Today I went on a little walk outside. It's been OK out recently, nice enough to walk, I guess. The weather is usually turbulent during this time of year--11:11, let me make a wish, I wish one day it'll all feel right--you never know if it's going to rain or snow or be balmy, like 70 degrees, shorts weather. But it was nice enough out for my weekend pants and light overcoat. A bit windy but it was fine, it was fine.
While I walked, I couldn't stop seeing these violent scenes. I was standing above a pile of bodies, my weapon was still in my hand, and I don't know if there was a smile on my face but there was something painful in my cheeks, like how you feel after you've been laughing with friends for so long it hurts to breathe. The world around me was cast with neon lights and darkness--pink and blue if you really want to know--and I was a killer, a real killer! I did a lot of killing--didn't matter who, well it mattered to me, but to everyone who wasn't dissecting my brain and putting each microslice on a petri slab, it was random. I could hear a voice crying out--"I will be gentle, my love." I hope my killing was gentle, with that knife, that blade in my hand, the blood dripping down my arm, how worrisome. I'm still disgusted by the thought.
Then, I could see myself crumpling down with the weight of my sins. Oh, the people I've killed--the people whose bodies I've stood on like crates. What a horrifying sort I am, right? Right, and I could hear another voice--"Change, I don't wanna change, I don't wanna change..." Continuing on and on in a cacophony of noises.
Later this day I chatted with my mother about what was on television--not much on a Saturday mid-afternoon early-evening, but we usually cycle the same 20 channels, so--and we came across Law and Order: Special Victims Unit, and I commented that I hadn't heard it in a long time. She quipped that I was obsessed with it for a while--true. I didn't know how else to end the conversation, so I just told her I was sickeningly curious about how far they'd go in the show. Well, I saw, and every time I saw, I wondered about the nature of humanity. Do other people think like that?
Tonight, I thought back to those piles of bodies in the neon-lit streets, and I saw a new imagination--I saw somebody weak, or somebody who I made weak, beneath me. I began striking them, I began striking them over and over again with some sort of blunt mark device--a whip or a riding crop, I couldn't frankly tell, but it was loud, loud like thunder. And I kept saying over and over again, "I WANT TO BE IN CONTROL, I WANT TO BE IN CONTROL." I think I finally meant it this time--I was tired of being a puppet, I was tired of being everyone's toy. I wanted my freedom on my own time. Anyways, I kept hitting until that person below me whimpered for the last time and fell silent. Not dead, just dead silent. Thankfully, I never taste regret. Thankfully.
As a conductor friend of mine would say, "I am verrrrrrry good at what I do."
No, I wouldn't cast them to hell like that... not like me, I can be condemned for all of us, right?
Anyways, I heard one last voice cry out--"You have no control."
I suppose not.