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Sharing the Hate, Spreading the Pain: On the End is the Beginning is the End

by on Sep.11, 2008, under Articles, Sharing the Hate

Looking down onto the bamboo mat, there is a member of the walking dead left broken, cut open, and mentally bleeding much like a cutter on the rebound. As it reaches the fringes of almost falling asleep, the body starts to twinge, and become stiff. This rigor mortis like state compounded with a cold shortening effect. It briefly moans out my name in a semi-lucid state answering that final question of whom it will summon on its deathbed.

Its arm with sinuous claw stretches out towards me, and touches my right shoulder before I had a chance to dodge out of the way. Its touch is warm compared to my coldness. Then with energy expended, the arm falls limp to the bamboo mat. The resounding thud, followed by the long drawn out exhale becomes the last sound from that side of the dim hue of the black-lit room.

The silence becomes deafening at this point as regret starts to take hold. Quickly silencing that bloody roar with classical music from the stereo, I reminisce on an evening unfulfilled. In retrospect, tonight chalks up to a poor decision, and nothing more. Irony is that the Noble and Sentimental Waltz from Maurice Ravel fills this room of the dead and the damned.

There will be the need for much explaining come late afternoon, since the dawn has already come. Odd, it would appear that this is now the screenplay for a situational romantic comedy. What went wrong? Habit or convenience? They will all sit around and wonder what went wrong; he seemed like such a nice boy. That is what they’ll say when he vanishes for a while. When he simply goes….

For now, the trusty trench coat will double as a blanket as I will sleep on the air mattress in the other half of the room. For my own protection, I remove the Katana from behind the pillow of the bamboo mat. What little good the Katana did me though. They offer not protection from home invasion, especially when you invite the marauders in.

I do not trust this one; I think I should hold the pair close to my chest while I sleep. A slight churning in my stomach starts to take hold as the room itself becomes dizzy.

Dizzy with a rising hatred from having compromised and succumbed to habit. Dizzy with a wrath gaining up from the bowels of my innards outwards towards the throat. The gag reflex starts to take hold as previously drinking salty tears and smelling flesh of soot and ash overcome the senses. Acid reflux fills my mouth as I force a swallow, one of the last bits of lucidity I remember from the evening. Convenience tastes a lot like bile at this point.

I managed to drink too much, and not enough all at the same time. Yes, I will probably wake up very enraged from this occurrence. Perhaps my dreams will calm me. However, tomorrow probably starts with waking up very angry. Was there any other outcome?


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