#195

It seems that my only sane moments are when I'm dreaming. Not pleasant dreams though, the most vile, hideous nightmares one can imagine. Gore. Real life gore. The kind of gore that is now soaked into the carpet and walls of this place.

It always starts the same, zoomed in at an oblique angle on John's head with its prolapsed eye. I pull back and see that the skull is split open and the brain is falling out and short-circuiting as warm air, soil and carpet fibres poke into it. The room is familiar but feels alien because of the atmosphere within it. It is pulsating with panic. Out through the windows there is nothing but an eternity of black space. I see a movement. A small one at first. Then the entire body is fitting and jerking or suddenly gripping up like electricity is being passed through it. What in reality would be lightening fast, in dreamscape plays out in a series of freeze frames like I'm watching it through strobe lighting. Each image flashes and sears into my mind. If I blink quickly the images run as video. And each image alone shows a man in unbearable pain; and there are thousands of images. A strawberry hits the wall, leaves a splattering of red, falls, lands on the floor and starts crawling away. Only it's not a strawberry, but a bitten off tongue with its reflexes going haywire. Finally the nerves give out and die. It stops and rests flat.

But the worst, the real nightmare of the dream, is seeing the most outrageous beauty that there's ever been in any man being replaced by a spastic looking expression of fear and shock and finally, a rubbery, drained look. But not death: complete cerebral damage. That's when the body starts to seriously malfunction and disregards all conditioning of pride or shame. At first there are strange noises and then smells. Liquid is opening up around the crotch. The most foul smelling scent is floating out the mouth and the teeth seem rotten with filth. I realize that to terminate life is not a simple thing. That death is hard, brutal and ugly and men don't die like they die on film. And it is designed to be like that. It is like that so as it's clear: if you do take a life, if you bash and hammer and bludgeon someone until not only the brain is dead but the heart is also, then you are too callous a human being to ever be around other men, and your punishment, through nature's law, is to be totally alone.

So finally, the nightmare isn't one of image but of realisation. Realisation of what I have done, what was in me to do that, and worse, what it means I'll become in the future. And the future is already beginning. Now when I'm awake it seems my brain just wants to protect itself. For the most part, it just leaves me staring hard ahead until my eyes hit upon something. The only reality that exists is in that small space between me and the object, a blank of absolute nothingness. And what kind of a human being will I be if I can only look out?

6 comments:

  1. I find myself having to reread your last few posts over and over in fear of missing something. You have such a knack for conveying despair.

    Self preservation Tristy!

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  2. Before taking any drastic action I suggest you re-read your description of what led up to the murder.

    John deserved all he got!

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  3. "That death is hard, brutal and ugly and men don't die like they die on film ... the body starts to seriously malfunction and disregards all conditioning of pride or shame."

    If you have not actually observed this, then at least you have been paying attention to someone who has.

    Don't despair. Self-preservation will make you move on. Brains are pretty clever at protecting themselves, if you just let them.

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  4. i've finally gotten back to reading these,
    my connection was on the fritz.
    it's just beautiful,
    madam satan dreams in technicolor.

    all the beast,
    dusty.

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  5. Ruby: Thank you. X

    Jim: Despair, you'd be able to convey it well if you were me! There's been a lifetime of it. X (The real and unreal Tristram Spencer!)

    Mrs Winthrope: I see a heart there somewhere... it's the reason why you're here. Imprison, torture, and ruin as many people as you like... just be kind to me. Yeah, John deserved something, though I'm not sure he deserved that. X

    Gurney: I've been lucky enough to witness two deaths up close and two others already dead. Never violent deaths (though all death is violent) so that part is as you say paying attention to 'killer friends'! I think death, no matter what the crime, is never the correct response. X

    Dusty: She dreams in technicolour of beautiful things and then she takes it all back to a hell of her own. X

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