Rage
My house was robbed today. Got a call at work from my father just telling me I had to get home as fast as I could. I get there and there's police everywhere, neighbors gawking, dogs barking, lights flashing, and my head started to throb violently.
A lot of things ran through my mind as I went into the house. None of which were relevant or even remotely constructive. I went into my room and it was ransacked, my drawers thrown over, my clothes strewn about, documents and personal affects littered the room. My floor, the dresser, my bed, was covered in that black dust the police used for fingerprints. It somehow made it all seem very real to me.
There were people in my room today. Standing right where I stood. People who were not supposed to be here. An invasion. A violation. The feeling grew to a panic as I moved around the house, my throbbing in my head now a roaring lion tearing at my sanity, my ability to be coherent and level-headed; I had to fight very hard to keep from breaking down and crying like a small child. The whole house was covered in the black dust that only made me feel worse. My brother's room, my parent's room, the kitchen, the living room; everywhere. I felt sick watching my father recant his story to the police for what I was sure was the third time. I felt sick watching my mother get very quiet and distant, something totally unlike her usual outgoing behavior. I felt sick at how normal everything else seemed. Dishes still had to be washed, my dog was clawing at the door wishing to be walked, my 3rd grade spelling bee trophy glinted fake gold in the setting afternoon sun, my college diploma hung crooked.
I was horrified by the normality of what was an abnormal event. I was disgusted with how well I convinced everyone I was taking it. I was terrified by how strong I was for my parents, my brother, my family, my dog.
I'm sitting in my room as I write this. I put on my headphones wondering if these people did. In my mind's eye I cannot attribute a face, so instead it's a feeling with color. They are a black shadow with magenta at the edges. As they move in my mind they leave an onyx trail, like evil snails spawned in inky blackness. My room still holds the faintest scent of an unfamiliar presence; a cologne that is not mine, an odor that seems to linger on my clothes, in my nostrils.
Of the items stolen there is my brother's new HD TV, his XBOX 360, Season One of the Chappelle Show DVD, my father's cufflinks, bank cards, checks, thirteen watches, my mother's modest but much loved collection of jewelry, my parent's suitcases and luggage bags, the case of my mother's pillow no doubt used to house her own possessions. From my room only one thing was stolen.
They stole my copy of the video game Thief. The universe is whimsical with irony today, I think.
All in all it was the sense of violation you always hear about in such matters that really got us. My mother is more than a little paranoid, my father is opting to get a big expensive security system installed, he wants to replace our door with a metal one, our windows with high-impact ones, my brother bought a gun. They somehow left my brother's PS3. Our PCs are still here. My laptop was left behind, my father's was taken. They stole my Nintendo DS's power cable. They left my poster of Bruce Lee...
I'm not even sure who to be angry at. I wish I could be angry with myself but I was not to blame. The next couple of days will be a test, I think. From God, I'm sure. My father wanted us all to hold hands and pray in the violated room of my mother, but I couldn't bring myself to close my eyes. Every time I did the shadowy demons took center stage, their smiles are alabaster, their eyes fiery coals.
I didn't see any god when I closed my eyes. All I saw was rage.
I let go of their hands and walked my dog.
It's double or nothing in this vacuum of space.
A lot of things ran through my mind as I went into the house. None of which were relevant or even remotely constructive. I went into my room and it was ransacked, my drawers thrown over, my clothes strewn about, documents and personal affects littered the room. My floor, the dresser, my bed, was covered in that black dust the police used for fingerprints. It somehow made it all seem very real to me.
There were people in my room today. Standing right where I stood. People who were not supposed to be here. An invasion. A violation. The feeling grew to a panic as I moved around the house, my throbbing in my head now a roaring lion tearing at my sanity, my ability to be coherent and level-headed; I had to fight very hard to keep from breaking down and crying like a small child. The whole house was covered in the black dust that only made me feel worse. My brother's room, my parent's room, the kitchen, the living room; everywhere. I felt sick watching my father recant his story to the police for what I was sure was the third time. I felt sick watching my mother get very quiet and distant, something totally unlike her usual outgoing behavior. I felt sick at how normal everything else seemed. Dishes still had to be washed, my dog was clawing at the door wishing to be walked, my 3rd grade spelling bee trophy glinted fake gold in the setting afternoon sun, my college diploma hung crooked.
I was horrified by the normality of what was an abnormal event. I was disgusted with how well I convinced everyone I was taking it. I was terrified by how strong I was for my parents, my brother, my family, my dog.
I'm sitting in my room as I write this. I put on my headphones wondering if these people did. In my mind's eye I cannot attribute a face, so instead it's a feeling with color. They are a black shadow with magenta at the edges. As they move in my mind they leave an onyx trail, like evil snails spawned in inky blackness. My room still holds the faintest scent of an unfamiliar presence; a cologne that is not mine, an odor that seems to linger on my clothes, in my nostrils.
Of the items stolen there is my brother's new HD TV, his XBOX 360, Season One of the Chappelle Show DVD, my father's cufflinks, bank cards, checks, thirteen watches, my mother's modest but much loved collection of jewelry, my parent's suitcases and luggage bags, the case of my mother's pillow no doubt used to house her own possessions. From my room only one thing was stolen.
They stole my copy of the video game Thief. The universe is whimsical with irony today, I think.
All in all it was the sense of violation you always hear about in such matters that really got us. My mother is more than a little paranoid, my father is opting to get a big expensive security system installed, he wants to replace our door with a metal one, our windows with high-impact ones, my brother bought a gun. They somehow left my brother's PS3. Our PCs are still here. My laptop was left behind, my father's was taken. They stole my Nintendo DS's power cable. They left my poster of Bruce Lee...
I'm not even sure who to be angry at. I wish I could be angry with myself but I was not to blame. The next couple of days will be a test, I think. From God, I'm sure. My father wanted us all to hold hands and pray in the violated room of my mother, but I couldn't bring myself to close my eyes. Every time I did the shadowy demons took center stage, their smiles are alabaster, their eyes fiery coals.
I didn't see any god when I closed my eyes. All I saw was rage.
I let go of their hands and walked my dog.
It's double or nothing in this vacuum of space.