Thu, 19 May 2005

kill every living thing on this earth
[04.02]

Pamela showed up on my doorstep around three that afternoon, and seeing her there in the sunlight I had a half-second joy that she had driven all the way down here just to see me, just to keep me company and talk about old times, but it was obvious as soon as I looked for it that I was just a hiding place, a place to rest while running away from whoever she was with. I took her in and made coffee and set myself to hear the story one more time, minor incidents altered to give the illusion of change, and I thought maybe I could sneak into the bedroom and take some darvon, but she’d know. I had not seen her in three years, and had changed in insignifigant ways during that time, put on the slightest muscle that I was overproud of, lost more hair, started a new job where I had to wear a pager at all times. I thought I had changed, I thought it was enough. She had only told me half the story, up to where everything fell apart again, when I heard someone pull up in the driveway, and heard someone begin shouting, and she stared at me for a second before running into the bathroom and locking the door. The man came up to the door, and I was a little suprised to see him; he was small and thin and obviously spent a lot of time thinking about his accessories. I opened the door and he tried to push past me, and I shoved him hard in the chest, pushing him back off the steps onto the sidewalk. He pulled out a gun, which I guess was supposed to scare me, but I had been through this part as well, the jilted abusive boyfriend thinking everyone was as afraid of him as his girl was, and I knew he wouldn’t shoot me, or maybe he would, I didn’t really care. I used to hate these guys, used to nurse vengeful fantasies of axehandles and pondbottoms, but in time I began to realize these men were simply manifestations of the death of history, of memory, as each one was conviced they were bound within forces beyond control and entirely singular in application: it is always the first and only time for them.

“Go home”, I said. “Be glad it’s over.”

He stared at me, the dream of a final showdown draining away, until he was content to talk some shit while walking back to his car. I watched him until he left, and I stared out at the street for a while, the sky, the stars, remembering all the things I’d have to say over the next few weeks, all the apologies, all the mock-harsh “truth”, until she’d leave again, and I’d spend another year staring at the wall and sorting albums I no longer listen to and talking about how I need to start wrting again, and everything continues again, until finally I just can’t do it anymore, and then there will be no shame, no exhaustion, no staring blankly at people pretending to care, no insomnia and stomach pain, no shit jobs, no owing people money, no sitting in front of the keyboard for hours unable to think of a single thing to say, no broken promises, no empty posturing, no imagining women i don’t know are in love with me, no headaches and no heat, no light, no sound, no time, nothing, nothing at all.
(12:24.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #