#120

“What, this is all your doing?” I asked John, holding up the council letter and poking it a few times. “You really wrote to the council? Sent them a video of me dumping food in the canal? This fucking fine, legal trouble, possible eviction it's all due to you?”

“That's right, ha! And so WHAT!” he laughed “You wanted to pollute our waterways, push up next years tax costs, so eat the fucking shit when it comes. I done it and I'd do it again without a second thought.”

I didn't reply after that. Once again I just sank down into my own little world of melancholy, hypnotised by one's man's cruelty and wondering if this world was really for me.

Sometimes sections of the letter would come back into focus. I'd concentrate on them for a moment and then they'd fade from sight and my mind would go wandering again. I'd see Johns shoe or hear him light a cigarette and that would take me off somewhere else. I was lost in shock, swaying in and out of reality and trying to keep myself from going over.

“What, the dogs got your fucking tongue? Say something you shit, speak!!!”
“Huh?” was all I managed, “Huh?”

John shook his head and sucked hard on his cigarette. I knew from how he scrunched his eyes up and looked at me as he inhaled that something really horrible was coming. Then he exhaled. Smoke poured from his mouth and hit and rolled across the blanket covering his legs. It was like a pause in time. Then John said:

“I hate you. I hate you so much I am sad with hatred. When I look at you I want you gone, chewed up and swallowed by history. Hurt, bashed up, bled and made to suffer. I hate you like I've never hated before. And your body. That disgusting pale thing that is more dead than alive, that is all fair and sickly and soft and weak. When that body touches me I feel sick. It makes me feel like there's an insect or maggot on my skin. Like a huge silverfish, wriggling about and pushing its sexual organs my way. It's nauseating, you're nauseating.
Even your fingers. Look at them. Delicate and scrubbed, but scrubbed filthy! It's like they're imbued with shit and slime and not even neat bleach could cleanse the crap from them. My father had fingers like that... his own shit under bitten down nails. He'd stick them in my cocoa to test the heat. Then he'd slide his middle finger in his mouth, suck it and do it again. His dirty, shitty fingers in my drink. Your fingers are like that. Your whole body is like that. The hair on your legs is like arse hair... like the disgusting coarse things that one finds growing in the darkest recesses of some unkempt arsehole. Your made of such things. You are shit... nothing more than shit! I want to be sick on you. Kick you into a ball of tenderised meat and vomit all over you. Then kick you some more. I want you to suffer and then to die. To feel the pain of your own death. You deserve nothing less. I hate you Tristy Spencer... I hate you so fucking much!”

And then he stopped and closed his eyes and breathed heavily as if recovering from exercise. In his right hand his cigarette still burned away and a long line of ash broke off and landed on the carpet. I stared at that for a while and then back up past his dangling arm, shoulder, and back to his face. John opened his eyes.

I didn't say anything. I had nothing to say. I just looked forward at the man I once adored and watched as his features blurred away and he morphed into someone/thing unrecognisable and new. I thought of slapping him, shocking him with a kick or blow. I thought of wheeling him into the wall, of cracking his brains out on the bathroom floor. I thought of taking his cigarette and crunching it out in his eye, pouring scolding water over his genitals. I thought of the lot, every torture and hurt in the world. But for now I didn't move, not even a blink. I just stared straight back, giving him my kind regard.

8 comments:

  1. I am currently redecorating my nephew's room - all that nervous piss and vomit has left a jigsaw of stains.

    Would you like to come and lie down in the middle of the room?

    We need a nice little carpet, something thin and pale to walk all over.

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  2. door mat comes to my mind, with a boot scraper right beside. Sad.....

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  3. OH DEAR, WHENEVER YOU RUFFLE YOUR FEATHERS IT NORMALLY ENDS UP IN YOU GETTING A GOOD HIDING! I THOUGHT YOU WOULD HAVE LEARNT YOUR LESSON BY NOW. THANKS FOR EVEN A PHONE CALL AFTER THE OTHER WEEK. SOMETIMES I THINK YOU JUST USE PEOPLE FOR THE MOMENT AND THEN DISCARD THEM WITH A TIP OF THE HAT.

    SORRY I'M NOT HERE MUCH THESE DAYS, BUT COCKRINGS, SHIT, PISS AND VOMIT ARE NOT THE MOST PLEASANT THINGS TO HAVE TO READ ABOUT. WATER RETENTION, NOW THAT FLOATS MY BOAT. X

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  4. @ JIM: DOOR MAT? MY SONS MORE LIKE ONE OF THOSE MATS THAT FIT AROUND THE TOILET, WITH A LOO BRUSH RIGHT BESIDES. I AGREE, SAD...

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  5. ABIGAIL, A DOOR MAT IN YOUR HEALING HOUSE OF GOD MAY JUST STRAIGHTEN THE BOY OUT. HE'S NOT GOT MUCH OF A BACKBONE SO IS COMFORTABLE UNDER FOOT, EVEN WHEELCHAIRS CAN RIDE OVER HIM WITHOUT TIPPING. IF YOU WANT HIM HE'S YOURS... I COULD EVEN PROBABLY GIVE YOU A RECEIPT.

    FROM ONE GUY TO ANOTHER, MWAAHHH!!!

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  6. Tristy, last night I dreamt of someone, who was really mean to me... and they were so much bigger and stronger than me.. But I decked him..
    Do you know it felt great..
    But maybe a nice cup of tea and a valium would be more sensible.. careful to pour the tea on his more regions and then take the valium xx

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  7. Wildernesschic: Sensible??? Do you see much of that around here? No, war is th only answer to this mess. A head to head until the end. I'll enjoy a nice cup of Lady Grey after... if I survive, of course. X

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  8. Sorry I typed that without my specs..old age... I meant for you to pour the tea onto his more delicate areas .. although with John don't think he has any!! Get him Tiger !!

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