The end comes with a flash. Each time, it begins with the flash. Always the flash. That almost sickening, slick, yet oily, seductive, and resplendent light whose life span is encompassed in only fractions of a second, but is blindingly and blissfully eternal. Sometimes I think I won’t be able to stand it- the brightness, the magnificent mesh of different shades of white and yellow, with traces of different hues around the edges. Purple, blue, sparkling copper. The flash is always followed by the searing and sizzling movement of hot metal, dancing through membranes and ricocheting off blood vessels, splitting cells with as much detailed precision as a surgeon’s steady hand. This is a blissfully comforting feeling; visceral, really- a needle full of heroin plunging into the collapsed veins of a twitching, withdrawing junkie. The metallic signals that I am Approaching the End. There is little pain; only the soft, muted, and crystalline clarity that after this moment will come oblivion. The Dissolution. The violet, haloed apocalypse.

But before the flash are the voices; interminably taunting and cruel- words hurtling their way through the air on invisible waves; my eardrums bracing for the impact of the vile insults, hurled at me like live, sticky grenades, licked by filthy tongues. So sure of their target. I am spared by none of them, not a single base utterance will blessedly whiz past my head and land in the space behind me…they always get their man. Years of practice have honed their craft, and I am the cadaver sliced open from neck to navel, then dissected.

F***ot.
C******ker.
F****packer.

All the clichéd, tired derisions that I should be immune to, really, but by now, my secondhand Kevlar has become weak and fragile, having been broken down so gradually, I haven’t noticed that it has been rendered virtually ineffective, and I am bleeding underneath.

For less time than one contraction of my heart (a really fucked up organ which assaults my ribcage unrelentingly, bruising the bone and the attaching tissue surrounding it), I can’t tell whether this verbal poison is coming from the outside or the inside. Over time, the internal Hate and the extrinsic Hate have begun bleeding together; no lines separate them anymore. Is this vilification really coming from Them? Is it coming from faceless, tin-voiced intercom system? I can’t discern my voices from Theirs anymore, but why do I need to? The source is of no consequence; the result will be constant and is now tangible. A brass ring. But I’m not here to punish Them or hurt Them. I only want Them to witness.

For the first time, I feel disconnected from this. I feel calm, even, rational. I am pulled out of myself prematurely. This time I take leave of the electrical cerebral signals and become an unseen bystander watching the unfolding event as if on a movie screen. I’m not riveted, just weary and resigned about willingly paying the price of admission several times over. Normally, I am In It, but this time I see it from the outside looking in. I fucking hate this movie, but I can’t tear my eyes away from what I’m seeing: twin gladiators in ornately-fashioned breastplates, kicking up dirt with their laced-up sandals, creating clouds of smokelike dust, both wielding enormous sharpened blades that glisten and furiously reflect the sun, blinding the onlookers and leaving spots of light that can still be seen behind eyelids long after the eyes are sealed shut. But. The film has been altered this time- by my hand. Who knew I possessed that power? This time, the never-ending battle will yield a victor. One of the warriors will die today. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter which one, as both of them are me. The chosen casualty has no bearing on me whatsoever; all I know is, one of them must perish. Today.

The grenades are always accompanied by a scent: Scalding School Lunch french fries, blistering on the outside, cold and corpse-like in the middle; embalmed, crinkled sticks of clay that are doomed to spend their final moments in a holding pen under a heat lamp. This sacrificial ritual is overseen by three or four surly females; witches tossing animal entrails into a woven metal basket, and lowering them into the cauldron. These women often remind me of a bizarre order of nuns garbed in thrift store habits and hairnet wimples- The Order of Our Lady of the Perpetual Hot School Lunch. I almost chuckle and cross myself, which feels queerly appropriate until I remember why I’m here.

Do They know about the small, comfortingly heavy piece of steel that presses hot and cold against my thigh? Unlikely. Attention to detail is not a forte that They possess. The only reality for Them in the context of Me is that there is a part of me that is Different, Abhorrent, and They sniff it out like male dogs pursue a bitch in heat. Abnormal. Irregular. A Deviation. But I look just like Them (oh yes I’ve made sure of that; Old Navy chain mail; polyester armor and a twelve dollar helmet fashioned by a gum-chewing readhead at SuperCuts); a paper doll dressed up in standard issue high school fatigues. The Uniform, I discover, is silly- born from the notion that donning it would somehow afford me complete anonymity and allow me to hide in plain sight, giving Them some other poor fuck to throw grenades at for awhile. But at this conclusion, at this Ending, at this culmination, the Uniform ceases to cling to my body, and I am naked and exposed, except for the oddly-yet-terrifyingly familiar shape of the steel like a hard-on against my thigh. Even through the fabric, it feels alive, and infused with an even-tempered personality. But I am running the show.

My hand grips the hot/cold steel that has taken up temporary residence in the front pocket of my jeans. I can’t help wondering if, when I bring it to my lips, it will taste like the nuns’ french fries, those oily sticks whose scent is getting nauseatingly more powerful, as if prodding me on and reminding me that there isn’t any further need for procrastination. Another silent chuckle.

That internal infernal chuckle, and the odiferous fries are all it takes. Mundane catalysts.

All my senses become blindingly alive and infused with powerful blue electricity. I am pulled from the theater in my head, and I become sharply present in the moment, stalking the prey that is Me. The irony doesn’t escape me: Now I have evicted the oddly-yet-familiar-shaped tenant from my jeans, no one is bothering to look at me anymore. They have taken their fill with the acid-tinged insults. They have failed to even notice what the object is, and that I’ve brought the steel to my lips with steady hand and a surety of a seasoned artist embarking on a new painting or sculpture. Fuck me. I am invisible until I actually want to see me, or until they need an excuse to let loose their daily quota of the word @#$%&. I’m goddamned that they’re choosing not to even glance my way when I have a loaded gun in my mouth in the center of the school cafeteria.

The barrel of the gun is hard yet soft against my lips, and the sensation is not unlike experiencing a first kiss. Huh. I wouldn’t be surprised (if they were actually paying attention) if they would think that is what I look like with a c**k in my mouth. Chuckle.

I’m mildly disappointed that the steel tastes nothing like french fries. But I’m relieved. If that barrel had been french-fry-flavored, I may not have the intestinal fortitude to do what I am about to do.

It is only when I engage my thumb and the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked and a bullet being moved into place echoes off the floor-to-ceiling windows and exposed brick of the cafeteria that a few heads turn in my direction and I hear random gasps and even one or two unidentifiable vicious laughs to the left of me. I’m even afforded a “what the fuck?” from some random idiot who is staring at me with mouth wide open.

Time.

Life flashing before my eyes? Hardly. Just the nuns and the habits and the wimples and the clogging aroma of oily, tasteless, government-subsidized fried food mixed with the metallic, almost bloodlike taste flooding my mouth. My stomach lurches. Time to get on with this. Distraction by french fries will not be my undoing.

Each time I relive this series of moments, I have discovered that I unconsciously measure them by a series of my own heartbeats (that fucking Judas organ):

thwumpTHUMP: F****t.
thwumpTHUMP: C******cker.
thwumpTHUMP: F****packer.
thwumpTHUMP: French Fries.
thwumpTHUMP: NunsHabitsWimples.
thwumpTHUMP: Fingers Enclosing Steel.
thwumpTHUMP: Steel to Lips
thwumpTHUMP: Tasting the Steel.
thwumpTHUMP: Cock.
thwumpTHUMP: Wide Eyes And Laughs And Gasps(whatthefuck?).
thwumpTHUMP: The Flash. whiteyellowcopperblue.
thwumpTHUMP: Movement of Hot Metal (searingsizzling)
thwumpTHUMP: Falling.
Oblivion.
Silence.
For Now.

The majority of that sounds like my brother in laws murder. He was murdered (shot) on the streets of San Francisco. They took the $10 he had in his pocket, but that is not why they killed him. The witnesses were so terrified they wouldn't/couldn't talk. The police knew who did it and why, but didn't have enough evidence to press charges. Because he was gay, it wasn't even mentioned in the papers. Hopefully times are changing. He died in 1989.

I'm not a good judge of if someone's writing is good or not. But, you did portray a very vivid image of how that moment may have been for him. If people connect with what you write, and i did, I think that may be an indication you are headed in the right direction.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 01/11/2012 09:12PM by mia.

I'm wondering what audience you are writing this for.

Is it YA - cause I've read some stuff that has this sort of angst level to it. I think you have the emotional mindset of the teenager down but that the writing is a bit high level to be accessed by that audience.

I do like it though.

I wouldn't want it to end up on the shelf next to "Jay's Journal" or "Go Ask Alice", or something like that. A lot of it will depend on where the story goes, which at this point I'm not 100% sure.

Although this is not, shall we say, my usual reading fare?!--there is something riveting about your writing. Perhaps THIS (writing) is the "job" you are meant to have at this point in your life!

Great start!