The Beginning to a Long Ending
Trying to understand why I am here. Staring blankly at the wall before me. Listening to aged, jaded men talk about their love of Ford Trucks. People are so bland when they drink. Why they even bother in the first place to try to attempt some sort of intelligent thought is entirely beyond me. The girls are all spinning around hiding their imperfections behind masks of happiness and giving thanks to whoever invented the black light. Such sad girls, lost identities, aggression pent up due to the abuse they allow from the people in their lives. They strive for stressful environments, without them they are dead inside. All of the little boys trying so hard to get the attention they never received from their mothers. Trying to satisfy their Napoleon complexes with dollar bills and manipulative women. They never realize, that every time they go up to the stage to tip me, that they lose...I have their dollar and soon will have more, and they will leave empty in pocket and heart. Nearly as empty as the woman who has conned him out of his hard earned pay. It's a hollow occupation. It has no true definition. No actual purpose. Entirely fantastic, superficial, and plastic. We are the Plastic Fantastic Lovers. ----------------------------------------------------------- She walks out of the car, kissing me goodbye, telling me she'll be safe and she'll call me when she gets off of work. I look at her with fear in my eyes, thinking, “Have I just lost her to this monster?” And the monster winks it's neon lights “Yes.”, as I watch her trot to the door. I lay awake at home waiting anxiously for her to arrive. Hopefully she'll be happy and well-paid. Hell, maybe she'll bring cigarettes, but I know how it will be when she gets home. “Honey,” she will plead, “Can I have some smack? I don't feel too good. Work sucked....Please?” And due to my inability to say no to her pain, and her courage to do what she does, “Hold on, it's almost ready.” Only moments later, we are high, watching late night television. I go down to the kitchen to make some grub, whilst she hurls in the bathroom. I feel a surging agony every time I hear her drown in her own bile. I mask the sound with the running sink water. She has gotten so small.... I go back to the bedroom and around me I find the signs of self-deprecation in every crevice. Undone laundry from months ago, the sheets covered in unknown substances, mostly semen and food crumbs. Liter jugs filled to the brim with urine, left beneath the bed and strategically cornered away in less-than-noticeable places. We watch the television, not touching, not really speaking. Do more smack, and then we nod off until hell resumes again. ___________________________________________________ Where am I? Where did I come from? How did I get here? I WANT TO KILL MYSELF. The first thoughts that cross my mind now that I am figuring these things out.... “Alaric? Hey! You are Alaric Moore, can you hear me? Yes, you peed on me.” I still can't speak, so I ate...Acid. Okay. Bad trip? Yes. That was what it was. Psychotic break number six. I remember now. “What day is it?”, I ask. “It's July 5th, 2008...Man, you went crazy, you kept jumping up trying to run away, I had to hold you down.” Oh fuck. I missed a day. White, Black, Colored, You, Me, Together, Forever. Well, now I am alive again. My insides hurt a lot. More heroine....I feel better. Got to the bottom of that. Oh, I have to go back to work... fuck.