dead a million times ·
12 September 04

The bad days are almost always like this. I can barely move my fingers, as my hands tremble typing. My vision is rough, my thoughts full of hatred and death, because this is all I know, because this is what I am.

The day was meek, clouds overcast the sky like a blanket of darkness, light was moderate, and there was little in the way of wind. I thought it would rain today, so I decided not wear anything over my body other than the top. Surprisingly it kept out the cold, as I looked the sky willing it to rain, not play with my mind, for it to do one or the other, I was sick of its games.

I wanted the rain to appear; I wanted to say that as I smoked it rained. the rain washed away my sins, my depression, my selfishness, my greed, hatred, sadness, all of past, that it would wash me away, and make me someone new, someone different, someone that cared. It didn’t rain, but my mind carried the thought on, that as I smoked, I was changing, becoming someone new. The rain protected me, by never letting the pain get close enough to hurt again, but it never came, and I continued to walk.

People walked, vehicles moved, and all of this frightened me. Nerves hit me before I left, and I don’t know why. Fear of socialising, of civilisation, of acknowledging there was a world outside, and that I had a duty to see it. But as the parents ran around their cars, doing the school runs, as the mothers of teenage age pushed their children in their prams, I wanted to kill them all. My mind was beset with death, and I knew today would be the day I die again, another day where a million deaths occur, and I don’t know if I would survive it.

I imagined myself, calculating, planning and executing my death. I would purchase liquid fuel, and I would carry a knife. Finding a spot I would drench myself in the liquid, and spark the lighter. My body would burn, and the clothes I was wearing would melt over my skin; searing pain would enrich my body and cause my nerves and arteries to explode within. I would not scream; instead I would grit my teeth, holding the pain, grinding my teeth; until the pain became so excruciating that they would break under the heat and strain. My blood filled mouth, my burning flesh, would be the sign to take out the knife. I could barely do this, and with all my strength, I would slit my throat, letting the flames locate another path to my mind, to incinerate my existence.

I sparked another smoke, as I wondered who I could call. I rebelled against the idea, as much as I wanted to drink myself to death, I could only do this with a friend, and I couldn’t do that to a friend. It was against everything I have tried to do in my life. I have ruined enough lives, hurt enough people, and no matter how hardened my friends become to my inevitable demise, I wouldn’t let them see this. My death would be alone.

At this point my brain had suffered enough, as I held the urge to scream in pain, to shout, to cry. I held it in, and continued to walk. I could see the prejudices, the fears, the hatred, the envy the sins across everyone’s face. There were no saints here; they were all human; young, old, black, white, brown, pink, green, animal. They all had things they hated, but they never showed it, even if I could see beyond the facade of living.

The fuel was burning my legs, stinging pain, like having your flesh physically torn off, as your body trembles and shakes, and your brain tries to cope with the pain. Then they set my legs on fire, and I scream, but they watch.

I smoked another, and looked in the window reflection, myself, standing, looking pretty good. The weeks of working out was working. I looked better, I felt better, and I felt as if I could keep walking, like I could run for miles and miles and not feel tired. I felt great, and I looked it too. The clothes fitted better, I had a shape, and it existed. I was real, but my mind was more so.

Directed to the upstairs office, I handed in the letter, and I was told they would have to reschedule. So much for being on time. I waited, and noticed a girl putting up posters for work. She seemed slutty, and reminded me of someone I knew. As the old bitch rescheduled my appointment, I stared at the girls arse as she bent over talking to someone. That skirt barely fit her, as the seam with the zipper showed itself to have a life of its own; sticking out like an invitation to be pulled, like a scream for help, “Get me off this fat arse!”. I wondered why she did it; why she wore a skirt so tight, that it probably collapsed her diaphragm, all in order to look good. For that lucky break. Mutton dressed as lamb was apt.

As the old hag took her time over my appointment, she watched over the conversation her colleague was having with another appointment. She kept clicking the screen like a broke android, unable to function without someone pressing a button to kick start her fucking gears again. She kept clicking, perhaps hoping that someone would come to her and talk to her. Have a conversation with her, bend over her table and take notice. She looked like shit, unlike the slut, and the colleague she was talking to was trying to raise his eyes above her breasts. “Talk to her, not her breasts he probably thought to himself”. I wanted to pick up the vacant chair and throw it across the room; I wanted to destroy this room, with all the people in it. Perhaps they would collapse like bits Lego, snapping and falling in to square and rectangular pieces.

I grabbed my appointment, and said “Thank you”, taking no notice of either the hag or the slut still bending over. Jesus woman, have some dignity. I had no hatred towards the hag; it wasn’t her fault the bitch I was supposed to see wasn’t there. When I walked in I greeted my advisor, but didn’t say goodbye. I would see her tomorrow anyway, and plant the same old bullshit I do every time.
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One more smoke, my last. I brought money along in case I felt the urge to buy. Or so I thought. I fumbled around my pockets trying to ascertain which of the four million pockets I had contained the note. To some extent I would have been relieved as I wouldn’t be able to buy smokes, but I continued to search and I found it. 10 red Marlboro were in my hand.

As I undid the wrapper, I noticed an oriental girl standing at the bus stop. How do you notice the difference my friend once said to me, between all the origins? I told her it was something you just knew. A few sat in front of us on the tube, she secretly whispered what they were. I told her they were Chinese. She asked how I knew; I told her I just did. She knew I was lying, just as I did. I didn’t fucking know. I liked her. I sort of miss her I guess.

The girl stood, lost, innocent, alone, distant from the world. traffic passed across the road as I lost sight of her, walking down the street, as I turned back to look at her, she saw my glance, and for a few seconds, I felt as though we were talking, like we could talk, if we were able to. I turned away as she continued to look, and I looked at the reflection of myself smiling on the window of the betting shop. I smiled and continued walking. I could have gone over and talked to her, but she seemed the introvert. Perhaps held by culture, discipline or shyness which would halt her from exchanging a few words. She was cute, and I replayed the way she moved her arm, to place her hand on her hair, tucking behind her ear. The delicate fragility of her face, against the backdrop of chaos, of grey clouds and isolation. I thought this was what I was missing in life, perhaps if I found that one person. I fall into this romantic bullshit sometimes, as it takes hold of me and says, hey, it’s not so bad, this is how it feels to care.

The clouds separated a little to reveal the sky. It would not rain yet, I was too early, and my sins could not be washed away so easily. It perhaps showed me the heaven that didn’t exist, the one I wouldn’t enter. Where I was going, I would be hanging out with the likes of Hendrix, Cobain and Buckley. Not bad company if I do say so myself. Then of course, there’s the devil, who’s always game for a laugh.

She kept clicking the screen like a broke android, unable to function without someone pressing a button to kick start her fucking gears again. She kept clicking, perhaps hoping that someone would come to her and talk to her. Have a conversation with her, bend over her table and take notice.

walking home, I realised that every day I died a million times, that it was like watching the television with the corner of my eye; I could see the violence, the death, the pain, but I could not acknowledge it if I didn’t’ see it with both eyes. I tried hard, and tried to ignore it. I imagined someone knocking me out, and I would wake up, with my arms tied to the ceiling, hung like a slab of meet. The back of legs cut open and stuffed with black tubes, which trailed their way towards canisters of gasoline.

Two men sat in front of me at a desk, as the one on the left nodded to someone in the dark, the figure stepped out and began pushing the lever on the canister, which began to fill my legs with the fuel. The one on the right did the same, and another figure does the same. The fuel was burning my legs, stinging pain, like having your flesh physically torn off, as your body trembles and shakes, and your brain tries to cope with the pain. Then they set my legs on fire, and I scream, but they watch. No fear, no shame, no happiness or joy. There was no sadness, in their eyes, all I saw was observation, as they made notes and nodded. My legs explode, and the watch as gallons of blood splash upon the floor.

The monster inside was growing. It’s one I cannot stop. As I made my way home, I was ready to give in, to give up, and to say, this is what you’ve been wanting, so take it. I am done, you got what you wanted, and you win. Kill who you want, cause the suffering that you desire. And yet, somehow, I live, and fight it, and ignore it. And it pisses him off, because his turn has not yet arrived. He’s growing, and I cannot stop him, as I hold on. What was once a borderline has now become a metaphorical thread that I merely cling on to? I’m losing my grip, and the tension is starting to split the tread. My hands are sweating, and I can just hold it. I know, sooner or later, the time will come when this has to end, one way or another.

One more before I go home. I already felt sick, ill, and I wanted to cry. My lip trembled; I feared I was ready to let it all out. But I held on, I held it in. I lay in the middle of the road, and decided that I would smoke the cigarette, before I moved. No one came, no cars, no people, today was the day I would die a million times, and live again. Just my luck. He’s waiting, he waits patiently. And so I think, feed him, grow him, let him loose and become someone else, forget your past, forget who you are, because you’re almost ready to give in anyway. Let him have a chance, to make something of you, anything at all, and he smiles, and nods approvingly.

I got up off the road, so today was not the day. I made my way home, knowing that today was a bad day, acknowledging that this is who I really am. This is the real me. And yet, when I saw her, I was someone else. Or was that just someone else I had created. Someone else who wanted to live. I knew then, deep inside, that another part of whom I thought I was died. Memories faded, conversations dissolved, as I made my final steps home.