4/16.
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.