“Breathe in. Breathe out.” Darling, do you not understand? “Breathe in. Breath out.” The face is wet. “Breee in. Brea out.” Hand the child its bottle. “Bre in. Brea out.” 1.32pm, still 1.32pm. “Br in. Bree ot.” A dying disposition. “Breth-n. B-out.” Loosen the tap. Please! “Breeeeeeeeeeee in. Bee out.” Veins of pulsation. “Brrrrrrrr In. Ot.” Lollipops are leaking. “INNNNNN. OUUUUT.” You ask the child to breathe and yet, you gave them no lungs. Can you walk without your legs? “Breathe In. Breathe Out.” Fuck your breath. The child is still.
He tells me he loves me and I try and imagine that love. It’s unconditional like they say it is, and yet I convince myself of its conditions. He loves you because you’re broken. He loves you because you’ve trapped him. He loves you because he doesn’t know that if he wanted to, he could love someone else. I lay in the bed and await salvation. Sometimes it takes days, sometimes it takes weeks and sometimes I think it may never come.
He joins me on the throne of pity, falling beside my projection. He takes my hand from under the blue sheet and holds it in his own. I’ve never been able to fathom the softness of his skin. The texture of silk, the colour of sand, and the wear of a child. It brushes over my being and for just one moment, I am okay. The thing about moments though, is that they only last a moment. Continue Reading
Thursday afternoons are my favourite afternoons. I push my key into the door, discover only silence and then bask in it. To be honest, the reality is a little less graceful than that but still, on afternoons like this, I am the King and Luke is free. We stumble into the house, drop our disguises and open our mouths to the sweet, sweet taste of Captain Crunch. As our stomachs begin to pity us, the television gives its performance. Maybe Batman is on, maybe SpongeBob is on or maybe even Thomas the Tank Engine is on… no matter the show, we watch. Luke watches because it makes him happy and I watch because it makes him happy.
The beginning of the news is our warning. He soon bashes on the door, expecting it to bow down but everyone knows that it only does that on special occasions. I pick myself up from the big armchair, his armchair, and pace towards the entrance of my Kingdom. As soon as I twist that handle though, it is no longer my kingdom. Continue Reading
Alcohol is a peculiar potion; a single glass of it containing hysteria. My sense of self becomes one that I can no longer control. It’s almost as if the prisoner within me, the prisoner that is me, is set free. My inhibitions become myths, a once upon a time fairytale. I listen to the music, the music in the speakers, the music in the air, and I am taken into the rhythm of all sound. My body begins to mimic the beat but then it becomes the beat, speaking only the language of dance and truth. I see those around me, not as reflections of my worth, but as reflections of life. I speak to them with an honest tongue, liberating their prisoners, placing crowns upon their heads. I do not know the science of this, I do not know how, but yesterday I wished for death and today I wish for a thousand years. All that I deemed impossible has proved me wrong, and now everything sits in the front of my mind demanding manifestation. I can do everything, I think. Actually, I can do everything, I know. However, what I don’t know is that when dawn comes, the shadows will too. I will be locked in darkness, once again dreaming of escape, and a man that is allegedly me, will pick up a gun and hold it to my head.
Statistically speaking, the majority of us will never be royals because only 1% of us can be the 1%. We all have dreams, we all have creative expression and we all have a genuine desire to be distinguished from our pairs. For most of us though, none of it will ever be reciprocated. How do we continue with our lives knowing that our dreams may remain dreams and that our lives may never be remembered? Continue Reading
You wake up during the witching hour; a time you were once scared of. You pull your suitcase from under the bed and open it to reveal the remnants of the life you have been living. You double check you have everything you need and when you realise you don’t, you smile. You quickly close the suitcase, not wanting to think twice, and pick it up with both hands. This is it. You are ready.
You quietly walk down the stairs and open the front door. You don’t look back because you have learnt by now that when you look back, you are not looking forward. You walk along the footpath towards the carriage, a yellow carriage, and the coachman takes hold of your life and places it in the boot. You take your seat, eyes still forward, and take a deep breath. You may not know where you are going but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you are going and if life isn’t about going, then what is it about?
The strangest thing happened today I encountered myself. I have been walking the earth for twenty years but I have never been able to see whom is doing that walking. Today I saw. I attended a university class named ‘Creative Writing: Voices’ and was forced to look upon my soul in all of its glory, in all of its distain.
I consider the act of writing to be innate. It is more than part of my existence, it is the reason for my existence. Weaving words together is a thoughtless task, one that I would compare to breathing. You don’t calculate the way in which you breathe, you simply breathe and I don’t calculate the way in which I write, I simply write. That is how it has always been and the child within me thought that is how it would always be. That child was wrong. Continue Reading
That day I arrived I could see it in your eyes. It was pure impurity. You hated me. I stepped into your world, ripped down all of the walls and took the attention you held. I didn’t mean to though. It was the first time that I had met him. Your Dad was now mine. The man that had guarded you for twelve years, the man that had invested his entire spirit into your upbringing, he was now mine. I call upon the moment you denied such a reality, the morning you forced me to the ground. At first it was your eyes which nested your anguish, but now… it was your fists. Day by day you diminished my body. Each punch gave birth to new emotions. I didn’t think it was possible for a boy of my age to hold the feelings I held. You changed all of that. One punch… I question my wrongdoings, two punches… tears saturate my pillow and three punches… I turn on myself. I often thought about fleeing but I knew that I couldn’t. Nobody else wanted me. Continue Reading
Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to take something that isn’t yours? You must have had a pretty shit Mother because you took me. I wasn’t yours. I don’t know who I belonged to exactly… but it wasn’t you. It doesn’t matter anymore. You still took me from my house when I was watching cartoons. I miss cartoons. They reminded me that I was a child… you remind me that I’m tight. I have never given such thought to someone the way I have to you. I want to take your black hair and rip it from your scalp. Maybe I’ll smile like you’re always telling me to. I want to run a knife across your crotch and watch as your eyes widen. Maybe I’ll let out a giggle or two. I want to dig at your chest and see what I have always known. There is no heart in that body of yours… just an endless supply of semen. I must get rid of it all. We can’t have another one of you running around. I’m sick of these third legs sticking themselves in places they are not welcome. That’s rather satisfying actually. I still know what is wrong and you my dear Johnny are wrong.
It has nearly been seven years since his departure. That is 2555 days without a Dad. I cannot illustrate to you the perpetual pain of my soul. However, I can share the story of my Dad’s suicide and how a single death managed to determine the future of many lives.
Suicide is a selfish act. This is something that we all know. In destroying yourself, you destroy those who love you. Nevertheless, I am not ignorant. I understand the adeptness of life and how a simple pull of a trigger, tug of a rope or handful of pills, can bring about immediate peace. Just because I understand it though, that does mean I condone it. I could never condone the behaviour of a coward. Especially when the coward fathers children. Continue Reading