I finally got up the nerve to look. Scared the shit out of me to sneak around in her back alley but it just kept eating me too much not to know. Expecting a spotlight to suddenly appear followed by squad cars screeching up behind me, I started digging through her trash in the early evening darkness. Sure enough, I found them, each one pristine and cavalierly tossed aside: none of my letters had been opened.
Used to she at least read them.
I've lost the rights to ring her front doorbell or even be near her house where I was once unbelievably an honored guest. Those were heady days. Now I'm another despised snake in the grass. So I slithered away from her swank digs back to my cardboard abode. How humiliating to live in a place where no one can be invited. And yet, I still pretend to live a normal life at all costs, always the fateful poser. I reek of illusion.
The more truth I speak of myself, the more they make me up.
"Oh, you seem far too normal to live a cardboard box. Most people are much more fucked up than your image appears to be. Oh - haha! I see you rustling your hair to look more destitute! You're a funny guy! But you can't put a lie past me. I always know a lie when I see one: it's when I'm forced to believe anything inconvenient."
Well, isn't that convenient?
I sulk inside my home/hell. I have nightmares whenever I fall asleep. People are after me, chasing me like the Frankenstein monster: they don't know why they have to kill me, they just know they do. But do I stay on the run only to avoid my life? I don't know anymore, the trauma of sleep is taking my mind. I stagger across the globe lost and vexed and stymied.
This is not a home, but a cage.
I used to make a joke everyone speaks a different language than me only they won't tell me what it is. That's why my little worlds don't work. It's amazing the power I have! I call it Opposite Syndrome: the more I tell the truth the less I'm believed. But really, I think you people are fucking with me and really do believe me but just won't admit it. God damn you for that! But I cannot defeat you in a way that I can see.
Time has come for me to die.
I'm going to prove my point and force you bastards to break the Opposite Syndrome once and for all, assholes. And I'll do it with the one thing you fuckers value more than life itself: your money. That'll get you to stop your damn lying and put an end to your game of fucking me and denying me. Is the reason you keep crucifying everyone because you're still trying to prove you weren't wrong with Jesus? Are you afraid that if you stop now that's like admitting you're wrong?
I got news for you: you were wrong then and wrong now!
So I grabbed my trusty (unloaded) Glock Subcompact and headed down to the bank (this means you Bank of America!). On this I will not be denied! I brought my gun up directly to the teller's face and demanded she hand over all the money. She twitched her nose in irritation and replied:
"Do you have an account with us?"
"Fuck no, I don't have an account. This is a stick up! Fork over the money, honey!"
"Without a withdrawal slip, sir, I can't help you - even if you do rhyme."
"I am robbing you! This is a R-O-B-B-E-R-Y. I am a bank robber! What fucking more do I need to do?"
"If you would put your name on the sign in sheet we will gladly open an account for you!" She smiled oh so sweetly. I fought the urge to open an account to oblige.
"Look, dammit. I'm a bank robber. Like Dillinger and shit. Get it?"
"I realize you believe that. But that's not who you really are, silly boy!"
"Would all you fuckers please stop telling me who I am or how I fucking feel! I'm going out of my mind here!"
"I can recommend a therapist I-"
"Stop! Just stop! I give up. I'm going to my grave with not one fucker believing a word I say EVER. Maybe I should go to the Middle East and tell them they all hate each other. Only I could make an Arab and Jew hug just to spite my fucking ass. I've got to get off this cursed planet!"
No one takes me seriously!
With drooping head and my hand hanging heavy with the disregarded threat of my gun I exited the bank, the security guard opening the door for me of all things. I smiled wryly to allay fears of my weapon. "Don't worry. I'm not trying to rob the bank or anything."
That's when he drew his gun and taking a wide stance barked out to me, "Drop that gun or you're a dead man! He's trying to rob the bank!"
I dropped my gun in shock. The teller I previously approached ran up to me, slapping my face. "How dare you after all I did for you!"
Flabbergasted, I pointed her to the security guard. "Why the fuck do you believe it when he says it but not me?"
"Do not impugn his character, you creep." It was like she was talking to a date who'd gotten fresh. "He knows what he's talking about. You do not!"
All sorts of confusing thoughts streamed through my mind while I was pressed on the floor as the police cuffed me and read me my rights. I thought of hiring the security guard as a "translator" for me. He could tell them I'm robbing the place and to give me the money. They'd believe his sorry ass. Ah, Jesus, what a mind fuck this is! I just want to go back to my cardboard box and never speak again. I know not where hope lies.
***
Epilogue: I got out of jail time by pleading guilty. The judge tongue lashed me for falsely confessing and I felt like telling him I was not fucking his wife just so he'd think I was. But I stayed silent, unable to fight the wind that blows my spirit to the heavens. Now I sit in the dark, seething, my eyes peering out, knowing what they see but powerless to speak it. The end is coming and I must be patient.
When the Lamb broke the seventh seal on the scroll, there was silence throughout heaven.
Revelation 8:1
___________________________________
No comments:
Post a Comment