The Journey

(Dedicated to Mariposa, in honor of her dream.)

I

Wake up!

Out of the darkness and into the light, my entire life morphs before my eyes. I can feel the walls crushing in all around me pushing me forth to my destination. My warm, wet world is collapsing on top of me! My eyes open first: round, bulging, taking in the wide world before me. The world is small, but bigger then what I had known before—drier too. There is noise all around me: screeching and gasping for breath. I see a man clad in white, he’s touching my face, his slippery hands are pitifully cold.
“Push harder.” He screams then I hear another wail, this time painfully louder then the ones before. I cry out too, just to copy everyone else—besides, the flickering harshness of the neon light hurts my eyes.
“Congratulations Mrs. Jones… It’s a boy.” The man in white says. I am lifted up, I feel like I’m flying. A giant, beaming face awaits me.
“A boy, a boy.” She cries, tears running down her checks. Yes mother, I am a boy—please don’t cry—it’s not my fault, you know.

II

I cry now, like I have the past several nights in a row. It is dark all around me, small swinging shapes suspended above my head. They give me bad dreams sometimes but I can’t do anything about it because their out of arms reach.
“Put him to sleep.” I hear my father say, his voice a low mutter. Slob, why don’t you take care of me yourself? I can be bottle fed too. Mother doesn’t mind though, with a tired sigh she lifts her form out of bed and unbuttons her shirt, her nipples a feast to my delight.
I suck; the warm milk soothing my head, making me forget whatever thoughts that had first awoken me. I look over at the snoring form of my father and, suck all the more vehemently. Look, ha-ha! I get it all and you get none. I look back up at mother, my beady eyes glistening with joy as my chubby fingers grope around her nipple, as I press my teeth slightly around her flesh. Look mommy, I’m biting. She smiles, tired but filled with joy at this, her first and only son. With a kiss sets me back down and I fall asleep again.

III

“Gary what’s happened to you?” She asks in shock running over to inspect my torn overalls. It was my first day in school and, returning as I was, she was not at all pleased.
“Nothing.” I mumble, holding something behind my back. I had made her a Mache doll, but didn’t want her to see it.
“What is that behind your back?” She asks sternly. Fumbling I hesitate then shoot my hands out, casting my eyes down in embarrassment. The dolls leg is torn off and had been taped back on, the sweat from my dirty hands smudged all over it. “Why, it’s beautiful!” She exclaims, making me bubble over in delight. “Who’s it for?”
“You…” I reply, casting my eyes downward in embarrassment again.
“Why it’s gorgeous, I think I’m going to keep it forever.” She laughs hugging me. I smile again and put my little arms around her neck. Maybe now she’ll forget to be angry that I tore my overalls.

IV

Fight, fight, fight!

I swing, my fist hitting the eye of the other kid in front of me. He has a bloody nose already but he’s not as bad as I am. Blood runs from both my nose and my mouth, a black eye crowning my injury achievements. The other kids crowds around us, making the already claustrophobic hallway seem that much smaller, their faces painted in a sick sense of entertainment as they dance around like apes.
“What’s going on here?” We hear the old principle shout, causing a stop to the chanting.
“Th—th—their fighting,” one of the smaller kids squeak, pointing his fat finger at me and my opponent—I hate him… he always was a rat.
“Is that so? Come here young man we’re going straight to my office to call your mother.” He shouts, dragging me off by the ear. It wasn’t me; he was the one that started it. I feel like saying it but don’t, it would only make things worse. The pain shoots through my entire face, forcing tears into my eyes. Somehow, I can never walk fast enough to keep up with him. The principles office is a dingy, dirty looking place, filled with stacks of files that reach nearly up to the ceiling. I hate being there; the air smells too musty and makes me feel like vomiting. A cockroach runs along the floor and my entire soul feels like jumping up and squashing it. I don’t move though, I hardly even breathe. Moving only makes the principle madder.
“I’ve just spoke to your mother and she says your father is on his way to get you.” He drones his voice a solemn monologue. I groan inwardly, anything right now would be better then a lecture from my dad. “Until then I’m going to have a word with you… Honestly Garret Jones, this is the third fight this month.” Here we go again. I think, my eyes reverting to the cockroach on the floor. Its going to be a long time before my father comes back to take me home.

V

Drinks…people…music…weed. It’s my sixteenth birthday and my parents won’t be home for the weekend. A birthday is what you make it and so I decided to make mine fun. Several of my friends wanted to throw a party this weekend and I agreed to let them use my place. What the hell, you can have a birthday party and a normal party in one shot. Make’s it easier that way. Who cares about the mess or the hangover that is bound to ensue the next morning? Live for the moment and get smashed—tomorrow we die.The music is pulsating, nearly as intoxicating as the vodka itself. Bright disco lights flash throughout the living room, making everyone dancing seem to go in slow motion. A house was not made to hold thirty people and you can almost taste the sweat in one of those parties, watch it fly in little beads off the hair of the dancers. Chicks in tight clothing that reveals practically everything greet me, their eyes batting in suggestive ways. One or two others are on the kitchen table wearing nothing but thongs, their drunken swaying pitifully out of time with the music.
I walk down to one of the sofas and sit down, my drink still in my hands. I never liked dancing even though I was not too bad at it, but I liked starring at the girls more. One of them, a tanned blonde with a pretty face and nice full ass, leaves her friends and comes over to me, sitting down on the couch. We talk for a bit then she leans over and kisses me, the taste of her lips even better then the drink.
She gets up and, smiling, takes both my hands into hers. In a daze, she leads me upstairs to my room and, shutting the door behind her, pulls off her shirt. Her breasts are firm, perfectly shaped, and even more attractive under the quiet luminescence of the green lava-lamp by the side of the bed. I start towards her but with a laugh she pushes me down onto the bed and climbs up on top of me. She kisses me again, her tongue playing with mine as her hands reach for my belt. I smile and slide my hand up her skirt. Nothing can be better than this.

VI

“I don’t understand. You like me, I like you. What do you mean you wanna break up with me?”
“I just don’t think I want to be with you anymore.” She replies, anger contorting her face.
“But why not?”
“I just don’t.”
“Look, if it’s about not wanting to go to the prom with me its fine.”
“It’s not its just… I don’t know.”
“Fine bitch, be that way!” She gets out of the car and slams the door. It doesn’t matter if her house is two miles away or that it’s the middle of February. She’s too angry to notice. Hurt and confusion well up inside of me as I start the engine up again. Dear God, how do you do? I hate my life and want to die!

VII

The hot sun slides gracefully into the dismal, darkening horizon, displaying her last rays in a proud—yet useless—attempt to prolong her life. Sitting next to me on plain wicker chairs are my two best buddies: both with cheap cigarettes in their mouth and Corona’s in their hands, both watching the sunset with me. Outside we are calm and peaceful; inside our stomachs are a turmoil of nervous delight.
The band that we had sloppily put together after my breakup as a way to, “pay for college” was finally going somewhere. Last week a producer heard us as we played in a local bar and offered us his card saying that, “Talent like yours is on the way up.” What he saw in such a cliché metal band like ours I never knew—nor did I care to give any thought to it. All I knew was that we would finally be getting out of the town where I was born and raised and that, tomorrow, we would be driving a couple of days to reach L.A. for the beginnings of a statewide tour.
We are young, we are happy. Both my friends had lots of girls that they would have to say goodbye to but, inside, I know that it didn’t matter much to them. There would be plenty of Sheryl’s and Mary’s once we got to the big city… they would be hotter too.

VIII

“Dude… death is like… dead already.”
“Yeah dude, we need to fucking go into some more hard-core shit then just death metal. It doesn’t sell these days.”
“Fuck it, dude. Death is like… dead.”
Hearing those two when their high is always a trip in itself, especially when their talking about death. Damn it, for that matter I should be high already as well. They’d been pigs all night, keeping the hash all to themselves and not sharing with their best pal. It didn’t matter that much though, it was funnier to hear them when one was drunk and, God knows, I wasn’t going to share any of the whiskey with them.
What had started off as one tour led to a couple of records and, finally, an album. Now we were closing our second tour, somewhere on the east coast. I had already drunk too much that night to remember. Our style didn’t sell too well in the beginning so our manager made us get into Death Metal. It didn’t settle too well with the guys though because, when they were high, they thought it was going out of style. Coincidentally, they had been high nearly the entire trip.

“Hey man, did the deal work out in Orlando yet?” Jerry asked, finally passing the bong over to me.
“I dunna man, the manager was supposed to work it out on Friday but he’s been busy with the tour and all.” I reply, taking a long drag as the smoke wells up into my lungs.
“Fuck it… I’m going to pray he dies and I’ll write a song about it too.”
“Dude… death is like… dead.”
I lean back in the leather chair, watching as we pass by the trees on the highway. With each drag, the trees start to enter the bus, gyrating in a haphazard fashion before me, their leaves mingling with the modern art posters that cover the wall. I pass the bong over to Jerry again and shut my eyes. Then, taking a pen and paper from the cupboard I begin to write a new song that’s coming to my head. I think I’ll call it: Dance You Fucking Trees.

IX

I’m falling, I can feel it even though I close my eyes tightly, hoping it would go away. I know it will come but, somehow, I think that if I close my eyes it will take longer to happen. My face collides with the concrete and I feel blood, hot and gushing, run into my mouth. I don’t know if I’ve lost a tooth this time—if I open my eyes I know my face will hurt even more. One, two… yep there all here I suppose, all except the one you lost last time. I think, running my tongue across my gums.I look up, several steps above me is a fat Mexican guy wearing only a wife-beater and a pair of boxers. He’s still holding the baseball bat he had brought when he first decided to take me out of my room. So what if the rent is a day late. I’m supposed to have a bloody three days grace period!
“And the next time I say that you’re getting out, you’re getting out. Got that hommie?” He says in the nasal accent that a Mexican can only have if he tries too hard to be black. His son, a scrawny kid with a disgusting little smile on his face, appears behind his father with my stuff in his hand. With a nod of approval, he throws it beside me all over the filthy street. Then, without a word, they both turn and leave me alone.
I pick myself up off the ground, checking to make sure that my stuff is all in the bag. Most of it is, so I lift the bag off the ground and head off down the street. It’s too late to check into a hotel room and, even if it wasn’t, I didn’t have any money with me. The band got out of style a couple of years back and we flopped out. Jerry and Eddie went off to be hired to do gigs at bars and I was left to myself in south side Boston all alone.
There is a friend of mine that lives a few blocks away. He sold the band hash when we were still together and, perhaps he would still remember me. If he did, then maybe he will let me crash out at his place that night and smoke with him. At worse, there was the always the alleyway.

X

“Fuck it! Give me the money now!” I’m shaking, though I had done this before it always made me nervous. She was transfixed, too terrified of the gun placed at her temple to scream, but I couldn’t take that chance. She was young too—and pretty. If I was a pervert I would have taken more then just her money, but I wasn’t. A druggie and a mugger yes, but the thought of being a rapist sickened me.
She didn’t reply, only gulped again, thick beads of sweat running into her eyes. Damn it, I couldn’t wait too long. The scream that she had first let off when I placed the gun at her head was sure to have been heard and the cops would be here any second. “Give me the money!” I shouted again, cocking the gun. She didn’t say anything so I backhand her, a sickening snap ringing through the cold air as fist met her jaw. She fall’s to the ground and, stooping, I grab her purse. Quick, run, before the cops get here!

XI

I hate the sharp, slight pain that entered my arm each time. I couldn’t help it though; I crave what it gives me. I push down the cylinder, shutting my eyes as I sit in the garbage-filled alleyway. This is where I live, this is what I am. Thirty-three and I already look like a man of the age of fifty, my youthfulness wasted away.
I scoot back, underneath the sheets of metal and cardboard that formed the ceiling to my, “home.” Heroin is now my life, my breath, my sleep. I can’t dream without it. I can feel it now entering into my veins, the intense craving I’ve had for it since this morning slowly beginning to melt away. I can see everything at once and never miss a thing:

Birth, childhood, purity
The little girl that wore satin lace
Dragonflies and pinwheels
Watching football with the guys
Drunken sex for the first time

And finally… the dark, frightening void as I slip into my unconsciousness.

XII

“Hello, my name is Gary and I’m an alcoholic.” It’s funny how they all say that—like its some form of title or treasured greeting.

‘Hello alcoholic, fine day isn’t it?’
‘Why yes it is, thank you alcoholic.’

There’s nothing treasured about the meeting though, nothing special. My innards scream for a drink, for another shot of heroin. The only reason why I first started going to these things is to find a place to keep warm for a couple of hours. Sleeping at Denny’s wasn’t working out anymore. Now that I started though there was no turning back, I had to stay sober if I wanted to stay warm. Bloody well not a fair trade if they would have asked me! At least they tried to help bums like me with their problems and, once in awhile they would hand out hot meals and sets of razors too.

Clap, clap, clap. Yes I’ve stated the obvious, damn you! Stop clapping for me like it was such a hard thing to say and let’s get along with life already.

XIII

“Hello, what’s your name?”
“Akio.”
“Cute… want to go out for a drink sometime?”
“No.”
“O.K I was just asking.”

She gives me the finger and turns away. It just proves that, even if a guy dresses halfway decently and tries to be nice he still can’t get a girl interested; even if it is a Japanese ditz that’s screwed every other guy in your neighborhood.

XIV
HIV is a sick, strange abbreviation. Goes to show what caused it in a man, he got it all because of His Interest in Vagina. Whether or not it should stand for that though, it didn’t change the fact that I now have it and, what was worse, it has blown full over into AIDS.
Now that I have it I can’t think, can’t feel—I don’t care for that matter either. I can’t care less if I was warm or not so I stopped going to the AA meetings. Going to them was only bore and made me feel inferior anyways. The only thing I cared about was heroin. If I try to think of anything else it hurts so bad that I cry for hours. Blessed Bliss! Now I can indulge myself in drugs even more then before because I don’t have to worry about spending what little money I have on girls.
My next fix is coming that night. Shawn will probably be there at the railroad tracks by nine but I’ll be there early just to make sure. Until then I always have my alcohol and a beat up guitar that I had found in the dumpster nearby. That should keep me busy for a while. I think, the sting of the whiskey pouring down my raw throat making me shut my eyes. With a sigh, I place my fingers on the guitar and begin to play a bitter tune: one that reminds me of better days.

XV

I can feel the walls of my mind crushing in all around me pushing me forth to my destination. My miserable world is collapsing on top of me! Out of the darkness and into the light I walk, my eyes squinting at the luminescence before me. It is bright, brighter then even the sun, and warm. I can’t ever remember feeling this warm.
I remember… God I remember! The shot had been too strong for me. I look behind and see myself lying on the floor, pale and lifeless. The newspaper sheets I had wrapped myself in before I streamlined still clinging to my form. The eyes of my corpse are open, a sickening glaze over them as a cat stands on my chest, licking his paws. I remembered the pain, the utter pain that pounded my mind to dust before I passed out. It is gone, gone away, and now only a strange emptiness remains.
When I face the light, the emptiness that covers my soul disappears. Without even wanting to, I look towards it. It’s almost magnetic, drawing me to its source even though I’m not walking towards it. Even if I was walking away from it there would be no stopping, it’s too powerful for me to run away from.
When I was little, my mother taught me about God and I went to church a few times for Sunday school. I vaguely recall it and cross myself hastily, my mind trying to recall the scattered verses that I had learned in my youth. It doesn’t matter whether or not you remember them. I hear a voice say. It is time to come home. I smile, as I hear this; its one of the few genuine smiles I can ever recall making. Home… that’s a word that I thought was long lost from me. Shutting my eyes I fling myself towards the light and let it envelope me. Out of the darkness and into the light, I know the pain is gone. I know that I’ll soon be home.

Jeanette

It was cold that grey and grim night, though it wasn’t even at the end of summer. Rain beat steadily upon the roof of my 1989 Ford, making visibility difficult. Not that I minded, I had more to think about then falling into a ditch. Rather, I wished I would fall and end all the pain that I had come to know.
Last week had gone by so fast that I could hardly remember the advents that had led me to my sorry state. It seemed… hazed or, rather, mixed together as if it had all happened in a day. Why did she leave me? I wondered. We were together for one and a half years and then she left…and, for ALEX?! I rolled down my window and spat, as if that would take away the disgusting taste that name left in my mouth. That’s what now I truly did think about Alex.
Deep down inside, though I tried to deny it, I always knew Jeanette still had a thing for him. She insisted that she didn’t still like him, though how she would bring up his name in many of our conversations seemed to hint otherwise. Yet, how could I blame her? She was together with him for 3 years and it wasn’t until they broke up for the second time that we began to like eachother. Besides, Alex had a Chevy.
But still, why ALEX? I spat again, somehow spitting every time I heard his name seemed to bring some peace to my mind. And why did she want to leave me after we were so happy together? We were engaged God damnit!
The answer to that was simple or, at least to Jeanette it was. She said it was because I had stopped paying attention to her but this was not true. Last week was hard; there were business meetings to go to, construction sites to survey, dinners and parties that me and her attended. Besides, it wasn’t like she didn’t ignore me: I tried to arrange a private dinner with her at one of her favorite places by the lake but she shrugged it off. She mentioned something about going to see her friend that night.
That was not the only reason for her leaving me: she also said that I was not committed and that Alex was. Not committed? God! Alex was the one that wouldn’t share an apartment with her until the last four months of their relationship; we were engaged and the wedding was set for October.
But it didn’t matter anymore, that’s why I was driving to Miller’s Creek. A cliff hung high above it… the perfect place to throw myself into the deep waters below. Not like anybody would miss me: mom had died six weeks ago and my brothers all distained me cause I was going out with Jeanette. 'I told you she would leave you man.' That’s what Joe said. He was the only one that didn’t hate me but I doubt he would miss me anyways. The only time I heard anything reasonable come out of his mouth was when he was sober and that was very little, if at all. And then Jeanette… bah! Why would she miss me? She had her precious, “Alex” again.
I wasn’t always mad at him. He was a halfway decent guy in high school and we were on the football team together. Now that I think of it, we both liked Jeanette at the same time too, but he got her first. Not that I cared at the time; I was at the age where I liked nearly every chick in the school. Though, there was something different about Jeannette. Alex and I were still friends after he got her, it wasn’t until he started to talk shit behind my back and cheating on Jeannette that I got pissed off. That’s one thing I could never stand: guys that cheated on their girls.
I guess Jeanette was the only girl that I ever cared about before. I mean, I had crushes and girlfriends before but, when I first saw her, it was like the world revolved around her face. I smiled a little, tears forming in my eyes, as I remembered all that we had gone through together as teens. How we both hid in Wilson’s shed from her parents, how we both used to go out after school and just watch the sunset; it was too bad that we were just friends during that time though, I would have kissed her in a heartbeat.
That’s probably why Alex got her first: he was always the more outgoing one and could make any girl drop her pants in an instant. I, however, was more of the shy type. (I spent most of the prom in a corner) I wrote reams of poetry for her but I never had the courage to read any of it to her. At that age I could hardly say anything without stuttering and, besides, most of it was too sappy to read out loud anyways.
Good the old asp tree, only a few more minutes to Miller’s creek. The tears began to flow down my cheeks, almost as quickly as the rain lashed against my car. Soon I would throw myself from the cliff and be done with everything I had known. It wasn’t like I was a manic depressive or anything. I knew that there would probably have been other girls, some probably better looking then her. But that was not why you wanted her. I told myself wiping the tears from my eyes, strangely enough that was true.
Neither of us had known Jeanette until high school. Before then she was the outcast of society, studios librarian type, and not really the best looking. I remembered how Alice, the school’s beauty queen, would make fun of me and Alex because we hung out with her and spread rumors about her among the other cheerleaders. I just think she was jealous, she was the best cheerleader in the school and always had a thing for good looking quarterback like Alex and Jeanette got to him first.
Alice was one of those other girls that I had a crush on in high school and I actually went out with her for a month or two. But when I was with her, even though she was extremely good in bed, there seemed to be something missing that she was never able to fill. Of course I, being the hopeless romantic that I was, found that only one thing could satisfy my inordinate desire for romance. This one thing was Jeanette.
It didn’t matter anymore; I had now come up to Miller’s creek and high above me stood the cliff. I got out of my car and turned off the engine, the wind whipped cold about me and the rain came down even harder then before. I remembered when I had first come up her with her. It had been a long day and Alex had recently broken up with her again, we came up here to watch the sunset. There was a hollow spot within and oak that we would go to and just watch the sunset together. It was there that I finally found my courage and kissed her, just as I had been longing to do for nearly five years. I remembered how surprised she was at first but then her lips melted into mine. We did not climb down from there till midnight.
As I climbed, I began to wish we still could have said our goodbyes, maybe even watched one last sunset together but we couldn’t. Before she left, she swore that she would never talk to me again and those words hit my heart like a thousand bullets and, that night, I knew I could not live without her. I might have managed to survive if we could have remained friends, but I think Alex got to her. She swore to never speak or see me. That was two days ago.
At last, I thought. I’m finally at the top, now to find that ledge for my plummet. I trudged along for a minute or two, the ground was slippery and I fell in the mud more then once before I arrived at the ledge, the ledge where the oak tree stood by, the ledge where I would end it all. I took a deep breath, thoughts of life struggling to find their place within my mind but I shut them out. Hope? Life? These words meant nothing to me anymore, at least, not since Jeanette had left me. I sighed and shut my eyes, savoring the smell of the muddy earth and fresh rain: I always loved that smell. Then there was the sound of the creek below, gurgling and rippling as the raindrop came down towards it. I always loved that sound too.
Yes, tonight was a good night to die, broken hearted and alone, just me and the rain, my many tears, and a God that I would soon face. God? Bah, there is no God. If there was one then he would let me have come to this. I thought. I sighed again, hesitating for a brief moment if whether or not I should go through with this. No, I would go on, I reasoned that there was nothing left for me but death. And so, slowly, I made my way towards the ledge which stood a mere twenty feet away.
However, as I neared the ledge, I saw a small, form upon it just inches from the edge. She was bent over, her hand covering her face and her frail body quailed and shook as the savage wind tossed the rain to and fro about her. I could only see the person vaguely yet something with me told me told me that it might be her. I called out to her, coming ever closer to where she lay: a mess of tears. She heard my voice and slowly rose and turned towards me. It was Jeanette!
She was a miserable sight, eyes red from hours of crying and several bruises on her arms suggested that Alex had gotten into one of his ‘moods’ while drunk. I came closer to her, slowly, hesitantly. I feared that she would still live up to her promise of not wanting to talk to me again. I stood several feet apart from her for a moment, both of us to scared to speak. Then, she began to cry, but not tears of bitter remorse. These tears were lonely tears, repentant tears, each of them wrapping the wounds that her words had inflicted, each of them imploring, begging me to forgive. I could never stand to see her cry and, when I saw her tears all thoughts of sorrow left me. I drew her shaking body close to me and smiled. It seems that she was missing me too.

Eye For an Eye

I do not know what had originally inspired me but, whatever it was, it came upon me with such a sudden force that I believe no one could ever resist. It had all happened the night before with her phone call. I never thought that call would have come, but it did. She said she was moving away, going far off to Europe somewhere with some guy; what his name was I didn’t ask. At first, when she hung up on me, I thought that she was just playing one of our games again. However, after a moment I realized that it was true, and I knew she was not coming back. It was then that sorrow over took my mind and, soon after came the first of those thoughts had rung clear in my psyche. They compelled, nearly drove me mad, and though I resisted for a while, the strain was too much to bear and I had given in.
Now I lay in darkness, a putrid odor within the room and grime soaking my muscle shirt. I felt tiny beads of sweat form atop my brow and trickle down into my eyes. I did not care for the stinging they brought, I had sat upon that dilapidated sofa for the past four hours, never had gotten up to put my boxers back on, never even cared for a drink of water as I sat there. My eyes were the only things I moved and these rolled slowly in a semi-conscious haze as I surveyed the apartment for the thousandth time. By the dim lighting of the early morning sunbeams through closed shutters, I could faintly distinguish the walls of the living room; the yellowish green paint had already begun to peal off in some places. The television was still on, though it only showed static and made little low crunching noises. Black’s starting to win this time. I thought, and it was good, white had been winning for the past 2 hours.
Somehow, that thought managed to force a half smile onto my face—my boredom had finally driven me mad. That’s why she had left me, I suppose, she said that she could not stand my boorishness and how I managed to turn nearly every happy memory into one that she had have would liked to forget. I didn’t try to make it that way, or, at least I think I tried. But how could I have known? Every time I was around her, she seemed interested in me and how I felt. She should have told me that she found my humor dull and my presence unpleasant. At least then I would have tried to change or, at least, backed off a little. But no she would never have told me, that’s one thing that I could have expected from her. Lying snake!
My eyes drifted again, this time to the side of the couch. There was a night table there, its corners bashed in and the top of it scratched so much one would think it was used to test knives on. Upon the table there lay a knife, red with blood. Something red and watery trickled slowly down both my thighs to sink into the space of the couch between my legs. I looked at my wrists: both had deep slashes from where the blood flowed. You did not do this to yourself. You would never had thought of committing such a deed. These words were true though, or at least in my mind they were. I would never have thought of committing suicide. She had cut my wrists; I could vaguely remember it: the wicked look on her face, the evil glare within her eyes… the cold laughter that followed when the deed was done. She had cut me, that I was sure of, but what had happened afterwards, I couldn’t recall.
Oh, but she did not cut me with the knife… No, that would have been too easy, too painless a death for her to contrive. She did it with her mouth: through each of those words that cut me deeper then any knife had ever could. And then there was her eyes, the look within them entreated me to do what I had just done. Yes, I do believe that I saw the wicked look in her eyes: those two grim spheres of grey that twinkled with an incessant evil. Those two eyes of wonder that had once entreated me to take them and their owners ears into confidence and that had haunted so cruelly once my confidence was betrayed. Oh, but it was good that they did not laugh anymore; their owner was gone, and I would soon be as well. My leaving would be slightly different then hers, but at least I did not have to fear those eyes anymore. They say that words cut deeper then a thousand knives but I know that it is not true. Her eyes had cut deeper then any word could ever, and now it bore deep within my conscious that the last look in those eyes had been of my doing. That last look of hers that I had seen within my minds eye sent such utter feelings of guilt into my soul that, for the past four hours, I had not dared to close my eyes for fear that I would see hers again.
But I didn’t care, I wasted away with every second that passed, soon I would be gone from the world. I turned back to my own thoughts for a moment; then something pierced through the static of the TV. It was the sounds of sirens: each note shattering my musings in the dark. Slowly, using what little strength remained in me, I rose and half crawled, half walked to the door. I opened the door and blinking came into the sunlight. Two floors below me were parked a dozen cars and the policemen were already out; some held their weapons pointed at me while others ran towards the flight of stairs to the left. Why did they seem to be looking for a criminal? I was no criminal. Then I thought of the neighbor’s apartment, yes I knew he was into drug dealings of some sort. Then there was the fact that I was only wearing a shirt and was bleeding profusely… it could be that too.
But what it was I never knew for, as the policemen had finished coming to the second floor I became too weak to stand and fell over the metal railing that I had held on for support. It did not take me long to fall, but as I did, I my mind wandered to her body that lay in a pool of blood behind the sofa. I remembered the four knife stabs, each of them to her heart as her words and eyes had stabbed mine. What would the cops think of her? I wondered, but it didn’t matter. I had killed myself to pay back the deed that my level of madness had forced me to undertake. Then came the impact of my body upon the concrete and the onset of darkness; I shut my eyes and, with my last breath, forced a small smile across my face. I no longer saw her eyes haunting my soul; my conscious had been redeemed!

Stalker of a Smile

He watched, hiding in the shadows as he saw her get out of the car. There were others around her: a short, bald, man with a lazy eye, another whose acne-ridden face and glasses seemed to make him look more feminine then a man. Yet, he did not notice them; his eyes were fixed on her, on her smile that whispered of her inner intelligence and beauty.
Yes, that smile is what he saw; everything else could burn for all he cared. Her smile was what he wanted. He had seen it some months before while he had stumbled into the park on a Sunday night, swaggering in his drunkenness, a bottle of rum cleverly concealed in a paper bag. Life had seemed to be an endless drudgery, and he had decided that a bottle of pills and alcohol would end it all. Yet, when he stood in the darkness, struggling with the childproof cap, he saw that smile for the first time. It was a simple smile, one that was not given to him. A witty remark by a lumbering giant with a stupefied face had been the cause of it. But, when he saw it, it seemed that a light shone through the darkness of his soul, piercing his every being. It was then, on that night, that he swore to himself that he would live to see that smile again.
Now he did not consider himself a romantic man. No, the word “romantic” seemed vulgar to him in the very least. He rather fancied this was something more, something deeper then any mere romance could contrive. He did not know what he felt for her; he didn’t even know her name. Nevertheless, he knew one thing… he had fallen in love with that smile.
Night after night, he would come to the park, after the darkness had fully cloaked the earth. He would wait to see her, lurking behind trees by in the darkened, un-walked pathways, incognito. He didn’t want her to see him; he didn’t want any of them to see him. Nobody would have understood even if he had told them of his innocent intents. He didn’t want to scare her away.
For a full week, night after night, he watched and he began to study her habits. She and many of her friends would come to same park every Sunday night and games of basketball would ensue. There were many pathways in the park; dark and unobserved pathways; pathways in which he could lurk and watch her, all the while remaining unseen. She would not come some weekends, however, and oh! The pain it brought him.
He would feel the full weight of his life crashing back down on him and wail with an unending torment, beating his chest all the while in anguish and despair. Terror and the devils of drink would once again overtake him, and he would throw himself fully into his languishment and depression for the rest of the week, weeping all the while wondering why she didn’t come. Only the sight of her smile the next Sunday night would be able to pull him from the pits of his despair.
He did not know why her smile made him feel this way. It wasn’t even a smile that was smiled for him. Before he had been a melancholy man, a dangerous and angry man, filled with the spite of his advanced years. Children would run from him when they saw him in the park for his appearance and countenance were that of one most haggard. He had not always been this way though, his wife and two children were murdered before his eyes, and he had taken up to drinking in attempts to wash his sorrows away. For nearly eight years he drank rum more then he would water, and his moods became more and more dangerous with each bottle he drank. When he had seen that smile for the first time though, he had tried to stop drinking. Only when she did not come on Sundays did he revert to his old habits again. Somehow, when he was drunk, he could nearly picture that smile in his head… it was a thought that would delight him immensely.
Tonight was a special night though; tonight marked an anniversary of sorts, a landmark in his history of watching her. For, it was on this very day six months ago, that he had seen her smile for the first time. The very same smile that now punctured into his soul like a cold knife, cutting out the pain from his heart; that smile for which he lived for.
Sometimes, alone in his watching of her, he would fancy that the smile was smiled for him. With every fantasy that entered his mind his feelings of passion would rise up with great swells of grandeur. Oh the ecstasy, oh the pure joy which that though would bring him! Every time he thought of it, utter happiness would well up throughout his entire being, causing him to laugh as if he had never laughed before. Yet, deep inside, remorse filled him when he fancied these things, for he knew that she would never smile for him. Though the thought of it always ate away at his mind, torturing him greatly when he thought of it, tonight he did not care. Tonight he saw her as he had never seen her before. Tonight he saw that smile; that very same smile flash before him, and everything seemed pure again.
The games wore on into the night, yet she never played. It was not her way to play ball with her friends and she would remain perfectly content to watch, or to stroll around the court engaged in conversations. There were deep hedges of trees surrounding the court, the lights hardly piercing through their entangled branches. It was inside one of these hedges, on the far side of the court, where he stood: his hands in his pockets, his eyes set with a greedy desire upon her. Nearby, a little pathway led out into the parking lot and a set of nearby water fountains.
Presently, she stopped circling the court and, alone, she headed towards the water fountains. A cold shudder swept over him as she passed nearby, the breeze of her body sending chills down his spine and into his very soul. A voice within beckoned him to follow her. There were many dark pathways where he could lurk, and not be seen at all. Looking cautiously to make sure no one was watching, he slipped out from among the trees and, with soft steps began to follow her.
A strange sense of delight crept into his mind as he followed, slipping from tree to tree, and path-to-path in his secrecy. It was almost was a game he played: to stalk her when she left the court. Somehow, it made him feel almost brave; here he was following her, watching her while she never knew he did. Giddiness filled his head, and chucking as fantasies of her smile entered his mind he let his eyes wander from her and towards the playground that stood by the fountains.
Then, with a gasp, he let out a cry, recoiling even further into the darkness of the pathway. There, behind the set of swings, sat two hunched figures; their eyes set upon her as well. Yet, he could tell, their eyes were not set upon her smile… no, their eyes were set upon her flesh.
Terror gripped his heart, like an iron-fisted hand, twisting his soul freely as marinate strings. He knew what their desire was and he dreaded the mere thought of it. Fear flooded his heart with every step she took closer to her fate. Should he cry out to warn her? No, he could not; his presence would be heard and she would become afraid. In her fear, she would never set foot in the park again, and oh! How that thought tormented him, cut into him more then any thought of what would happen now ever could.
There was only one thought within his mind… but dared he to do it? Indignation, the hot war-fires of the soul, burned deep within his bowels. How dare those two men come here and mean to destroy what beauty he wished to have found in life? How dare they come with such vile intentions which, were they to be carried out, would cause her never to smile again. Indignation turned to anger, anger to bitter wrath and, with a great cry, he leapt forward from his hiding a bitter hatred burning within his eyes. His eyes were not set upon her but upon those two, those wicked two that had now stood ready to do their deed.
They sat their stupefied, watching while, with every passing moment, he came closer and closer to where they stood, his fingers clenched into fists of rage. She stood there too, equally as stupefied. She had not seen the two men that had stood in shadows, ready to rape her, and yet, this stranger was charging towards them in an attempt to protect her. Mouth held open, to shocked and afraid to scream, she watched as he neared them.
Then a shot rang out, and a splash of blood flew from him. One of the two had lifted a gun and shot at him, now a hole lay in his side as he bled upon the ground. The two were nowhere to be seen; they had fled into the darkness of the night, dropping the weapon in their haste.
Slowly, shaking, she went over towards his side, a look of fear covering her face. Yet when she saw him; his mangled body, and the splatters of blood on his face; she understood and her face changed from one of fear to that of pity. He noticed, and though pain coursed though his veins, he tried to laugh. By now, her friends had come to her side and someone had tried to call 991 but he knew inside that it wouldn’t matter. He had lost too much blood already and what would he did not know if he wanted to live? If he did, would he then be content to live knowing he’d never see her again, knowing that he would never she her face, her smile?
No, that pain would be too much for to bear, the mere thought of it sent a new fear into him: one that started at his stomach and crept over him as the shadow of death. He knew that he would not want to live if the ambulance were to come… life would then seem like death to him.Slowly, he shut his eyes for a moment and, smiling, he opened them to gaze into hers; those two eyes that pierced with a haunting kiss into his soul. She understood and, with a shrug, she let a little smile form upon her lips. Happiness, greater then bliss itself, flooded over him, washing away every fear that he had ever felt within his life. The far off sirens of the ambulance were heard, coming closer with their mournful wail but it did not matter to him, life now felt complete. With a sigh, he shut his eyes and let life drain from him. Darkness, thick and oppressing, filled his mind as he slipped from all consciousness. Yet, in the darkness, he still saw those two lips formed into that smile. Inside he knew that smile, that one perfect, angelic smile, was truly made for him.

Six of One and Half-Dozen of the Other

In England, not to many years ago, there lived a certain man named Mr. Fiddleduel. Now Mister Fiddleduel was a teacher, in Oxford, of philosophy, and of psychology, and of many other ologies. He was a man of indisputable logic and shrewdness. He was a man who would say that one plus one equaled two; no more and no less. No talking was allowed in his class unless it was some highly philosophical and strangely odd question of mathematics or logic that was catapulted from the dark, cold fringes of the back of the student’s mind to the attention of the professor. Also, any one of his students who dared to suggest, or, for that matter, even think that there could be any other possibilities other then sound, logical facts brought about by philosophy or by mathematical reasoning, was soon given a cold, steely gaze from Mr. Fiddleduel’s eyes that pierced into the poor victim’s soul. This gaze would be then followed by a quick, concise, logical, and highly complicated fact from the mind of the professor, and that would be the end of it.
Like the time when three semesters ago, a hapless student asked whether or not the quantity of zero could be filled while the zero remained the same. This question puzzled Mr. Fiddleduel for a moment. He fumbled his glasses for a brief second, then pointed his long finger to the student who spoke, and said in abrupt terms, “Student number Fifty-five, zero, as it is zero, is nothing. Therefore it cannot be more or less even minutely then what it is or it would not be zero.” The student then shrunk back even farther in his seat and after that day was never seen or heard from again.
After that incident three short semesters ago—and another that happened only weeks after—things became different. Perhaps it was a change for the better, if you were to see from the mind of one such as Mr. Fiddleduel, but for the rest of us it would seem strangely, and almost eerily, odd. The students stopped asking questions. The bravest and the smartest would ask questions that would be seen as very complicated and logical, even to a mind such as Mr. Fiddleduel’s. All Fiddleduel would do however, in answer to their question, is give them his icy stare and they, one by one, would quiet down, and soon the questions stopped all together.
The last one that asked a question was Tom…or student number Twenty-one, I might say. He asked of the teacher if the Catholicism teachings of the Virgin Mary would perhaps be a representation of the Holy Spirit on earth, just as the Christ was God’s representation of himself to mankind. To this Mr. Fiddleduel said coldly and with more indifference and lack of emotion then usual, “Why, student number Twenty-one, the Virgin Mary, as we all know, was human. We know this by the concise and infallible logic that Mary died, but the one called Jesus rose from the dead on Easter Sunday. Therefore, the sound logic of mathematic reasoning through the quantity of x to the hypotenuse of the triangle shows that there are only three sides to a triangle, and therefore there can only be three persons in the godhead. This is known because the godhead consists of three persons shown through study of the Bible, and by study of the visions seen and witnessed by many people throughout the unquestionable fact of history.” Tom disappeared after that ordeal and was found dead in the Thames three days later.
As I said before, no one asked questions anymore; this is a thing that the reader might find strange. But strange or not strange, it was true. Rumors floated around about Tom’s disappearance and death, but these rumors were squashed by Mr. Fiddleduel’s arguments of ‘infallible’ logic through the philosophical teachings of Aristotle and other such nonsense. Now rather, the students of Mr. Fiddleduel’s class seemed to enjoy the days they spent droning monotonously on like zombies, reading from endless volumetric tomes of philosophical drudgery. Hoping…no wishing, they would catch a fleeting glimpse of the ever eluding enlightenment found by the ancients.
One day a new student came to the class. Now, it was thought of as a game to play with new students called ‘Six of One and Half-Dozen of the Other.’ In this game, Mr. Fiddleduel and his best students were to test the new student as to how much he (or she) knew about logic, mathematics, philosophy, ideology, and of psychology. This student, however, was different from the other ones Mr. Fiddleduel had encountered. Now, it was a common rule that students were to wear decent and proper attire, and to have their hair in an orderly fashion. But this student was outrageously dressed, according to Mr. Fiddleduel’s guidelines, and I think that if Fiddleduel’s mentor would have seen him, he would have rolled over in his coffin a good couple of times.
The student was dressed in a checkered frock coat and had a white undercoat underneath the frock. He wore loose fitting black and yellow striped pants held up by suspenders. He wore a top hat, and had a clean shaven but rough face. In short, he looked like the true king of mismatch. “Student number Thirty-seven (for that was the new student’s name), I do not know what your name is. What is your name?”

The student got slowly up and shyly uttered, “Begging your pardon, sir—that is, if I may call you sir—my name is Christopher, sir.”

Mr. Fiddleduel looked deep into the new student’s eyes and the student seemed to tremble from Mr. Fiddleduel’s gaze. “You may not call me ‘sir’!!” Mr. Fiddleduel shouted. “My name is Mister Fiddleduel and you shall call me as such. Now quickly student Thirty-seven, what do you do for work?”

“Well, you see…. that is, I work as a journalist, sir.”

“My name is Mr. Fiddleduel, and you shall call me just that! No calling me ‘sir.’ Now, you work as a journalist, eh? Describe your impression of a paper sheet. Quickly now…” Mister Fiddleduel said in haste.

“Well…..” Christopher began, quite embarrassed at the events that were taking place.

“Too late; time’s up! The game has already started! Charles, you tell me the description of an average sheet of paper; quickly, quickly.”

“A sheet of fiber taken from wood pulp extract. Eight and a half inches wide by eleven inches long. Quite thin, and used for many writing purposes.” Charles said.

“Good; now quickly, Christopher, tell me of the fine dilation of the mathematical quantity of x times the square root of itself in the usefulness of the concise theory of relativity. Hurry up; you have twenty-five seconds… twenty-four.”

“Seventy-four.” Christopher replied hastily.

“Wrong, it is twelve-eighteenths or two-thirds.” Miss Elenda said, standing up.

“Correct.” Mr. Fiddleduel said. “Now, what would you name a certain mental disorder that deals with the phobia of self-consciousness?”

“I do not know sir.” Christopher exclaimed, after carefully pondering over the question.

“Exactly… and why is that?” Silence followed Mr. Fiddleduel’s question. “Because there is no phobia for that sort of thing! If you do intend to learn anything here, student Thirty-seven, you must learn to think logically and mathematically with order and logic. For that, my boy, is the fine backbone of all psychology and of philosophy. Now, what is the meaning of life according to Plato and his student Aristotle?”

“To be happy...or, at least, it seems that that would be the simplest route of things.” Christopher replied, hoping that he would indeed at last be right.

“No, no, NO!” Mister Fiddleduel said, stomping his foot upon the ground and turning very red in the face; so very red, in fact, that the students thought that he was very much in danger of going into a fit. “The meaning of life is not to be happy. You only feel that because you look at things through the simplest of mindsets. That is where you are wrong! Nothing is simple; life in all its simplest of forms is full of complexity. That is why we must attempt to understand through the fine arts of philosophy and ideology, and through extensive research in the human mind through psychology. For in there lies fact my boy; in there lies truth.”

“Well then…” Began Christopher, “Why were they—meaning Aristotle or Plato—never able to explain love?”

Fiddleduel paused for a moment, a heavy, perplexed look upon his brow. The look of his face was more of mixed confusion and shock then anything else, for of all of the questions asked before through the many years, no one had ever asked him that one question before. He fidgeted with his glasses for a moment then sucked in the air through his teeth with a deep breath. Thus gaining his composure, he said almost with a shout, “Student number Thirty-seven, there is no meaning to love! Love is the one thing that brings about men’s downfall! It is a horrible, dirty task, not a pleasure to be reveled and swam in like some river or lake! It is a dangerous thing; the degrader of society, the leprous sore on the body of politics!”

“Then why does it feel good to be in love?” Christopher boldly asked, sensing that he had found a weak spot in Mr. Fiddleduel’s logic, and he held on to it like a bloodhound on the sent of a wounded badger. Mr. Fiddleduel paused, staring Christopher in the eye; obviously shaken, for he had no answer to that question. Christopher then boldly got up and said, “I see; well, Mr. Fiddleduel, I shall be leaving you now and I shall return to you once you can come up with the answer to that.” Mr. Fiddleduel stood still as a stone statue, his lips making feeble ambitions to move. He stood there for a small while, staring at student number Thirty-seven, then his lips began moving in wordless, expressionless mutters. Christopher turned on his heel and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Once he was gone, Mr. Fiddleduel began to retain his bodily functions. A small smile flickered across his lips and he said in a less-then-normal Mr. Fiddleduel voice, “All right, class, now, according to Shophaeure’s ideological theory of the relative x quantity of……” But Mr. Fiddleduel’s class had had enough. Perhaps by chance, they saw the light, as if it suddenly washed over them in a crashing, abrupt wave, but one by one they got up and left the class. Mr. Fiddleduel stood there like a man who had seen the grim reaper; a wicked, twisted grimace of pain fixed on his lips. He stayed this way until all his students had left the classroom. Then, alone and in the silence, he made one long deep sigh from the depths of his dark and miserable soul. He sat upon his desk, took a piece of paper in his hand and scribbled a small sum upon it. Then he tore it up gloomily. The reign of Mr. Fiddleduel was over.

Frusta et Grandeur

I felt her hand glide across my back and up towards my shoulders, causing strange ripples of delight to form deep within my abdomen. A nervous shiver coursed its way throughout my body, causing me to shake ever so slightly under the deft stroking by her fingertips. Rippling sensations caught hold of me as I let a little smile form upon my face.
She was the first in bed that I ever had… and damn, if this was my first time, I could not help but wonder what it would be like when I would be more seasoned at it. It could only get better. I told myself. I mean look at how you feel now, and you’ve only just begun. My smile grew bigger as I thought this. It was true, I was ready for anything she could bring me, and we had started only fifteen minutes ago. I felt like this could go on all night, I wanted it to…God, how I wanted it to.
My hands moved out from the silky crown of hair that adorned her neck and back, slowly I moved them towards her shoulders and took a firm hold, lifting her upper body away from me. She knew what I wanted; she had kept that bra on for way to long, it was about time that it stopped teasing me. She moved one of her hands from my back to undo the strap that held it in place. When that was done, her hand went up and held one of the cups still above her breast, tempting me, begging me to do what would come next. I did not need to move that hand. As my lips went down towards cleavage she slid her hand away and ran it through my hair, a low moan escaping her as my lips encountered her skin.
I shut my eyes for a moment, savoring the feeling of my face between her breasts as they rose and fell in a perfect rhythm, long locks of her black hair tumbling downwards to land near my face and play seductively with her nipples. Inside my head, there flashed one, haunting picture: the look in her eyes. Those two eyes of perfect azure, which had beckoned to me when this had all began, which held their place steadfastly within my mind. It was that look, that same look she gave a short while ago that seduced me, caused my passion’s to overwhelm me, and now sharpened my feelings of ecstasy as I thought of them. She had given me that look only once and had walked away towards her bedroom, the sway of her hips perfecting her seduction. She did not make it far before I had come up behind her, before we began to let our passions devour eachother.
I moved my hands down towards her waist, that skirt that wrapped itself around it could not hold me back. My fingers tripped over the buttons that held it in place as I undid them. Calm down. I thought. You need to make yourself seem more experienced then you are, not less. She didn’t seem to mind my inexperience though, her hands slid over mine with a light motion, helping me to undo those last few that I had forgotten in my haste. Her other hand left my neck and went down towards her skirt as well and, placing both her hands at either end, she slid it down her thighs and towards her knees, her body leaving mine. She kneeled there upon the bed for some moments, the glow of the lamp at the far end of the room wrapping itself around her form. Her hands hung limply at her sides, and her breasts still rising and falling under her heavy breathing.
My eyes met hers and a shiver of warm, utmost delight, swam over me: engulfing, intoxicating my senses. She held the same look in her eyes as she did before, yet, there was something new; something that I had not noticed before. It was the passion… yes, the raw passion of her soul that screamed out towards me, imploring, nearly screaming for me to grasp, to hold her close, and for me to make her my own. Her lips were the slightest bit open; a pouting expression that seemed to say to me, “Come now, I want you.”
I needed nothing more but to see those eyes, to behold those lips, for every fear or worry to wash away from me. Every bit of nervousness that my mind had held at this being my first time was taken away. Now, there was only one thought in my mind: to hold her close to me, to lose myself in her, to let my passion overwhelm my being. With a small smile, I leaned forward and my lips met hers: tasting them, exploring them, my breath in short gasps of desire. One of my hands went up to stroke her neck’s nape: that special place where I knew she wanted my hand to be. The other, I slid across the inner part of her thighs: teasing her, reaching upwards for her, and then coming short. I didn’t want to just go for the rewards of my passions that night. No, I wanted her to plead me for it.
I did not need to tease her long, her hand grabbed mine soon enough and placed it between her legs, pressing it ever so slightly as she did. I could feel the wetness: the sweet, deliciousness of it as my fingers felt her, sending ripples of ecstasy into her body. She shivered in delight as her arms drew me ever closer to her ready body. She began to sink into the warmth of the silken sheets, her breath becoming even heavier. I shut my eyes and smiled, nothing could feel better then this.

* * *

I awoke, the glow of the lamp still flickering at the other end of the room. It was still dark outside but I didn’t care, the night could last as long as it wanted to. With a sigh, I threw off the covers and walked towards the bathroom.
The harsh neon bulb that hung above my mirror made my eyes hurt and it took a little while before I could re-open them. When I did open them up again, a low groan came out from my lips. Small bags were under my eyes, and my curly hair was strewn in every direction. Seeing my naked body did little to help; my thin frame glistened in sweat, and my knees were still shaking at the thought of the experience. It makes you wonder, why would a girl like her ever want to be with a guy like you? My mind tried to tell me. I didn’t care what I looked like though, with a sigh I headed back to the bed. It was still dark out, and I needed at least a few hours of sleep.
Sleep though, could never have come back to me on that night. The room was hot and the bed was wet. Some of it was sweat; some of it was the juices from my, “best friend.” With another sigh I turned over… grimacing as I hit another wet spot a single thought running through my mind. God, how I hate wet dreams!

October Night

What transpires within the human psyche that causes a man to wish to kill another living soul? That is a question that many have asked themselves at least one point in their miserable lives. Some say it is the spirit of fear, or the spirit of jealousy that befalls the human mind, twists it, and causes it to gyrate unto its own selfish ends. Yet I know this not to be so, for I had not felt any of those things within my mind when the deed came into my thoughts. It was not fear that spurred me for what gain would I have had of destroying one weaker then I? And, if it were for jealousy, what would it have profited me to kill and then not take of the possessions he had formerly held?
No, I felt not any emotion’s that would have been named a sin well up within me that night of October that I had committed myself to murder. It was something higher, something that had, by cunning imaginations, forged its own character and used all other sins as its own slave. It was the spirit named by its own self to be utterly perverse and it had held my mind captive once I had committed myself to kill him. But why I wished to kill him, I could never be certain of.
I was never certain of anything within my life. For having been raised in childhood so utterly unfortunate, I am now ascertained that Oliver Twist had more luck upon his birth then I. From childhoods most early hours, however, I was shown to be one gifted with a rare intelligence beyond all that could be counted humane. After long working hours at the factories of London, I would capture small bugs and rodents and use them for my own experiments when I got back home. Home, as I called it, was not anything likened unto the poor. No, it bode far worse then their own hovels. Our small, fifteen-foot square house stood next to the railroad and more then often I would fall asleep to the sound of the express trains roaring by and shaking the small building.
It was not my parent’s fault that we had drifted below the poverty level. My father had caught a chronic disease some years ago, and my mother had to work as a bar maid and harlot just so that we could attain the basic commodities of life. I was still able to attain some schooling in those years, however. I had stolen books on history and on biology from a school and, through these, had taught myself (and my mother) to read and write.
In my pubescent years, the fortune of my family began to grow somewhat. My father’s health had finally improved and he was able to get a job working at the railroad station. My mother had stopped a-whoring by night and, for this, both my father and I were thankful. She still had to keep her job as a bar maid, but at least she was not lying with soldiers in order to bring food to our table. We moved to a better house and, between working part time for a hatter and pick pocketing, I was able to attend some traditional schooling. I was sent to one of the schools in London whom, at the time, was built by the city hall especially to give classes to young urchins such as myself. However, after my first two weeks there I proved myself to be far more knowledgeable then the teacher himself in matters such as history and the geography of the continent. Therefore, I was asked by the teacher to help teach the students in these matters and, in doing so, I was able to have my attendance fee discounted.
When I became a man, I had finished my apprenticeship at the hatter shop and worked as the store clerk for sometime. It was not to lucrative a trade, but it served to greatly lighten my parents financial burden and my mother was able to stop working entirely. It was an easy job too, required nimble and quick fingers, which I had also been gifted with as well. However, not all at my job was well for me. My employer had died soon after I had taken up the job and now his nephew, Bob Claybrook, took over the shop and, while my former employer was kind to me and my family, his heir was not. I had come to work a trifle late one day and Mr. Claybrook yelled violently at me and boxed both my ears. I, however, managed to keep my self-control about me. I had too. If not I would loose my job and my mother would to go a-whoring again. This, however, was not the only thing that caused my job to be less then desirable. No, there was one more thing. It was there, in that hatter’s shop, that I first met him.
He was a tender lad, less then fourteen, and his height and build was as a compliment unto his age. Thin, wispy, fingers came from short but well formed limbs. Dark hair and a ruddy face served to prove that he was a street urchin as I had once been. He had probably gone through the same experiences as I had during that time in my youth (Or, so I would have liked to believe.) He wore a gay little cap dyed bright blue and his clothes seemed in goodly order, albeit a little ragged. It was late in the evening when he had first come into the shop and Mr. Claybrook and I had just started to close up. He had come begging for food but my employer had shrugged him away saying that there was no food to be found here.
When his request was denied, I looked up upon him and my eyes locked with his. It seemed a torturous sight to say the least. His eyes were sad, lost, and mirrored his hunger in both body and soul. Oh, poor wretch that he was, I swear that when I looked into them I could see his past and all that he had went through in his life. At least I, in growing up, had a mother and father that I could call my own. I could tell however, that he did not have any and that, since early childhood, he was forced to live off the pockets of others so that he could manage to stay out of the poor house. It was then that I felt wretchedness enter my own soul, for I had been complaining all my life without moral cause. Here was one before me so poor that he could not eat—and I thought my life was bad and had spent most of my time after work in taverns drowning away my sorrows. I was a creature of fate as all humans were upon this miserable world, but this one kind fate had never known.
After that brief exchange of looks, the boy had left the shop and I had returned on my way to home. Still the haunting look within that lad’s eye vexed my soul so greatly. Why does God allow poverty to befall most of mankind while some are allowed to enslave others at a whim? This I had asked myself many times as I studied the history books. Man’s history was filled with poverty, the universal themes of death and war. Where was the love that men were made to govern all things by? Why had I had such a miserable life and existence? Were men born into poverty as a sport unto others that were above them in the social status? That is something that I had always wondered as a child. However, try as I might, I could never answer those questions.
Then there was that boy. Why was he allowed a more miserable existence then I? What right had he to rob me of my own inherent misery with but a glance into his melancholy eyes? In my childhood, all I had known was the sweat of my brow and the lash of the factory master. That is why I had captured small creatures. Somehow torturing them with my experiments seemed to bring a resemblance of twisted peace to my mind. My own peace came from the thought that I was the lowest of all men and therefore I could never be expected to judge another man. But how could one suffer to bear the thought that one had stolen his peace? What right had the urchin to rob me of my knowledge that I need not to judge one lower then I, as all men do when they are higher in the social strata? Perverse my own peace might have been, but it was my peace and mine alone. But now it was gone, and I was brought into a whole new plane of understanding that I did not comprehend and I felt so utterly alone. At least when I had my false knowledge of misery I felt that I need not fall to the sin of prejudice; but now prejudice stared me in the face and beckoned me, against my will to judge another human being according to his poverty.
Then, as I walked, a figure bumped into me. I recovered from the fall and the lad helped me up. I looked upon who it might have been that made me fall and sure enough, it was the boy. “Are you alright sir?” He inquired of me. To this, I nodded my head and assured him that I was just fine but something within my eyes signaled that I was not. It was that spirit that I had mentioned before. The utter perverseness that had come into my soul when I had began to walk home. Now here lay the object, the cause of all that had welled up inside of me. My mind beckoned, nearly screaming me to do the deed; I could feel the blood rush to by brain in anger as I beheld the one that had robbed me of my own twisted serenity.
The boy seemed to sense my own discomfort and inner rage. Why I was upset, it was evident he did not know. He just stood there; face as pale as a ghost in the moonlight, an utter look of horror encasing his eyes. How he could sense my feelings, I did not know—it was probably a gift that he had inherited from his living on the street. But I did nothing to show my contorted thoughts and evil imaginations. I held a smile on my face and a jovial look within my eyes. It cannot be said that I did anything to outwardly show the boy my grim intent. Then I realized it was my eyes, my two treacherous eyes, and the twisted look within them that gave me away. The utter terror of the deed that I contemplated within my mind screamed out from them, warning the boy to run anywhere, so long as it was from me.
The boy did just that; he turned and bolted leaving me there in the street. I just laughed quietly to myself and took chase after him. There was nowhere he could hide would make him safe from me; I knew every street in this section of London and many times had caught urchins as they tried to pick pocket me. Ha, Ha! It was not hard to follow him, he was surprisingly slow for his build, and I, with my long and nimble legs was soon able to catch up to him. I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into the darkness of an alley, making extra sure to keep his mouth shut so that he could not scream for help.
The blood rushed faster towards my head, heightening my strength, intoxicating my senses and making them more keen then had ever been possible before. I could almost smell the scent of the adrenalin that flowed deep within my veins as a poison wrought of my own wicked deed. I could taste the sweat within my poses as if each one of them were as a thousand mouths each with tongues, each cackling with glee at my victim’s fright. A little ways away there was a basin with filled with water. I dragged the lad to it and flung his head into it until he was well up to the shoulders in the liquid. He began to struggle but it was to no avail. His kicks upon my legs, the beating and flailing of his arms against my face did not alter my intent. Rather, it spurred a greater power, a greater force within me and I grabbed his head with a crushing grip and began to beat his head against the metal sides of the basin. Blood came forth from a cut that I had opened by the digging of my nails into his flesh causing the water to turn red with his blood. There was one last effort on his part, one last flailing of the hands against my face, then he hung limp in my grasp.
The deed was done and I pulled him from the water bin and gazed intently into his eyes. There was no life in those eyes there, no utter misery that I had seen before, no story of how wretched his life was. I closed my eyes, the utter fear of having to judge this man according to his poverty was removed from me. My twisted sense of peace had returned to my mind, although the perverse feeling slowly began to ebb from me. I felt happy and I rose to my feet and began to sing a song of joy to myself but soon I stopped and looked at the lifeless body that lay at my feet. “What have you done?” My conscious screamed out to me. “In your quest to not judge you have judged and have sent this man to the grave. Is capital punishment a fitting judgment for poverty?”
Oh, how that thought haunted me, cut into me like one thousand firebrands each hotter then the pits of hell! What had I done in my own wish to regain what had been lost? Was I really sad to begin with? One would have said yes, but now I knew it not to be true. When I had seen the boy, I should have rejoiced because I was not as unfortunate as he. But would that not have been as equally as perverse as my killing him for, how can one judge what is perverse unless they judge by what is proven to be pure?
The peace I felt inside of me suddenly left me as those thoughts rang within my mind. Within its wake there was left a vacuum, a horror-filled fear of guilt and forever remorse at what I had done. I had wished not to be the judge of a man but I had killed him for disturbing my peace. Terror lurked within me, unstoppable and horrible, frightening my very soul. What would I do, to where would I go? Surely, someone from the windows above or in the street had seen the deed. The constable would soon be here and with him the iron fetters and the pain of living in my own remorse. I looked up, sure enough there was a constable standing in the opening of the alley, his truncheon pulled from its case, his face harder then steel.

“What is this here?” He asked of me.

“There has been a murder.” I replied. “Someone has killed this boy.”

“Do you know where the person who did this is?”

“No, I know not.” I managed to reply after some hesitation. “He fled when I came upon the scene.” The constable came over and looked upon the man then looked at me.

“Why this fellow is not dead! See here, feel his pulse. He still has a chance to survive,”

“What!” I cried, a slight bit more enthusiastic then I would have liked. I knelt down beside the body and felt his neck. Sure enough, there was a pulse, albeit rather weak.

“Why with a little air he should be fine, though he came quite close to death. Here help he carry him onto the street.” He said grabbing the boy’s legs and dragging him towards the opening of the alley. Terror filled me, but not the same as I had felt before. This was a new terror that filled my mind: the knowledge of being caught! It was inevitable, once the boy would recover he would identify me as the intended murderer and I would be caught. Then there would be no peace for me, only time, time and the slow rot of time as I would waste away in prison.
I looked up, the constable had already applied the proper procedures to the boy, and the boy was alive and breathing. Soon he would unleash his tongue upon me; soon my deed would be made known. I looked around for a way of escape but there was none. The alleyway ended at a high wall that stopped my way of escape. There was only one way, the start of the alley but that I did not wish to undertake. Did the officer know already? Yes, he knew, I could tell he knew. Although the boy was still unable to speak, I could see him staring at me with the utmost sternness. I knew he was laughing, though he did not let it come out of his mouth. His eyes laughed, laughed so cruelly at my own miserable plight. There was only one thing to do; I did not wish to leave in irons.
There was a stairway that went up for a ways and to this, I turned and slowly climbed the steps until I came to the top. The officer seemed to notice my movements for he came to the base of the steps and there he stood. I looked down at the cobblestone below me: it was a good fifty feet below. But something within told me not to jump, perhaps it was my conscience; perhaps it was the thoughts of my mother and father. But what could I do? Leave myself to fate and become as miserable as the one I had tried to kill? I felt as if I was torn into two pieces, but which could I choose? If I lived then my conscience would be cleared but I would waste away in my misery. If I died then threw would be no misery, only the thoughts of my deed to follow thereafter.
I looked into the constables eyes. They seemed to glow grimly under the moonlight. They were horrible, nearly death dealing themselves. Utter horror swept my mind as I contemplated what to do. I wish I could kill; kill him and my former victim that had risen from the dead. Had he really risen from the dead? No, he could not have existed in the first place. He could have been a sprite that I myself had invented within my mind, a mechanism which served to stub the growth of my misery of existence. But yet there he lay still, looking at me, glaring at me with those two eyes of his that sent chills down my spine and terror to my soul. I knew what I had to do and, laughing one last laugh from the depths of my being, I flung myself off from the steps.

As I fell, I felt all terror leave me for soon it would be over. The boy, my misery, my mother and father: all these things left me as I fell for soon all these things would be over. I hit the floor soundly, and all went black within my mind. Then, from the midst of the darkness came a bright light, but not as one that was white. It was an eerie light, a flickering light, hot and filled with red as if it were fire. Then I saw somebody step out from the fire and come towards me. I strained my eyes to look upon him, then recoiled with a gasp as horror filled me to the full. It was the boy that stood before me, and seeing him, all became clear. He was a temptation sent by Satan himself to haunt and me and I had given in. In my wishing not to judge I had condemned my own soul!