(no subject)
I am going to tell you the story of the worst dream I've ever had. It goes behind a cut, because frankly, it will be disturbing. It will not be something you will read and feel sorry for me because I had it. I will not blame people for what they say after reading it.
Here goes.
There is a farm house. A large one, not a tiny cottage, but a full, three floored white washed farm house where families are raised. The sky is black. Not dark, or twilight, or stars set amongst a moonscape. The sky. Is. BLACK. The ground is a damp, lush green of the lawn. Again, this is not the tones of a natural grass, no subtlety or shades. It is green, Jungle Green from the crayola crayon box. The windows are there, and they too, are black. The primer and white wash are chipping, and to be honest, it may not be white wash, I don't know what white wash looks like in the flesh. The color of the house is unimportant, but for some reason, the skies and lawn are significant. There are vehicles, but there is not a car, nor a truck. Only a tractor of unknown make and rust bound status. The drive way never once knew pavement, but the kindness of gravel, ancient now and as treacherous as an avalanche. And I walk to the door. It is late, very late, but I do not know what time. The clocks that should exist refuse to, digitally dead and the clocks with faces reveal nothing to note of the time. I am ragged, and worn, and mangy, and in my own way, not a lie at that moment. For one instant and fractured sliver of time, I appear to the world as I project within my mind.
There are three of them as I recall. There is a father, with a beard, suspenders, and jeans that have not known a wash in forever and a day. He is a man who eats more than his fill, yet works most of it off, slowly piling pound upon pound over the years. His face reveals nothing but a thin smile that the echos of farmland have carved into a visage used to the wind and grain. His shirt is a map of meals cooked, by hand, from scratch, by our second resident. She is the mother figure, and her skin is getting tanned. Not as the rich or coastal, her countanence is weathered as a beloved coat that survived the white cliffs of Dover so many decades ago. She is thin, not callow nor in shape, but merely thin, in the way that only someone who has dedicated their life to a man of the field will get. Years of a small slice of chicken breast, a scoop of potatoes and a spoon of peas have reduced her to lean house keeping shape. But yet in her day you can still almost catch the glimmer of beauty queen that made the farm boy harvest roses instead of hay for one evening of pressed suit and dearly loved gown. And the result of their diamond ring is there as well, the daughter. Also thin but not in the underweight style of her elder mother, the same hair before autumn gray tore the luster from her locks. The girl who was too large even for the farm, who had to have all the things her father could never work hard enough to buy her even as his heart broke. Her gaze is intense with disappointed contempt for all she surveys. These are the key players in this introduction to the evening, three people we all can know without ever having met nor seen.
To surround themselves with their set, a place we know as well as our own homes and hovels we now reside in. I step upon the floor, the kitchen a linoleum that was the pride and joy of remodeling back when the dog taunted Sam. As I tread measured carefully across the base of their humble existence, I notice that the floor boards going into the hall are lumpy, uneven and treacherous to the outsider. They are not a clean color of brown, but the worn, gray mottled wood finish that countless legions of boots have torn the polish from. Rugs, not carpet, attempt to disguise the scars that practical usage have borne. Above all else, this home is dark in all the corners and crannies of the ceiling, the hall lights too dim to stem the tide of night. And the darkness, well... it is COMPLETE.
As she stood in the hall, arms crossed, glaring at the stranger, worn down and as burnt away as the lamp that once burned outside at the barn, the mother is making coffee. The father has judged me to be a working man as well, even if not for the moment that once I stood atop the hammer and nail, that I have always seen the side of the fence he maintains, and returns to a flickering, fading television program. No mere show, for the content of the broadcast is, unlike almost every other detail known, unimportant. It is merely the ritual of settling down into a brown plaid easy chair, a glass of wild turkey sitting in a short glass without a coaster upon an end table, and in these moments, there is nothing that has to matter. This is the hours before bed but after the ceremony of a quiet dinner, when the scraping of dishes is but a whisper beneath the blare of the static laced view from the television.
The TV is a Sony, old and worn. The rug is a weave in a spiral pattern of alternating colors between red and green, that adorns every home too poor to carpet the room. The couch matches the chair, it bears upon it the slumbering forms of two throw pillows that are closer in form to the carpet. No dog sleeps there, although at some point the hairs still mingling there speak of one that is out running the fence forever.
My attempts to describe and render for you the scene of this folly are simply so you can understand how the film flickers across my mind since this harrowing tale occurred. Because how it will now transpire, I must have you reread the previous, over and over again, until you can fully realize that this place is no mere specter of the imagination. That, in that time, and that place, it is as real as the screen before you. That the shadows there, though darker than any you could perceive willingly, are not unknown to you, in the depths of the woods or the abandoned street or the room where you felt your heart break for the first time. This place is no mere fiction, nor phantasm of a fickle flight of fancy. Every inch is vivid and real, every splinter is rough and tangible, every speck of unloved brass and flake of wall paper that cannot hold on for another moment. To understand the truest fathoms of how this could unhinge me so, you have to stand there. You. Must. Bear. Witness.
There is a hatchet now in my hand, right.
I do not recall but one mere detail amongst a sea of graphic certainties, the detail that is possibly the most critical at this juncture. How it came to be in my hand. There was no precipitation to what occurred next, there was no trigger. Again, a warning, an apology, that what follows will be at the very least horrifying. But if you dare to read this, than as said, it is not a simple recollection of a tale. It is that I must take you there, if not beside me, than behind me to OBSERVE.
As if determined by some unseen narrator, there is the daughter. The distance between us is closed before there is even a realization that I approach, and I have already brought the instrument of my damnation around. A great sweeping arc that misses biting into the wall but never sways from the destination. Copper is smelt and supped from, in but a droplet that soars into a maw not even opened but to take a silent breath. But there is no time to consider or tarry, for soon as the soul is realizing that the temple has been decimated, the heel has been spun upon, and miles of hallway and kitchen are ignored as a mere triviality. I know that the blade is dull, but I have never let an inadequate tool slow me from a task. That work ethic is instantly transmogrified, no, MUTATED, into something that no human should become subjected to. Before the dish is dropped to shatter upon the floor, I am in the door way of the living room.
The look of horror will follow me to my grave, but it is not instant. It is a gradual, painstaking process for that smile to shatter. I have all the time in the world to simply lean backwards to gaze upon the moment I have destroyed. As all the weight is put forward into a stride, the weapon is not only the hatchet. It is the extent of the overhand swing that hundreds of miles of railroad track have honed to a perfect strike. There is no dull thud that normally they recall as being part of the kill shot, because I draw back and swing again, and again, and ever again for time after time, it is a memory of the muscle and nothing more.
There is no music, nor screams. There is no dog barking, nor a cat meowing. No skeletons or demons or fire. Just the squeak of floor boards as I stumble towards the door. I know what I have done, as a chasm and fissure suddenly slide open within my chest, swallowing my soul entirely. Now I am out, against the fence, slumping low amongst a green grass against a BLACK sky. There's the pack of smokes, and I shake one loose to light. As I bring it to my lips, and scrape my hands against the lip on my denim pocket to retrieve my zippo, I know that it is warm outside, it didn't have the decency to snow. I light it, but the flame is but a tear of light in this world that is mere black, white, and green, stark and plain. Remorse is replaced with a sense of predator turned prey, that this is just the moment before the race begins. And as I take a long, hard inhale, even as the filter puckers and I realize that I smoke more than simply a tobacco cowboy killer, I know that this instant is the last morsel of peace I will ever have in this world or whatever black, white, and green stark pasture awaits me in the next, and this moment is final, that this is my real tombstone, this is the only funeral I ever get. There is still only silence and a hint of wind, a caress of the night one last time.
Then I am on my feet, and I am running towards the wood line. I know the police are there, black and white cruisers and pick up trucks. From here, there are no friends, no family, no assistance. Only an innocence that I once feigned that died in a farm house, beside three innocent people, in a world of Black, White, and Green.
...
It can be said that dreams are not real, and they are not, in the sense that last night no three people were lost from this world thanks to me. And in that way, you can breath again. But it was the truth for me, for that time. In some capacity, I murdered three people in blood most cold, without a hint of restraint. I did not have voices guiding my actions, it simply occurred. The other details of my escape and attempts to dodge the law descend from poetry to mere story telling, and I will not bore you with escapades we could even consider a good fight, if one can overlook the MURDER. All I can say is that I did this, I reconciled it and began the process of moving on while I STILL THOUGHT IT WAS ACTUALLY HAPPENING. I REMEMBER THIS IS IN VIVID DETAIL. I cannot, however, disclose for you what I felt as this transpired, because I really don't remember feeling anything other than the simple instance of moment to moment. It happened without any form of feeling really, no logic nor emotion, action without thought.
Were this a tale I wove from nothingness, a character history, I could delve into the idea that it was an instant of zen, and it might even be admirable as a piece of fiction. I will not read this for editing purposes, it is written once and so it shall be. It is herein that I realized what a monster I really am inside, and I apologize for anyone that I have wounded by recounting something that wounded me.
You may now resume ignoring my live journal.
Here goes.
There is a farm house. A large one, not a tiny cottage, but a full, three floored white washed farm house where families are raised. The sky is black. Not dark, or twilight, or stars set amongst a moonscape. The sky. Is. BLACK. The ground is a damp, lush green of the lawn. Again, this is not the tones of a natural grass, no subtlety or shades. It is green, Jungle Green from the crayola crayon box. The windows are there, and they too, are black. The primer and white wash are chipping, and to be honest, it may not be white wash, I don't know what white wash looks like in the flesh. The color of the house is unimportant, but for some reason, the skies and lawn are significant. There are vehicles, but there is not a car, nor a truck. Only a tractor of unknown make and rust bound status. The drive way never once knew pavement, but the kindness of gravel, ancient now and as treacherous as an avalanche. And I walk to the door. It is late, very late, but I do not know what time. The clocks that should exist refuse to, digitally dead and the clocks with faces reveal nothing to note of the time. I am ragged, and worn, and mangy, and in my own way, not a lie at that moment. For one instant and fractured sliver of time, I appear to the world as I project within my mind.
There are three of them as I recall. There is a father, with a beard, suspenders, and jeans that have not known a wash in forever and a day. He is a man who eats more than his fill, yet works most of it off, slowly piling pound upon pound over the years. His face reveals nothing but a thin smile that the echos of farmland have carved into a visage used to the wind and grain. His shirt is a map of meals cooked, by hand, from scratch, by our second resident. She is the mother figure, and her skin is getting tanned. Not as the rich or coastal, her countanence is weathered as a beloved coat that survived the white cliffs of Dover so many decades ago. She is thin, not callow nor in shape, but merely thin, in the way that only someone who has dedicated their life to a man of the field will get. Years of a small slice of chicken breast, a scoop of potatoes and a spoon of peas have reduced her to lean house keeping shape. But yet in her day you can still almost catch the glimmer of beauty queen that made the farm boy harvest roses instead of hay for one evening of pressed suit and dearly loved gown. And the result of their diamond ring is there as well, the daughter. Also thin but not in the underweight style of her elder mother, the same hair before autumn gray tore the luster from her locks. The girl who was too large even for the farm, who had to have all the things her father could never work hard enough to buy her even as his heart broke. Her gaze is intense with disappointed contempt for all she surveys. These are the key players in this introduction to the evening, three people we all can know without ever having met nor seen.
To surround themselves with their set, a place we know as well as our own homes and hovels we now reside in. I step upon the floor, the kitchen a linoleum that was the pride and joy of remodeling back when the dog taunted Sam. As I tread measured carefully across the base of their humble existence, I notice that the floor boards going into the hall are lumpy, uneven and treacherous to the outsider. They are not a clean color of brown, but the worn, gray mottled wood finish that countless legions of boots have torn the polish from. Rugs, not carpet, attempt to disguise the scars that practical usage have borne. Above all else, this home is dark in all the corners and crannies of the ceiling, the hall lights too dim to stem the tide of night. And the darkness, well... it is COMPLETE.
As she stood in the hall, arms crossed, glaring at the stranger, worn down and as burnt away as the lamp that once burned outside at the barn, the mother is making coffee. The father has judged me to be a working man as well, even if not for the moment that once I stood atop the hammer and nail, that I have always seen the side of the fence he maintains, and returns to a flickering, fading television program. No mere show, for the content of the broadcast is, unlike almost every other detail known, unimportant. It is merely the ritual of settling down into a brown plaid easy chair, a glass of wild turkey sitting in a short glass without a coaster upon an end table, and in these moments, there is nothing that has to matter. This is the hours before bed but after the ceremony of a quiet dinner, when the scraping of dishes is but a whisper beneath the blare of the static laced view from the television.
The TV is a Sony, old and worn. The rug is a weave in a spiral pattern of alternating colors between red and green, that adorns every home too poor to carpet the room. The couch matches the chair, it bears upon it the slumbering forms of two throw pillows that are closer in form to the carpet. No dog sleeps there, although at some point the hairs still mingling there speak of one that is out running the fence forever.
My attempts to describe and render for you the scene of this folly are simply so you can understand how the film flickers across my mind since this harrowing tale occurred. Because how it will now transpire, I must have you reread the previous, over and over again, until you can fully realize that this place is no mere specter of the imagination. That, in that time, and that place, it is as real as the screen before you. That the shadows there, though darker than any you could perceive willingly, are not unknown to you, in the depths of the woods or the abandoned street or the room where you felt your heart break for the first time. This place is no mere fiction, nor phantasm of a fickle flight of fancy. Every inch is vivid and real, every splinter is rough and tangible, every speck of unloved brass and flake of wall paper that cannot hold on for another moment. To understand the truest fathoms of how this could unhinge me so, you have to stand there. You. Must. Bear. Witness.
There is a hatchet now in my hand, right.
I do not recall but one mere detail amongst a sea of graphic certainties, the detail that is possibly the most critical at this juncture. How it came to be in my hand. There was no precipitation to what occurred next, there was no trigger. Again, a warning, an apology, that what follows will be at the very least horrifying. But if you dare to read this, than as said, it is not a simple recollection of a tale. It is that I must take you there, if not beside me, than behind me to OBSERVE.
As if determined by some unseen narrator, there is the daughter. The distance between us is closed before there is even a realization that I approach, and I have already brought the instrument of my damnation around. A great sweeping arc that misses biting into the wall but never sways from the destination. Copper is smelt and supped from, in but a droplet that soars into a maw not even opened but to take a silent breath. But there is no time to consider or tarry, for soon as the soul is realizing that the temple has been decimated, the heel has been spun upon, and miles of hallway and kitchen are ignored as a mere triviality. I know that the blade is dull, but I have never let an inadequate tool slow me from a task. That work ethic is instantly transmogrified, no, MUTATED, into something that no human should become subjected to. Before the dish is dropped to shatter upon the floor, I am in the door way of the living room.
The look of horror will follow me to my grave, but it is not instant. It is a gradual, painstaking process for that smile to shatter. I have all the time in the world to simply lean backwards to gaze upon the moment I have destroyed. As all the weight is put forward into a stride, the weapon is not only the hatchet. It is the extent of the overhand swing that hundreds of miles of railroad track have honed to a perfect strike. There is no dull thud that normally they recall as being part of the kill shot, because I draw back and swing again, and again, and ever again for time after time, it is a memory of the muscle and nothing more.
There is no music, nor screams. There is no dog barking, nor a cat meowing. No skeletons or demons or fire. Just the squeak of floor boards as I stumble towards the door. I know what I have done, as a chasm and fissure suddenly slide open within my chest, swallowing my soul entirely. Now I am out, against the fence, slumping low amongst a green grass against a BLACK sky. There's the pack of smokes, and I shake one loose to light. As I bring it to my lips, and scrape my hands against the lip on my denim pocket to retrieve my zippo, I know that it is warm outside, it didn't have the decency to snow. I light it, but the flame is but a tear of light in this world that is mere black, white, and green, stark and plain. Remorse is replaced with a sense of predator turned prey, that this is just the moment before the race begins. And as I take a long, hard inhale, even as the filter puckers and I realize that I smoke more than simply a tobacco cowboy killer, I know that this instant is the last morsel of peace I will ever have in this world or whatever black, white, and green stark pasture awaits me in the next, and this moment is final, that this is my real tombstone, this is the only funeral I ever get. There is still only silence and a hint of wind, a caress of the night one last time.
Then I am on my feet, and I am running towards the wood line. I know the police are there, black and white cruisers and pick up trucks. From here, there are no friends, no family, no assistance. Only an innocence that I once feigned that died in a farm house, beside three innocent people, in a world of Black, White, and Green.
...
It can be said that dreams are not real, and they are not, in the sense that last night no three people were lost from this world thanks to me. And in that way, you can breath again. But it was the truth for me, for that time. In some capacity, I murdered three people in blood most cold, without a hint of restraint. I did not have voices guiding my actions, it simply occurred. The other details of my escape and attempts to dodge the law descend from poetry to mere story telling, and I will not bore you with escapades we could even consider a good fight, if one can overlook the MURDER. All I can say is that I did this, I reconciled it and began the process of moving on while I STILL THOUGHT IT WAS ACTUALLY HAPPENING. I REMEMBER THIS IS IN VIVID DETAIL. I cannot, however, disclose for you what I felt as this transpired, because I really don't remember feeling anything other than the simple instance of moment to moment. It happened without any form of feeling really, no logic nor emotion, action without thought.
Were this a tale I wove from nothingness, a character history, I could delve into the idea that it was an instant of zen, and it might even be admirable as a piece of fiction. I will not read this for editing purposes, it is written once and so it shall be. It is herein that I realized what a monster I really am inside, and I apologize for anyone that I have wounded by recounting something that wounded me.
You may now resume ignoring my live journal.