subversive emancipation ·
18 November 04

I joined the army. I don’t know what army, and I don’t know why I signed up. At the time, the excitement, the buzz and rush of adrenalin, of fighting was at the front of my mind. I wanted to kill more than my friends, because this was what we were told to do.

Collapsing to the floor like a lead weight, my body pulses and starts to vibrate. I crawl around, like a dog trying to find a scent, until my backside is flat on the ground, my knees tucked up underneath my chin like archways; I stare beyond, and all I see are people in army uniform. There’s a deafening white noise; I feel my ears bleeding. I take my hands, and cover my ears, gritting my teeth as the reverb of the shock rattles my brain inside my head. I feel the rush and the wave of the fluid spinning around, trying to find some balance; some equilibrium to comprehend what’s happening.

Flashes of imagery appear as I close my eyes, through an involuntary action. I feel safer, but fear approaches and gains its grip on me. My eyes open, and all I see before me are wave lengths spitting out of mouths. I see the biggest wave length, hitting me like a Tsunami. It reels me back, the blood continues to pour out of my ears. Piercing sound echoes within my ear drums; my eyes water; and my lower lip quivers in disbelief.

once, the smell from her would have made me ill. Now, I assume that I am the bigger culprit, and so her stench has little effect on me.

I feel the terrible grip of hands tightening around my own skinny arms; the grip alone feels like Death’s cold, frosty touch making a stake in its claim upon me. I look up to find two men in combat uniform dragging me along the ground, heading towards the source of the large wave lengths. The waves grow and expand the nearer I am brought to my agreed doom. My nose begins to drip blood; I can taste the trickles in my mouth; as the bitter metallic taste floods my gums like cocaine, causing a numbing sensation. It’s revolting at first, but I let it pour into my mouth, unsure as to why the taste of my own blood is becoming such a pleasure.

Nothing seems right in front of my eyes. I cannot understand what the man is saying, but I understand he’s angry and that he’s shouting. His form morphs, my eyes seems to fall back in to their sockets, rolling and then reattaching themselves as they were. What I see before me is an expanded, pixellated version of the man I saw. Above his head, the words “Head” appear, below him, “100 Kill Points”.

He wants me to get in line, from what I can surmise. The waving gestures, the spit spraying across my face, the signs indicate his intention. I choose not to move. I make my stand and tell them no. The noise grows immense; the world turns black and white. The bleeding stops, but my vision is gone. There’s a shuddering, a freezing dampness that blankets over the my skin. I pass out.

The clattering of metal against metal awakens me. I look at my hands first, and notice they’re covered in dirt. Brown skin with streaks of black, soil, and grime. Footprint and bruises paint the rest of my body. I don’t know what’s happened. I sit in the middle of two way traffic. It seems they’ve avoided me so far, but no one came out to take me away.

Now they see I’m awake, they honk their horns in anger. I stagger across the road on to the pavement and fall again. The white noise is no longer there, but the effects are fucking with my head. My vision is impaired; the world is hazy, distorted; as if drunk from excessive celebration. I realise now, I have nothing on my feet. These clothes do not belong to me. I look and smell like a hobo.

[zz93]

Several months pass it seems, as I live this life. Days, hours, even time has little relevance in this life. Everyday is the same, every moment a struggle. Faces glance at me, their heads turn away, attempting to avoid eye contact; lest they feel guilt and pity in equal measure. Memory fuzzy, I feel the need to walk down an alley way and do so. The surroundings seem familiar; a case of deja vu, or actual presence? I’m not sure. Ahead of me, at the end of the alley way are a group of women: The Salvation Army.

The women are dressed in black, and carry with them a clipboard. One woman has in her hand a piece of paper, as they look at it and then look at me. They stare and begin to point, as if comparing me to whatever document they have in their hand. A member walks up to me,

“You’ve been missing for many months; here’s your poster. We have some of your clothing with us, which we found on the street one day.”

I look at the poster, but it’s blank. There’s no information, no text, no images. It’s just a blank page. I look at her confused, but she just smiles. She waves at another lady, one slightly older than her, perhaps in her 50s. The first woman could perhaps be her daughter, late 30s, looking for her own salvation, and hence her bonding with this group.

The waves grow and expand the nearer I am brought to my agreed doom. My nose begins to drip blood; I can taste the trickles in my mouth; as the bitter metallic taste floods my gums like cocaine

The older lady turns to me, and asks if I would like my coat back. She presents it to me, and I nod in agreement. Her hair is bunched up, as if she’s still living in the 50s or 60s, like it’s not going out of fashion. There’s a hair net, black in colour, like the rest of the uniform which covers her beehive hair. I expect black demons to smoke themselves out at any point, cover me in mist and devour me piece by piece. It’s possible she may just sing a Beach Boys song. Any evil seems imminent.

The communication is interrupted by a smaller lady. It’s the first time I’ve seen a woman this old; her hair receding, and whatever little she has remaining is scattered. Once, the smell from her would have made me ill. Now, I assume that I am the bigger culprit, and so her stench has little effect on me. She shakes her head disagreeably, “It’s taken by someone else.” She lifts the clipboard to my face, and the initials J and N are written next to the word “coat”. I explain it probably means J and H. She takes out a picture and looks at it, then passes it to me. There is nothing there. She tells me this blank space owns my coat.

As they walk away, I shout, “It’s my property, it belongs to me.” but they continue to walk on. “I will call the police.” I hear an echoing defiance from them, the voice alone deafens me, and a whistling begins in my head. They chant together, “Police! Police! Police!” repeatedly, in a mischievous, berating manner – perhaps they’re cursing me, or casting a spell. “No one will believe you” says a voice within the group and they continue to walk along. I see the coat, as it’s being dragged across the ground, toeing the line behind like an obedient servent.

All I am left with is a blank poster and a blank picture. I close my eyes, and open them again. The world is a new canvass, where nothing exists and everything has yet to be done.