What exactly are you supposed to do when the entirety of your existence revolves around the mood swings of one other person? How are you supposed to exist when someone else is constantly threatening to end that existence?
What are you supposed to do when you know full well that this existence can be completely destroyed by a single mood swing?
Right.
Lets see you answer that one as quickly as you’ve answered everything else.
How are you supposed to help me? How can you help anyone? You’re supposed to control and create. So then you created this monster. And you created me. Why do you create something so vile, dangerous, evil, miserable, and filled with pain?
I just don’t see why you’ve done this. Why you continue to do this.
Do you derive some sick pleasure from watching us suffer? Are you trying to prove a point? Is this some twisted form of punishment for a sin that was committed eons ago?
Because none of those explanations are what you’re trying to make them. You can’t know what this is like. You, sitting up there. Mighty and completely untouched.
If my suffering hurts you, then why won’t you stop it?
Never mind. Don’t bother to answer that. I know that you won’t anyway.
You’ve never answered me. You’ve never helped me. Now, I know that you’ve never existed. You’re an excuse used by radicalists. That’s all.
You are not my God.
I don’t care about you.
See how it feels?
Monday, February 21, 2005
What Good?
Running rampant down the streets. Never thought she’d have the strength. Never thought he wouldn’t. Tiny little piece of lead. Amazing what just one can do. Good thing she’s not afraid. Maybe it’s not, though. She’s not afraid of anything. She watched the other get gunned-down in the street. She saw the blood. Saw the tears. Heard nothing for a long time. She still doesn’t feel anything.
Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. At least, it wouldn’t if she let it all go.
But why let it go? What good will that do? It’ll only cause her to breakdown and realize that she’s doomed. She can’t let it go. If she does, then there’s no telling what will happen. She’s got to shut up, accept the settlement without so much as a smirk or a tear, and start doing what she’s been planning.
What they’ve all been planning.
This’ll work. It’s got to work.
It’ll work.
She won’t allow that death to go wasted. She won’t ever allow her wife’s death to have been for nothing. Not. Ever.
Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. At least, it wouldn’t if she let it all go.
But why let it go? What good will that do? It’ll only cause her to breakdown and realize that she’s doomed. She can’t let it go. If she does, then there’s no telling what will happen. She’s got to shut up, accept the settlement without so much as a smirk or a tear, and start doing what she’s been planning.
What they’ve all been planning.
This’ll work. It’s got to work.
It’ll work.
She won’t allow that death to go wasted. She won’t ever allow her wife’s death to have been for nothing. Not. Ever.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Game Warden
Ever get the feeling that no matter how hard you try, no matter how well you do, and no matter how perfectly you execute something, it still won’t be enough? Ever get the feeling that you’re never going to be anything but a disappointment in someone’s eyes? Ever get that shot of fear—like lightning charging down your spine, spreading out through your nerves, lighting your body on fire—when you see that familiar shadow cross someone’s face?
Probably not. Most people don’t get that. Wait. No. That’s not true. Most people do. They just aren’t heard. See? It’s the silence that’s killing us. It’s silence that kills. It’s not the anger or the hate or the strength or the blood. It’s the perpetual and terrified silence. The reason nobody says anything. The fear of death. Of punishment. Of earning the marks on the skin, and the tears in our eyes.
It’s not their fists or boots or bats or clubs or anger that kills. It’s the silence. And it’s not that we don’t say anything. The problem is that not a lot of people listen. We can talk and talk and talk and talk, but unless someone is willing to stop and listen, it’s better for us to just shut the hell up and by a package of bandages.
They once called me a victim. I hate that word. I hated that word then, and I hate it more now.
I wasn’t a victim. I was prey. Prey tries to run, tries to save itself, tries to survive. Victims just sound like people who lied down and took their beatings like good little, well, victims. Victims have been out to be these pretty little people who aren’t supposed to fight back. Pretty little people who were good little soldiers under the reign of a sociopathic dictator.
I wasn’t a victim. I was prey. I was hunted. I was tracked. I was gouged, shot, beaten, skinned, and ultimately devoured.
Prey. Or was it pray?
I don’t really know.
I was the praying prey, I guess. I prayed to every single higher power I knew existed. I pleaded with Them to help me. Not to get me out, but at least to give me some sort of assistance. Even to just let him trip, give me enough time to run.
But nothing ever came. Nothing ever happened to help me. Every single time I saw something that could be used to my advantage; every single time I thanked Them for Their help, I was made to regret my praise when he would find me, rape me, beat me, devour me.
I lost my faith long ago.
Not my faith in the possible existence of some sort of higher powers. Not that faith at all. The faith I’m talking about is my own. I lost all faith in myself. Every single time that I cried after he’d left the room. Every single time that I begged him to stop. Every single time that I went home after work or school. Every single time that I gave him satisfaction, that I proved to him that he was in control. I devoured my own faith.
Victim.
I hate that word. Victims don’t exist. Everyone who’s been dubbed a victim hasn’t just sat back and let things happen, as though they can’t change anything. Sure, maybe these people didn’t take a gun and blow off the head of the sociopathic dictator, but at some point, they all thought out ways to survive. To run away, protect themselves, protect their children, survive.
That’s what prey does.
And sometimes, prey can run and run and run and run, but the predator, the hunter, the dictator, just keeps coming. Sometimes you can’t run away. Sometimes you can’t survive. But you’ll try. Even if it means taking every single beating.
Then again, sometimes surviving means dying. Your physical body may still survive, but unless your non-physical self is alive and surviving, you’re as good as dead.
That’s another thing that kills us. It’s what killed me, anyway. And every other person I’ve met here died the same way.
Yeah, I died. A long time ago. I made him a huge supper to celebrate a promotion at work. I thought everything was perfect. Turns out, though, that the pork roast was too dry, the potatoes were too soft, the asparagus was limp, the lettuce was old, the tomatoes were rotten, the feta was stale, and the pie was burnt. Even the wine wasn’t chilled enough.
The wine was the clincher.
The bottle was smashed over my face. I bled to death. The police showed up when a neighbour got tired of hearing me screaming, again.
He was taken away. I don’t know what happened to happen. I heard a rumour that the hunters end up here, too. Only not really. A part of them ends up here. But only a small part. The scared and sad part. The rest, well, no one knows what happens. I don’t really care.
I feel bad that I don’t care about him.
Then again, it’s his fault that I’m always going to think of him as the sociopathic dictator. I was also told, though, that when the scared and sad part of him comes here, I won’t think of him as a sociopathic dictator. Well, not as much anyway.
Hey, even I can’t hold a grudge forever. And it seems that I’m going to be here for a little while still. Kinda’ hoping that next time around, things turn out differently. I don’t want to be the prey anymore. And I really don’t want to be the hunter. Can’t I just be the game warden?
Probably not. Most people don’t get that. Wait. No. That’s not true. Most people do. They just aren’t heard. See? It’s the silence that’s killing us. It’s silence that kills. It’s not the anger or the hate or the strength or the blood. It’s the perpetual and terrified silence. The reason nobody says anything. The fear of death. Of punishment. Of earning the marks on the skin, and the tears in our eyes.
It’s not their fists or boots or bats or clubs or anger that kills. It’s the silence. And it’s not that we don’t say anything. The problem is that not a lot of people listen. We can talk and talk and talk and talk, but unless someone is willing to stop and listen, it’s better for us to just shut the hell up and by a package of bandages.
They once called me a victim. I hate that word. I hated that word then, and I hate it more now.
I wasn’t a victim. I was prey. Prey tries to run, tries to save itself, tries to survive. Victims just sound like people who lied down and took their beatings like good little, well, victims. Victims have been out to be these pretty little people who aren’t supposed to fight back. Pretty little people who were good little soldiers under the reign of a sociopathic dictator.
I wasn’t a victim. I was prey. I was hunted. I was tracked. I was gouged, shot, beaten, skinned, and ultimately devoured.
Prey. Or was it pray?
I don’t really know.
I was the praying prey, I guess. I prayed to every single higher power I knew existed. I pleaded with Them to help me. Not to get me out, but at least to give me some sort of assistance. Even to just let him trip, give me enough time to run.
But nothing ever came. Nothing ever happened to help me. Every single time I saw something that could be used to my advantage; every single time I thanked Them for Their help, I was made to regret my praise when he would find me, rape me, beat me, devour me.
I lost my faith long ago.
Not my faith in the possible existence of some sort of higher powers. Not that faith at all. The faith I’m talking about is my own. I lost all faith in myself. Every single time that I cried after he’d left the room. Every single time that I begged him to stop. Every single time that I went home after work or school. Every single time that I gave him satisfaction, that I proved to him that he was in control. I devoured my own faith.
Victim.
I hate that word. Victims don’t exist. Everyone who’s been dubbed a victim hasn’t just sat back and let things happen, as though they can’t change anything. Sure, maybe these people didn’t take a gun and blow off the head of the sociopathic dictator, but at some point, they all thought out ways to survive. To run away, protect themselves, protect their children, survive.
That’s what prey does.
And sometimes, prey can run and run and run and run, but the predator, the hunter, the dictator, just keeps coming. Sometimes you can’t run away. Sometimes you can’t survive. But you’ll try. Even if it means taking every single beating.
Then again, sometimes surviving means dying. Your physical body may still survive, but unless your non-physical self is alive and surviving, you’re as good as dead.
That’s another thing that kills us. It’s what killed me, anyway. And every other person I’ve met here died the same way.
Yeah, I died. A long time ago. I made him a huge supper to celebrate a promotion at work. I thought everything was perfect. Turns out, though, that the pork roast was too dry, the potatoes were too soft, the asparagus was limp, the lettuce was old, the tomatoes were rotten, the feta was stale, and the pie was burnt. Even the wine wasn’t chilled enough.
The wine was the clincher.
The bottle was smashed over my face. I bled to death. The police showed up when a neighbour got tired of hearing me screaming, again.
He was taken away. I don’t know what happened to happen. I heard a rumour that the hunters end up here, too. Only not really. A part of them ends up here. But only a small part. The scared and sad part. The rest, well, no one knows what happens. I don’t really care.
I feel bad that I don’t care about him.
Then again, it’s his fault that I’m always going to think of him as the sociopathic dictator. I was also told, though, that when the scared and sad part of him comes here, I won’t think of him as a sociopathic dictator. Well, not as much anyway.
Hey, even I can’t hold a grudge forever. And it seems that I’m going to be here for a little while still. Kinda’ hoping that next time around, things turn out differently. I don’t want to be the prey anymore. And I really don’t want to be the hunter. Can’t I just be the game warden?
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