Now, inevitably one of you beautiful people will ask me if I am okay. I love you very much, but sometimes you have to process thoughts in a way that makes the most profound sense to your brain. If you think there is generally a problem, I welcome you to message me and I will happily explain the parts of the situation that you need to know to keep the parts of your mind that worry about me at ease.
I have always had a short, short fuse. I hide it very well, depending on if you are special enough to see me upset. I am a very laid back and chill guy until I am not.
I don’t like being used. I do not like being used in a such a way that makes me feel like I have fucked up when all it is, is your motherfucking selfish self, who has once again drained another soul and moved on to the next person who can feed, finance, free, feel, or fuck you. You know that saying no is a remarkably hard thing for me to do, so you take advantage of that at every opportunity and get everything out of me. I told you all about the cunt I don’t name, so you know better than to ask for certain things, but you are just armed for a master manipulative run on me whenever you want.
So fuck you is what I am saying today.
Fuck you and your pity me, self-important, “I am the victim of the world” mentality. I barely have enough room in my head to keep me fucking sane, I don’t have a spare bedroom for a lousy fucking house guest.
“Why don’t you ever name the people? Are you just playing the game and trying to score points?” Fuck you. You think just because I don’t tell you; I say to no one? The most influential people in my life know everything. If you don’t know, take a number, and I will watch you wait for a motherfucker because I have no shame in letting your stupid ass sit there and wait for a thing that will never fucking happen.
Most people aren’t this angry, or awake, at ten minutes after seven on a Saturday. However, since I have been up way longer than that, I have some brain fuel to get this off the ground.
Oh yeah, the dark parts.
I had a dream where I finally did it. I got away from all of it, and I was as free as I was going to get the memories were gone, the injections sites didn’t itch, the ex-wife didn’t laugh, the guilt wasn’t Sisyphean. I was in a place of calm and quiet, and I was so scared. I was afraid, because how do people live in that much empty? How do you not fall into holes where noise should be? How do you go through your whole life without the static noise so loud it drowns out the airplanes and the screams?
That’s when the entire fantasy ripped open.
I didn’t have the background noise; I didn’t have the safeguards, I had it raw. I had memories, and I could taste blood and darker things. I could remember foundation lessons at six to hide the bruising and the fucking vinegar we had to drink when we dared to say words that we heard them say every second of the day. I didn’t have my stories writing themselves to cover the gaps in the floor where I could look down and remember the real thing that was less Lovecraft and more nightmare.
I still can feel the way the knuckles of her left hand fit the divots in my jaw the first time she broke it. I can smell the menthol on her breath like a fog that is so heavy it is the only thing your senses can focus on, and that goddamn voice is like someone is running a knife over steel that is rusted and bloody, and no one can tell but me. Gin for days, Jack for weeks. Moving all over the place not because Dad liked to move, come on you know that isn’t real Jamey, we moved because your dad embezzled money because they were alcoholics and abusers that loved to change things from time to time when the neighbors started asking why it was always so loud in the middle of the night in the apartment next door/downstairs/across the hall.
You didn’t move to Hamlin because country air was to your liking, you moved because the Kessler’s said they would arrest him if they ever saw him again. You went to jail because you wanted to give people the noise that they needed because you just…KNEW…the world was a terrifying place for people when it was quiet.
It isn’t, though….You don’t live like that at all, do you? You don’t need anything to dull it out because, for most of you, there is peace in the quiet. There aren’t shuffled and shod feet on the moldy carpet and bare feet on the linoleum. You aren’t almost forty and terrified of the deepest darkness because she is still there, waiting for you with menthol breath ad a smile that makes you sick to your stomach even as the words are coming off your fingertips this very second.
You don’t feel like you are always lying no matter what you are feeling because no one ever really believes all those things happened to you. They think maybe you got knocked around a bit, but most people don’t want to think that the molestation occurred, or the jail time, or the drugs and liquor and the sex and the violence and the ALWAYS. FUCKING. RUNNING. There are a few, maybe four? Who believe it. They see the eye twitches, the counting, the closed eyes, and the feet tapping. You will never believe entirely they have faith in you, that they believe you, but they are as close as your worthless ass is ever going to get to the real thing that people in stupid storybooks have.
BooBear. She called you her BooBear because of the “accidents” you would always get in to get bruises everywhere. So, what did you do? You took a name that makes you vomit if you don’t concentrate on it and turned it into a persona, a facade, a shield and a sword that no one ever, EVER, sees behind.
Keep your quiet times, your peaceful afternoons, your calms.
I will take my over-amplified music, noise machines at full, air conditioning always on because the cold is the secondary objective, and I will hide in plain sight, and maybe, just maybe, she won’t find me.
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