hard time

DISCLAIMER: this story was written as a topical challenge, and is not necessarily within my purview of taste; though i loathe censorship and so will not revoke it because of tender emotional reactions.




I was planning to rape her for the longest time. My masturbations to her ended as soon as I pictured her long hair, whereupon I grew frail and dismayed, horrified that a silhouette of something as dead as her coiffure should inherit the seed I had stored for fantasies of her evocative scents, places and complaints. I could picture her in front of me as soon as I walked outside, the murals becoming her and nocturnal animals confusing me; outside I could walk a free man at least in body, my erection condemned by the fresh air to either swallow me whole or give pause in the presence of nature.

I objectively surmised that I was not so dependent on fantasies of orificial mystery as I was deeply damaged from liver to skin by injections of the heaviest stimulants; whites that turned me green with chronic masturbation or silence, or inspired me to yawn and create great adventures about the passing pedestrians outside my window. I loved to see them slowly decrease until only black peddlers were left, pushing things I did not want to buy at a time when my only concept of a transaction was furthering my sense of separation. These immigrants and minorities I envisioned as Moorish failures, separated from grand invasion forces by our bureaucracy and forced to expend their dark colour under the lunar fogs and whispers of night time delivery.

Drugs had changed me and I could admit it; not to a doctor or my deceased family but to my old mind, constantly scanning for truth and perversion, both of which carried the acute tension of delusion so that I was never secure in any world. My dreams, when I still had them in my cadaverous bed, were of deserts of stone crowded with populated circus tents I could never enter. Their music was a whirlwind hustling things I could not reach around the mountaintops distant. To this hollow dorm of oneness I was condemned, and I expired by date every day in myriad ways before the presence of time could confirm me - could embalm me as the lost elemental I saw my bravest moments to signify.

I wished I had never installed the camera in the elevator, where my only neighbour imagined her privacy and corrected her bra, but I also knew these small secrets our channel shared were not what drove me skinless with anticipation. Part of it was imagining her thoughts of my existence, always there locked inside and secretive but for delivery of groceries and staggering, automanic amphetamine and supply boxes of cannulas and syringes. Girls imagined things, I could conceive from memory, and all manner of regular people could imagine stow-away loners with a clinical exaggeration of skin complications, mysterious wounds, a self-circumcised penis, needles flying from the skeleton like so many happy untruths, like they could imagine marriage and diseased children in Africa eating their own.

But she was condemned to never be sure I was human, while I could categorize and feed myself with her thought by thought, until surely nothing was left of me but she remained. The truth was that the elevator footage, while still meticulously archived, served only the more minor purpose of keeping track of her physiology and continuing life; without eternal nightmares of becoming only black soot, without purposeful injections forming the only mantras of body peace love hate, and her with sleep, with nutrition, even with friendship. Friends I could understand. They were ghosts not yet disgusted by the vile nature of their subject and thus bound to an uncertain entertainment of sanity. I entertained my own sanity, by having delivered myself to the carnivore of defeat I spread my own butter on the delicious bread of pumping, constant life. The thrall of my concepts was the tethering of harmony.

I was planning to rape her, in high states of medicinal conjecture, but my concepts of execution were limited by the solemn judge of my emptiness that interrupted it soon thereafter. Debates boiled within like septic disease for anything but sustenance and ideations of madness. I had my own think tank, but instead of facets of morality or opposing views in a romantic parliament, a churning stream of indifferent permutations melted me down to where I finally did put on my clothes or retracted the needle in sheer confusion as to why I no longer should not. My only secure and fast decisions were sheltered by instinct, still there but perverted, a very long time of biology shielding me from petrifaction, though I was crude to biology as I was crude to the nose of men.

I smelled the incense, familiar and regular through vents I had redirected to my home. She and her friend were giggling and sassy, frolicking in plumes of marijuana, the abhorrent drug of lighter souls. If it was so preferable to be normal unto others, why was the need so explicit to adorn the serene spectacle with laughter and cartoons? My jokes were my dreams, never lilting me to a smile or choking me with colour; I preferred the blue of my veins as an art and bit into it only pretending to be my own shadow. My actual body was the giant above me, a shameful monument to this path mysterious and symptomatic.

But rape was fantastical, and concerned idioms I could no longer encompass with imagination. Sexual concepts, degraded by time, exiled into the realm of men and genitals; genitalia, forms of flesh without geometry, fulfilling only function, the end of my comprehension -- the entire fanfare too bloated and alive to grab with hands so soaked in repetition that were they not fastened by miserable flesh they too would tell time, would tell me away like gravity.