He is angry, he is sad, he is in pain: he doesn’t know if he wants to
live and not feel or die and feel everything once. She promised him
everything would be alright, she told him if he just did everything she
asked she wouldn’t hurt him again, and she’s a liar. He listens to her.
He does what she says. Even though he no longer agrees with any
of it; however, it is more than worth sacrificing his beliefs to avoid
another punishment. He is prisoner of his own devices, unable to
crawl out of the grave he has a dug for himself. He has anthrax for
blood and breathes hypodermic needles, life is agony for him.
He’s angry; why shouldn’t he be happy? He lives in a nice house,
drives a nice vehicle and wears nice clothes. He tells himself he
doesn’t ask for much, just the necessities and cold fucking beer ev-
ery now and then. But for as long as he can remember now, all he
has wanted is to put his first through a wall (or hear head). He makes
enough money to support himself but nothing more, his capturer also
makes enough money to support herself but somehow together nei-
ther of them can support each other. He was never one to avoid con-
flict before her but now he has met his match, which only enrages
him more; the man who was once a mighty beast with the strength of
a bulldozer is now nothing more than a rusty Tonka truck. Injury and
stress have decomposed his once fit form and graceful manner, he
now fights against panic attacks every time someone enters the room.
His fire is dwindling but has never burned hotter, anything could set
him off, the softest cough or the slightest creak could send him into a
rage. How could she have done this to him?
He is sad; he feels like he is in a free fall and there will not a bot-
tom. The room sometimes spins when he closes his eyes, maybe it’s
because he’s drunk or maybe it’s because he hit a cross wind at thirty-
seven hundred feet. He’s lonely in crowded rooms, and he no longer
feels a connection with human beings, he knows how to act person-
able from years of practice but he fears they all know it’s a charade.
A blanket of depression constantly embraces him, he knows there
is a way out, but could it be better? How could it be worse? He lays
awake at night and tortures himself with thoughts of escape; it isn’t
impossible after all, there are no chains or locked doors involved.
Could the Agony of living with his temptress really be worse than
loneliness? He knew his question would never be answered and this
pushed him deeper into darkness.
He is scared; he is scared to stay, he is scared to leave and he is scared
to die. He rationalizes that this is actually a positive thing, after all
if he had any ounce of courage in his body he would of offed him-
self long ago. His fear has kept him alive but nothing else. Whatever
pride he might have had before he met her is long gone, he’s the shell
of the man he was in his previous life. He saw it quite literally as a
lifetime ago that he wasn’t in angry or sad or scared on a daily if not
hourly basis. He’s scared to have these thoughts about his past life
because they might propel him on her sadistic list of commandments.
He wouldn’t know what to do with a happy thought even if he could
achieve one anymore.
She keeps him under her thumb. She is a queen in her own right; she
can do no wrong of course like most, if not all queens. She has sub-
jects in her Kingdom, they are forever obedient to her without hesita-
tion. She knows he is weak, and that is no fault of hers but something
he has done to himself, it was preferable to her at any rate. She knew
when she found him he would make the best jester in her court, a
great victim for her torture chambers and an amusing captive for her
high tower. It makes her feel powerful to tame what was once an in-
satiable beast with an appetite that threatened to devour continents
whole, it made her proud of herself. She did not regard him during
the days, if he were not in front of her she did not concern herself
with him, she has had many victims like him in the past, countless ac-
tually, when she was a lioness on the prowl, when she was a princess
before her inauguration. He was simply the best bug caught in her
web, the prize buck of a lifelong hunter, so she decided to keep him.
He could never please her of course, no matter what lengths he went
they were not far enough, no matter how hard he tried it was not hard
enough. He could break his back and she would have complained
about why it was only his back that broke. He felt like nothing he
could do was right, or okay or just. Who would want him if he man-
aged to gain the courage to leave anyway? He was weak and pathetic
and unsuccessful, ugly decrepit, broken, pitiful and worthless; she
made sure he knew this each and every single day. How he managed
to wake up in the morning was a mystery to himself. He told himself
many of times that if he simply just didn’t wake up one day it would
be preferable, death almost seemed like a warming theory at times.
She had made sure that he had thrown out god long ago, she didn’t
like him having hope. He still toyed with the idea of a possibility of
god, he never got far with his thoughts because she would always
catch him smiling and yank him down to earth, and he would always
land with crash and a grimace. He used to cry sometimes, back
before he became hallow.
He supposed he became numb the first time she hit him. A brutal
beating that shouldn’t have great a fraction of what it did, it always
hurts more when it came from someone you love. Of course he no
longer loved her, he loather her; though they still shared a daily “I
love you” even sometimes sharing a quick forced smile. For him it
was not optional to return it, for a delay or hesitation alone could lead
to another barrage of lethal insults and blows to the head and chest.
She was too smart to leave marks but he didn’t think she’d care if she
did, she knew he would cover them up and lie. It no longer bothered
him to play the lead role in her perverse play, to be bothered would
mean to feel, which he did not. He was cold, he had ice in his veins
that was only kept circulating with drugs and alcohol. He needed to
be high to live, it was the only thing binding his mind together some-
times, and if it weren’t for the dope he probably would have killed
the bitch many months ago. An overall conclusion to his life story
that he has contemplated many times. It never worked out well in the
scenarios that he ran through his head but at times he didn’t care. Al-
cohol was his favorite coping mechanism, he could drink whisky all
day. Many times he had hoped he would reject the poison usually into
a nearby trash can or toilet. He knew it would take a life time but the
one thing he could control was how fucked up he got whenever he
could. Maybe it could speed up the process and he could die a few
years sooner, maybe more. Self-destruction seemed the best method
to escape the brutal cycle, slow and painful just like he felt like he
deserved. he felt sub human, more trash than man, dirt had more of
use as compost than he did as a human being.
He snapped. His drinking especially became his life. It consumed ev-
ery facet of his being. For weeks he would consume his bodyweight
in liquor, blacking out and waking up in a disorganized schedule.
He stopped going to work. He knew she would be furious and he
counted on it. Maybe she would just leave him. Maybe she would just
kill him. If she didn’t the liquor would. He didn’t care which, as long
as it came sooner rather than later. Her wrath grew every day during
this binge. He didn’t care, and it only fueled his motives and drove
him to consume more poison. She tortured him; she tried to hide
the toxin. She knew she was powerless if she didn’t have someone
to control. She became nervous and anxious, she knew it would kill
him eventually. If anything was going to kill his sorry ass it had better
be her she thought. She knew she didn’t have the capacity to be loving and
caring or sympathetic; even if she could fake emotions far beyond her
abilities, eh wouldn’t buy it, She couldn’t allow him to drink himself
to his demise.
He prayed for quiet, inside his head he heard screams. Every
insult, every lie, even fallacy and every broken promise. He halluci-
nated in a drunken stupor. He saw every argument, every broken pic-
ture frame or glass and every assault. He was losing touch with real-
ity. He hated feeling afraid and he hated the familiar sensation of the
fear in his bones. He hated life and he hated every part of himself but
most importantly he hated her. He kept drinking, another hit of the
blunt and another plunge of his needle. He hated that they ever met.
He hated that he had fell for her trap. He hated that she breathed the
oxygen he did. Another shot of whiskey, another joint. Hush is
all he needed, to quite the misery, she was yelling again, he was los-
ing touch with reality. Another glass, another needle. She threw the
contents of is table onto the floor and hurdled every hurtful insult she
knew. What once struck him like a dagger in the chest now no longer
bothered him. Another deep drink from the bottle. She smashed it
against his face, blood streamed out of multiple gashes around his
eyes. He takes the longest drag of his life from the blunt and stamps
it into the table. He relinquished control of his body to the drugs and
alcohol. She makes a move with the broken bottle again, he adjusts
and dodges it. He can’t stop himself, it was like he was watching
himself in third person. He starts walking, he’s not sure where. No
emotion shown on his face, stoic as he walks to a bedroom. He is not
thinking, thinking never led to anything good anuway, all its gotten
him was here. He picks up the metal tube, moves its parts, he knew
she followed him, and he didn’t have much time. He turned to face
his adversary. “Are you trying to fucking scare me?” was the las thing
he heard her say. “No” he responded in a low, cold end emotionless
statement before the noise was heard, but not by her. Her chest ex-
ploded in the most violent way he had ever seen, blood sprayed from
wall to wall and body matter hung in awkward ways both from her
collapsed body and from the wall behind her. He took a deep breath.
She wasn’t breathing but he could still hear the screams. He reloaded
the .12 gauge and put the barrel into his mouth. He paused; he had
a brief reflection of his life and of the events that had just occurred,
he took another deep breath and for the first time in twelve years his
smile was genuine. He never heard the sound, he never saw the flash
and he never tasted the combustion; he never smelled the gunpow-
der, and he never felt the ammunition ripping through his skull.
