the deja vu life ·
11 August 04

He forgets things, because when he remembers it hurts. He isn’t sure about whether something has happened or not, whether it was a dream turned in to reality, or a reality turned in to a dream.

His understanding of deja vu is limited to knowing this:

“The feeling that you are involved in an event that is repeating, which has not yet occurred”

It’s vague and weak, but it is enough to deter him from wanting it to happen often. It stabs his mind like a knife in a slab of meat. Piercing the several layers of flesh, and forcing itself through until it hits something that resembles bone.

Something had started, many years ago. He can’t quite recall when, but he thinks it may have happened when he was still in lower school, and then continued from middle school to high school. It was most obvious and prevelant during high school. During his early years, it wasn’t so painful, and the flashbacks were not so visual or nerve wrecking. But, as he grew older, things changed. It was perhaps the development of his brain, as the development of any brain, that the capacity and ability to comprehend and look beyond basic logic and awareness came to the fore.

“I am bleeding sand and talking to some freaky centipede-like creature with human attributes, in a dark environment and a single beam from a spotlight – tell me again how I should relax?”

“Listen, there’s something I need to tell you.” he said to his friend, getting closer to school as they walked along the pavement. The lollipop lady was, as ever, helping kids to cross the road. We were “too cool” to use her services and her man size lollipop to permit ourselves to cross the road. We didn’t want to be associated with the safe pussies that used her; some approaching 13 years old in age, and still crossing that busy residential road with the help of an old lady and her lolly.

We always walked past the Gothic church. At night, he remembered the fear it struck in him when he was a little younger. The darkness that the church presented to those that walked past it, was quite frightening. He wondered if it was because it had only been two years since he had lost faith in God in all forms and religions. Perhaps, the fear of losing faith made him fear the symbolism of God, and he expected repercussions for his choice to defy and reject God.

Whatever it was that made him feel fear, during the day time he could not help admire its beauty. The cracking wall, the moss that had enveloped one side of the wall of the church, covering around two-thirds. The beautiful antiquated trees that surrounded the church captured the eye. The trees were probably young in tree age, but as they sat with an open wall near a busy road, it would be acceptable to assume that through the constant abuse of pollution, their age was accelerated aesthetically.
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Opposite the church was the red building. The modern ugliness in a country-like town, surrounded by the stone walls of the past ages. The walls were a prevelant feature in the area, and he remembers seeing the pictures of when it was all just farm land. The red building was a crappy motel for passers by on their way out, or those who were passing through. It was not allowed for anyone other than visitors to pass through the two gaps that indicated rudimentary entrances and exits for the cars that would travel by. Occasionally some short haired freak would run out and shout,

“Go round! You can’t trespass here! Customers only!”
“Fuck you, wanker! It’s a free country, so FUCK YOU!“ would be the typical response.

The typical response, unless of course you wanted to look mature in front of the girls that passed by. And there were so many girls that captured his eye at that age, and he was often keen to involve himself with them. By the end of the day, word would spread around the entire school of his new conquest – of someone else he was going out with. They would applaud the 12 year old as he walked by, cheering him on to get laid as he went to class. It boosted his ego, and sometimes he succumbed to the cheering and whooping, and would follow their lead on what to do next, or who to go out with next.

He often went out with girls for one day, getting bored immediately and wanting to try someone else. On the rare occassion, he would be chosen, or would choose the girls that were 14 or 15 years old. In the higher classes, the girls his size or slightly taller would pay attention as he amused them with his antics. The taller girls, the real hot ladies that had boyfriends would join in the humour, but would stop paying attention once he stopped playing the fool.

Perhaps, the fear of losing faith made him fear the symbolism of God, and he expected repercussions for his choice to defy and reject God.

He was the fool. It was the only way he felt he could deal with the racism he experienced. To make people laugh, in a world where everyone hated him: the mother who tortured him with fear instead of love all his life, without the father he met with an appointment; the extended family of aunt’s and uncle’s that welcomed him as a family member, and treated him like an outsider; the teachers who didn’t appreciate his depressing poetry, and his stories of anger and death; the friends that eventually betrayed his trust, one by one, until he was all alone again, knowing full well he was always alone, and they were just hangers on until they found something else to play with; the girls that hated him for the way he treated them, consistently pointing out their flaws, and creating new ones if they had none; the other guys in his classes that caused trouble with him, but eventually pointed their finger to him, adding to his already notorious reputation of being “that kid with problems”; and of course the blatant racism and bullying he experienced for being of a different shade, for having a different background.

Back then racism was acceptable in so far as, if anything was said, it was often brushed under the carpet and ignored as if nothing was said. The domination of one shade (or perhaps no shade?) vs the shaded in ratio aspects was huge. They often made the emphasis to make that point with snide comments of derogatory.

It was tough growing up, but it made him the emotionless wreck he is now. Sure, he may not be able to feel or care anymore, but he was determined and focused. Show no emotion, don’t show you care, and don’t share your feelings. Be alone, be isolated, because in the end everyone will fucking betray you with the biggest knife they can lay their hands on, probably one which would require a handle with two hands, and a bulk created from excessive body building.

He has never forgotten what he has gone through, he had stored it away, and he had been almost perfect in feeling nothing for anyone. And then a day came, when the floodgates were opened and he became normal, and felt emotion, and he hated that day, and he wanted to die even more than he did before. He called himself “dead”, a symbolic gesture for not having felt something for so long, only to come back from the dead to feel emotion that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel, unable to understand or cope with it. He was essentially rising from the dead to something new.
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“Go on” his friend says, as they just pass the church.

“Have you ever had the feeling that you’ve done something already, but one day you do it and you realise you hadn’t done it, but you had dreamt it.”

“You mean like deja vu?”

“Yeah sort of – but that’s a feeling I think – I mean it actually happening.”

“Hmmmm” his friend was wondering what he was talking about, and what he meant. Was he thinking “What a fucking crackpot!”?

”...like you see those girls crossing the road? I don’t know why, but I feel like I have already seen them walk at that exact point, in that same manner, in those clothes.”

“Well the brain has a way of storing and retrieving information. So you have already seen them, probably, but it was something that you didn’t recall until whenever you felt that deja vu. The clothing is easily explained as it’s school uniform, so that would stick in your mind. Chances are the girls take that same route everyday, and the way they walk is possibly another stored memory. They’re from our school, so you just didn’t notice until now, for whatever reason.”

It boosted his ego, and sometimes he succumbed to the cheering and whooping, and would follow their lead on what to do next, or who to go out with next.

Everything his friend said made sense, if only because that was the exact same argument he had used with himself trying to cope with the billions of voices in his head, and trying to find some cohesive route to calm and understanding. He was on fire, however, and the path to calm and understanding was set ablaze with a ferocity that would kill him should he even attempt an approach.

“I accept all that – but for example, I saw the news today, and it said something about ‘breaking news’ and it hadn’t been shown before. Everyone is behaving exactly how I dreamt they would, they do what I dream they would.”

“So what am I going to say now?”

“I don’t know – it doesn’t work like that. I can’t force it to tell me the future, it just happens and I acknowledge it, whether or not it conforms to what I thought would happen. It’s not something I feel everyday, it’s happened two or three times this year. This conversation we’re having, the way it is going, there are so many variables and factors that should affect the way it is going, that telling you what I think would happen should change the path in which this moment is being approached and being created. And yet, it is all happening as I dreamt it would. Like I’ve been through this before, and it hurts me.”
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“What do you mean it hurts you?”

“I mean I feel physical pain – my fucking brain feels like it’s exploding, as if none of this should be happening, or I should never have thought it, and that it is all happening as I thought it would – it’s really killing me, I don’t know how to explain it. I feel like I’m fucking crazy”

“You should consider being exorcised” he suggested over the noisy traffic as they approached the lower school.

“I don’t need fucking exercise, do I look like I need to be taking step aerobics? Can’t you take this seriously?”

“EXORCISE not EXERCISE – like having a demon removed”

“Fucking hell man – I am not possessed!”

“You could be – it could be an evil spirit trying to make you crazy, or maybe God is punishing you for not believing. You should start believing in God again, and start praying.”

“FUCK YOU!”

He was on fire, however, and the path to calm and understanding was set ablaze with a ferocity that would kill him should he even attempt an approach.

He was too pissed off to care now. He didn’t want to talk to him anymore, and he knew he would kill him if he mentioned God or demons again. All that had been left behind; the superstition; the faith of an entity that was conveniently non-existent, and yet all powerful – “Yeah, that’s a fucking job I would like too!” he thought as he walked faster. Another friend had crossed over.

“I need to talk to him about something, so I’ll see you in class” he said with a blandness that would become the remit and basis for his non-emotional grounding. The friend was unhappy at the prospect of being dumped just as they approached the middle school. Not to complete their daily routine for once, to be dumped at the last moment for someone else for the last few minutes of the walk down to their high school. It was a metaphorical kick in the teeth for the friend, and for him to instigate his anger for what he felt was a watering down of something he was considering seriously and wanted to discuss. It was a “fuck you” of the greatest delight, and he sped on to chat to his other friend about how shit school would be that day.

As the years went by, he felt a strange, excruciating feeling. It writhed and twisted in his spine, in his mind, and contorted his body into spastic shapes. His teeth turned to a hard jelly mush, as he grinded his teeth he could feel softness, but as he grinded further them he felt the same feeling as someone would if they heard nails screeching across a blackboard. His forehead moved inwards, tensing, forcing his eyeballs outwards, while his eyelids shut trapped them back into the from whence they came – squeezing them between the flesh at the back and the soft skin at the front.
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The nails on his fingers were digging inwards into his palm, the fingers twisting further, dragging inside the skin from the bottom of the palm near the wrists into the collection of hatred that was boiling inside of him within his palm. The feet became claw-like, and repeated the same inward twisting his fingers were demonstrating. He rubbed the front teeth, so sharp and edged like the finest blades man had created from teeth, into his wrists. The feeling was toxic, and maniacal, and he started to bite his wrists; enveloping the entirety of his mouth, his teeth and comes engulfing the wrist, biting and chewing.

He was a wreck. Sweating profusely from fear, frustration, pain and anger. All his darkest emotions were rising, making themselves heard, and turning him into a shell of antisocial behaviour. He did not talk to anyone, he did not listen or communicate. He kept himself to himself, living and breathing only for himself. It was darkness around him as he blocked out emotion. He felt this was the reason for his deja vu – the constant, disgusting feeling of being aware of something that hasn’t happened, then for it to happen and hurt you for remembering. It was like being raped repeatedly, even though he hadn’t experienced it himself, he was aware of what happened.

In his early years, he talked to the vulnerable, he was nice to them, and found out their dark secrets of incestuous rape, abusive parents, prostitution condoned by family members and the ritual abuse of character assassination on the weak. The dark underbelly of school was never shown to the world. Knowing this, the happy facade they performed for the benefit of others, by order of the family, meant the reality he saw was a dream. Knowing how they felt, he took it as his own, as every time he felt the deja vu, he wanted to die, or be killed. He could not cry, because the emotion had been drained in coping with the situation. It happened so often now, and he was considered a danger unto himself.

It was a metaphorical kick in the teeth for the friend, and for him to instigate his anger for what he felt was a watering down of something he was considering seriously and wanted to discuss.

The years continued to drift, as the world around him collapsed in chaotic war and greed. The life he was leading was degrading into a pathetic existence of survival and the reality was, he was just surviving. The drugs were not working, or they worked, but in a way that affected his behaviour further. From isolated anti-socialite to aggressive social animal of the irritating kind. What they were treating him for was chronic depression, and yet they failed to recognise his deja vu as the cause of his problems.

He had so many visions, and flashes in his dreams of what would be, and it began to pour out into his real life. The day time flashes, moments of deja vu and perception were greater than that of the night. At night, he was sleeping, and could turn his flash into a dream that would sooth the difficulty in coping with it. In the day time, however, all areas of his brain were active. Awareness, perception and consumption of feelings, emotions and reactions were all awakened. The flood of emotions and pain he felt during the day time grew even further as he grew older.

Sometimes, when people were not in the vicinity, he would repeatedly slam his skull against a wall until he was bleeding, or gave up due to the excruciating pain. There was no fear of death, just the fear of pain. The pain that lasted with him and made him fear any additional form of pain, both emotional and physical. By being contained in his room, he shielded himself from the outside world and all the damage it could to do him would not be possible. He could not be harmed. But when he did go out, his paranoia about his deja vu controlled him, and developed into another him. This had split off from his original self, in order to cope with the pressure, or to at least divide it. Two personalities that handle the pressure would surely be better than one.
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One day he was found, unconscious by a passer by. An ambulance was called to his aid. He awoke in hospital, confused, bewildered, but happy. He was no longer stressed – it was as though the life he led, in the past, those moments of the possible future had been all a dream. As he stared at the bright lights above him, he smiled, and closed his eyes. He could feel a warmth from the light on his eyelids, and the feeling of sinking appeared – like floating deeper into a warm sea, just letting yourself sink, being surrounded by the clear purity of it all.

There was something he found fascinating about having his eyes closed, and that was seeing through his eyelids. He could be sure, but he would have sworn he could see the light coming in through his eye lids, often wondering whether someone without eyelids would be able to cope with seeing the light forever. Then he remembered something he had seen or read about the eyelids assisting in keeping the eyes lubricated so they could move freely within the sockets. With the lids, the eyes would dry up and eventually become redundant.

It was initially thought that he was attacked. But after the Police had searched the area and found no evidence supporting the possibility of an attack, they came to two other possibilities – a medical illness, or something self inflicted. The doctors had run thorough scans on his body and a scan of his brain. The body scan revealed nothing out of the ordinary, lest the trace amounts of a powdered substance in his nose, and slightly swollen and damaged lungs from smoke inhalation. The skull demonstrated some indentation, and bruising.

He could not cry, because the emotion had been drained in coping with the situation. It happened so often now, and he was considered a danger unto himself.

The scan, however, has provided some more worrying results. There was a slight concussion to the brain, which accounted for the black out. They suspected a heavy blow, and as no one had seen or heard anything, they came to the conclusion that it was self inflicted. It had been a long time since the Doctor had seen anyone that could inflict this much damage purposefully and go through with it. The brain had been shaking violently and this had resulted in his presence in the hospital. As he smiled, the Doctor came over to see him. He saw the name Betts on his tag. “What a pansy ass name” he thought to himself, smiling gleefully at the Doctor.

“Well son, what have you been up to?”

“Oh nothing daddy. Tell me, are you still screwing goats without mummy knowing?”

“Ermmm…..”

By this time, his remarried mother and his step father, along with a couple of members of the police had surrounded his bed. He laughed to himself, and wondered why so much attention had been devoted to him. “If hurting myself would get me help, I would have done this donkey’s years ago” he suggested to the judge and jury around his bed. The court was in session, and he was in the witness box.
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“Now, what happened?” said the taller cop. He had a soft face, more suited for a job that didn’t involve violence, paper work and such. More like a volunteer worker he thought to himself.

“Erm, I don’t remember…” he replied, as he lay with the permanent grin on his face.

“We thought you were attacked! Why don’t you help the police?” his mother begged.

“Excuse me, if you could either remain quiet, or leave as I need to talk to my patient, thank you.” said the doctor, shielding me from the verbal diarrhoea heading his way.

“Daddy, I feel claustrophobic, would you please tell the strangers to leave?” he said to Betts, tugging on the white coat. He looked at him shiftily, as if he was aware there was some game playing going on.

It had been a long time since the Doctor had seen anyone that could inflict this much damage purposefully and go through with it.

The others were shifted out of the room, and he was smiling again. Betts sat down next to him, and looked at him directly, forcefully. He was aware that Betts was about to get serious, but he still kept the smile – he felt it would compensate for any sarcastic endeavor he may decide to take up with Betts.

“Right, so, what happened? I have my own suspicions, and I have read your medical documents from the Doctor, so I would ask that you refrain from any modicum of bullshit that you may feel the need to entertain me with.”

“Jesus Doc! You got me! I’m a loony from the planet Dabarop and my mother is really an interspecies dog that eats little children for breakfast.”

“You have a smart fucking mouth for a fifteen year old. Now let’s drop the attitude eh? I’ll tell you what I think, and then you tell me if I’m right, and correct me where I am wrong.”

“Well that sounds like a ball licking supremo plan commander underpants!”
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“Based on your records, based on what has happened today and the police report, you have been brought here because of a blow to the head.”

“Holmes, you are really spoiling us with this deduction!” as he nods in agreement.

“Ahem. Based on what we know, I can only assume that you are chronically depressed and are causing yourself serious self harm.”

“You surmise this observation based on what you read, or what you know?”

“What I know is that what I observe as what is written. You did cause the damage to your head yourself, didn’t you?” concluded Betts, while leaning in forward.

“Christ! You’re just a doctor? By what logic? Dear God! Give this man an award. In fact,” he says in a hyperactive frenzy, “give this man a FUCKING CIGAR!“ he applauds his speech, as Betts sits in the chair bemused, and yet satisfied of his conclusion.

He was aware that Betts was about to get serious, but he still kept the smile – he felt it would compensate for any sarcastic endeavor he may decide to take up with Betts.

“Then we’re in agreement.”

“We’re in partial agreement, Betts – sorry can I call you Betts? What’s your first name since you know mine?”

“Chris. Chris Betts, seeing as we’re coming clean.”

“Well Christopher!” he says in a matter of fact manner, but is then interrupted by Chris himself.

“No. It’s Chris, not Christopher. I prefer Chris, so if you will kindly cut to the chase.”

Talking on a first name basis melted the ice a little, as Chris had suddenly become more approachable, and he himself had reached a small inkling of likeness for the straight talking Doctor.

“Begging your pardon guv’nr, Chris it is!” he says to Betts with a wink and a grin. Betts laughs.

“Fine, look I don’t want to bore you with my stuff, I have a lot on my plate as it is so I would appreciate it if you’re straight with me and tell me what’s going on. I can treat you and then you can go home. If you don’t help me, we’ll have to do a psych assessment, and I know you have problems, but this will make your life even more difficult than it perhaps is.”

“Deja Vu senor!” he says to Betts, and this he was leaning in to await Bett’s answer.

“Deja vu? Meaning?”
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He sat back in his bed, disappointed at Bett’s question. He guessed he wasn’t a psychiatrist. He guessed he probably didn’t have the background in theoretical science or probable belief in things that cannot be explained. But, he was till quite disappointed at Bett’s inability to think outside of the box. “Deja Vu” would be too cryptic for anyone, but being nice to Bett’s seemed to dumb down his intelligence.

“I’m crazy, because I have deja vu.” he explained.

“You mean, you’re a clairvoyant?” Betts asked vaguely.

“How the hell do I know, do I look like a Doctor?” he replied adamantly.

True enough, he wasn’t a doctor. He was becoming frustrated, at which point he grabbed the side of his face and gritted his teeth. It was happening again. This had already happened, he had already been here. This conversation took place, the faces were all familiar, the room was exactly as he remembered it was. He wanted to dig his fingers into his eye sockets and lift them out, hearing the squelching noises he expected, the ripping out of the eyes from their sockets. The popping he wanted.

Talking on a first name basis melted the ice a little, as Chris had suddenly become more approachable, and he himself had reached a small inkling of likeness for the straight talking Doctor.

By now, his fingers were in his mouth. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to remember any of what was happening. “Why now?” he thought. Betts watched in shock, as he attempted to dig his nails into the lower part of his mouth, under his tongue, digging and dragging his jaw out with all the force he could. He growled like a wounded animal, about to attack his enemy. “Graaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” he shouted, as the door to the room was rushed open. They all watched as he stood their, fingers in mouth, thumbs over his eyes, now crouching into a ball trying to break himself apart by compressing into ball. He imagined, if he could stretch his body inwards far enough, he could crush himself within himself.

“Doctor!” the nurse with a heaving chest, dark brown hair and soft, tanned skin shouted at Betts.

“Why the hell didn’t I get nurses like this when I was younger? It would probably have made me a lot happier.” came the tangent thought as he was trying to tear his mouth out. He was now shrieking like a petrified chimpanzee, jumping up and down in a crouched position on his bed. He had most of his hand inside his mouth, which was causing his jaw to stretch, as he tried to bite it off.

There was a quiet humming sound, he didn’t know where it was coming from, but it was present. The darkness meant he could see little around him, fearing he’d hit something or fall somewhere, he sat on the ground where he was standing. The humming continued, and became a pitch higher and began to repeat in a broken fashion – hummmm, hummmm, hummmm – which began to disturb him. He tried to focus his mind on happy thoughts. He imagined green fields, happy people, blue sky’s blinded by beautiful sunshine. But as he thought anything, it began to melt. He closed his eyes, and opened them again, hoping that everything would just be back to normal. But all he could see was darkness. Something crawled over his foot, but he didn’t move. He didn’t know what it was, but he could only describe it as soft and having bristles under its body, allowing it to move over his foot.
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The room grew moderately brighter, and he saw the shadow of small, long creature trailing along his foot. He still didn’t move, and let the creature crawl. It looked up at him, it’s eyes were human, with large white balls and a two circular plates placed on top of each other. It had a mouth that was also human, with large lips, and human teeth inside, and a snake like red tongue licking its teeth. It grinned at him, and winked it’s left eye.

He sat, unimpressed, and looked further onwards, into the distant darkness, he hadn’t noticed that he was now surrounded by a low light, much like a spot light. Finally he could see his hands, and he placed them in front of his own eyes. Noticing his fingers, as though seeing them for the first time, he poked his right middle finger with his left index finger. The middle finger snapped and broke off. At first this frightened him momentarily. He saw the finger on the ground, and the creature began to make its journey towards it. It wrapped its big red lips over the broken off finger, and then began to sputter and cough. Suddenly, it seemed to grow enormously in front of him. As if morphing into it’s real form.

“It’s odd you know.” said the morphed creature.

“What is?” He replied.

“Your finger – it tastes like sand. And you seem to be ‘bleeding’ sand too” he responded with its eyes firmly fixated to his broken middle finger, and the sand pouring from it.

He was now shrieking like a petrified chimpanzee, jumping up and down in a crouched position on his bed. He had most of his hand inside his mouth, which was causing his jaw to stretch, as he tried to bite it off.

He too looked at his missing finger, and the place where it came from. As the sand poured, he raised the stump of his middle finger to his mouth and gave it a taste. It did taste of sand, and it was foul, spitting it out almost immediately taking a taster.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Not really.”

“You’re lost.”

“I guess so.”

“Where are you trying to get to?”

“Sanity of sorts.”

“Ah Sanity, yeah, you probably took a wrong turning.”

“There’s a place called Sanity?”
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“Sure there is! Heck, you’ve arrived in Insanity – that’s probably why you’re bleeding sand and why you’ve imagined me.”

“I imagined you? You’re conscious though!”

“Well fuck my lad! Do you think you see things like me everyday? I’m only conscious of my existence because that is what you have wanted me to be.”

“I see”

“You don’t really, but that’s ok, you could probably do with the break. I know how strange it’s been for you.”

“How do you cure deja vu?”

“If I had the answer, you wouldn’t ask it, you’d know it. Remember, I am you, and you are me, we’re not really existing here or are we? Damn you’re getting confused and dragging me along. Try not to think so much. Relax!”

“I am bleeding sand and talking to some freaky centipede-like creature with human attributes, in a dark environment and a single beam from a spotlight – tell me again how I should relax?”

He saw the finger on the ground, and the creature began to make its journey towards it. It wrapped its big red lips over the broken off finger, and then began to sputter and cough.

“Don’t analyse everything!”

“If I don’t analyse, what purpose is there in understanding?”

“Well that sounds like a heavy topic you could get into another time, but now is not a good time.”

“When is it ever?”

“You need to go back, or go to Sanity – whichever is quicker. But you need to do it fast, before you fade.”

“Fade?”

“You’ll be stuck in insanity forever, and probably end up dead if you don’t wake up.”

“What are you talking about?”

The creature drew out a box of smokes from what seemed a soft, and wet underbelly. It used claw like hands to pull pull out a smoke in from the packet, and pursed its sticky wet lips over it. It had no lighter, but the smoke sparked itself up, and it took a deep heaving breath, as the slime from its mouth poured over the smoke at the butt end.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Nothing like nicotine to get the blood pumping.”