite, every last one, until I'm satisfied that you're full. If your stomach explodes then so be it, I'll shovel it down your mouth for hours after you're dead and rotting, I'll kick it down your throat until it has passed through you and spilled immediately onto the floor.

This isn't typical murder, I won't physically harm you despite my allusions and vivid imagery, but I am killing you in every way that counts. I cut you out of the places within me, my heart and my mind, my past, present, and future. All perfect, gorgeous, orgasmic surgical precision. The grave of you will be on open display for the rest of our lives each time you happen to run across me and see me going on with my life and my family, and your tombstone will be reflected in the hollowness of my eyes any time you have an opportunity to look into them when you see me and get close enough. You'll look into the fathomless, deep auburn of my eyes and see nothing but yourself cast in overturned earth and granite, but nothing else.

No one is home for you anymore.



Same as it ever was...

NOTE: The above piece is entirely ficticious and is based on a methodology, but is directed at no one specific. Anyone narcissistic enough to think I'm targeting them in this story, I'm not - but for the record, if you do, I hope you fucking choke on your own self-indulgence, self-importance, and self-righteousness.