Vida Futura
I died on July 22nd, 2016.
My mother cried and cried, and then she just stopped talking altogether.
My father spent two hours searching forum posts on how to arrange an international corpse transport and last-minute funerals in New York. He then spent the next five hours reading articles and marathoning through NHK videos about Japan from the food to robot restaurants to the train suicide rates.
My brother had a beer in a bar he’d never been to. There, he went through our intermittent text messages throughout the years and then deleted my contact information from his phone.
They each coped in their own way, as always.
The alpaca plush doll I’d given my mom my senior year of college sat on my old piano in the living room like a reminder that I had once been there playing for them, that I hadn’t been forgotten.
I woke up on August 22nd, 2016.
But it wasn’t in my bed in Queens. Or huddled in my futon in a cramped apartment in Tokyo. I was in a small, single room wooden house. I was sitting in front of square oak table. There was a window facing an endless green field like the one from Sound of Music. In the distance were snow-peaked mountains and the stone-lined reflection of a massive lake.
This was Vida Futura. Or at least that’s what it said on the welcome pamphlet on the table. In a cream-colored envelope was a ‘REASSIGNMENT CARD’ with an awful photo of me I didn’t remember taking and a contact card with a list of five names and phone numbers.
Faye Voestra, LIFE COUNSELOR — (555) XXX-XXX
Sophia Voestra, JOB COUNSELOR — (555) YYY-YYYY
Sherry Oshford, SOCIAL LEAD — (555) ZZZ-ZZZZ
Cyril Beeton, TRANSPORT LEAD — (555) AAA-AAA
There was a phone hooked to the wall and underneath that was a framed painting of a green field that looked just like the field outside the window.
There was no bed, no food, no water.
I picked up the phone and dialed the first number. The line rang three times before someone picked up.
“Welcome to Vida Futura!” an ear-busting voice announced from the other side.
“How did I get here?” I asked, staring out the window at the snow-peaked mountains. I fought back the urge to ask if this was actually some high cost mental hospital/rehab center in Europe.
“You’ve died! Congratulations!!” the woman shrieked cheerfully. I pulled the phone away from my ear, her shrill voice drilling into my head. “You are the newest resident of the green zone.”
I flipped through the welcome pamphlet but there was nothing but photos of nature and a two-page photo spread of people smiling in front of a fountain that reminded me of those terrifying old people tour groups in China. Above the people in bright white font read “Welcome to our family.”
I tried hard to remember if I had dabbled in any hard drugs the night before. But I couldn’t remember where I had even been the night before. Who had I been with? What had I eaten? There wasn’t a trace of hangover, no headache, no sour taste in my mouth; my head was the clearest it had been in months. Like I'd just woken up from a long and restful sleep.
“Are you still there?” the woman asked, concerned.
“Yes, I’m sorry. Um, Ms….” I glanced down at the contact card. “…Voestra? When you say ‘you've died’ does that mean…”
“I’m sure we will have many conversations from here on in, so please, there’s no need for formalities. Please call me Faye.”
“Ok, Ms Faye…”
“Faye is fine,” she insisted.
My hand tightened around the phone. “Sure, Faye,” I hated calling strangers by their first name, as if an suddenly we were on needlessly friendly, lets-get-lunch together terms. “Can you please explain what happened to me?” I asked.
Faye did not beat around the bush as I expected:
On July 22nd, I had been pushed into the train tracks at Hodogaya Station, into an oncoming Shonan Shinjuku expression train bound for Takasaki. Death was instant. As my body slammed into the first car at 160 km/hour, many of the commuters in the front car had questioned why that had not been them splattered over the front window. This was the second bloody accident that train conductor had seen in less than five years. My parents received a call at 9PM EST from an English-representative of JR company — right in the midst of sitting back to enjoy their nightly marathon of Chinese dramas, full tea cup in hand. Two weeks later, they received a bill for 6M yen to cover the cost of cleaning my remains off the train, tracks, and platform as well as damage to the front window of the car. My death was ruled a suicide, and that’s what they told my parents. No investigation was ever launched, and I was half-thankful my parents wouldn’t be caught up in a hunt for revenge for the last few decades of their life, only to find someone mentally unstable, drunk, or plain stupid. My mother hung up Buddhist mirrors around the house and spent her days staring at her Chinese dramas in her silent catatonic depression. She ignored calls from her sisters and made passing comments about seeing a ghost in her room, which made everyone else too scared to go inside. My father had started meeting any Japanese people he could find on craigslist to learn a language he never had interest in when I was alive. My brother started visiting them every weekend and talked to my mom even though she never answered him.
I took a deep breath, less sad than I thought would be. “So…if I’m dead, why am I here?” I asked.
“Upon termination of your past life, you were deemed Fit, so you’ve been sent here for reassignment.”
I heard a hollow tapping, as if Faye was drumming her finger on an oak table that looked just like mine. Her chair squeaked as if she were leaning back on an un-oiled office chair. For a moment, I could see a line of cubicles facing a massive 15th floor window looking out onto Tokyo Bay and Rainbow Bridge. Was this some scam to make people think they were already dead before they were harvested for organs? Where had I been going when I waited at Hodogaya Station. I couldn’t remember.
“How do people even get sent here after dying?”
“Unfortunately that’s not something I’m equipped to answer,” the chair squeaked again. “Trains, planes, boats, who knows right?” she laughed and I pulled the phone away from my ear again. “Let’s focus less on how you got here and more on what you’re going to do from here on. Stay positive! One in ten new residents attempt suicide in their first week in Vida Futura. Can you believe it? Already dead and… It’s just such a waste of precious opportunity! Most people love it here after the first month. Everyone here in Vida Futura is essential, and I’m sure you will also be great here.”
I looked down at the photo of the smiling people in front of the fountain and then closed the pamphlet. In ten seconds, I was sure I would have a full-fledged panic attack.
“There’s no bed or food or water in this house,” my voice cracked.
“Ah yes! I’ll get to that. No worries," the chair squeaked again. “Wait, are you worried? You sound worried. Shall we do some breathing exercises together? That will help you relax! Just count with me, heeeeee-huuuuu”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I’m fine.”
“But you don’t sound like your usual self.”
“How would you know what my usual self sounds like? We just met.”
She made a doubtful hmmm noise from the back of her throat.
“Are you sure you don’t want to just try it?” Her resolve was weakening.
“Yes, I’m very sure.” I was more irritated than panicked now. Maybe this woman was a genius at therapy.
“Alrighty then,” she cleared her throat. “So first off, let me explain the rules of Vida Futura. Don’t worry about writing them down, you’ll remember them right away, everyone does!
#1 — If you die in Vida Futura, you cannot return. Where you go, we cannot say.
#2 — Everyone must have a job. You will be assigned one shortly, based on your preference and skill sets.
#3 — You cannot switch zones without significant reason (this may include suicidal tendencies or civil unions with members in other zones)
#4 — Make friends, but avoid asking other residents about their past lives.
All the other details should be explained by your job counselor.”
“Why can’t we talk to other people about their old lives?” I asked, not mentioning that I couldn’t remember what had happened to me in the past week or even my own name.
“Past lives,” she corrected. “We call them expired memories here. While they were wonderful, vital components for living in your past life, they cannot sustain their shape and cohesiveness here. They will decay and be forgotten shortly. We simply suggest easing the process so you can more quickly enjoy your new time here.”
She paused, and I tapped my finger on the table.
“You’ll get your name soon,” she said finally.
At that moment, I thought how silly all of this was. Out the window, the sky was a perfect, saturated blue like it was in all those Instagram photos. Not a creature in sight. There was no clock in the room, but I guessed it was around noon.
“What was my old name?” I asked, trying to memorize the sound of my own voice. I tried to remember what my face looked like, but only a watery shadow with no solid lines surfaced in my mind that I couldn’t even begin to sketch if asked. This had to be a dream.
“I’m sorry but I don’t know,” she said. I knew she was lying, of course, she had to be, but it didn’t matter. I was convinced it would be over soon. The bubble would pop and I'd wake up shivering in my in Tokyo with the AC turned too high and the first blue of dawn edging in through my curtains.
“Ms Voestra,” I said, being petty. “Can I request my new name?”
“Unfortunately-“
“How did you get your name?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not equipped to answer that-“
“Whole lot of stuff you can’t answer, huh? Not a very good life counselor, or was that just your poorly decided reassignment too?”
"I'm sorry, but if you-"
I hung the phone up and stared out the window again. The view was surprisingly relaxing. I tried to imagine the last thing I had listened to on my iPod, Madeleine by Konstantin Sibold, the space-like sound in the beginning of the song like an opening chasm of light or a black hole growing larger and larger. Wasn’t that closer to my vision of death? I thought I could hear birds chirping, but it was just silence.
daylight/divided
He heard it the moment both his feet landed on the tile floor, the music that drifted through the darkness. Aaron crouched there, letting his eyes adjust and watching the dust swirl through the threads of light that poured their way through rents in thick concrete and brick walls wrought by time’s neglect. He had found an opening in the building through a window outside covered by thin plywood that gave with little effort. There were dozens of hard plastic tables layered with soot, their colors alternating between faded shades of the primary colors and lined up in symmetrical aisles that centered themselves in front of a wide stage set two feet off the ground. This was the school’s cafeteria. He caught the name of the piece that was playing-- Debussy, and horribly out of tune. The felt hammers of the piano fell upon the steel strings in a lazy, uneven, way, ringing along the walls and through the halls of the old Oleander Elementary. The new school had been built five miles south to replace this one years ago after a fire devoured an entire wing of the building, reducing the U shape to an L. Aaron tried not to concern himself with the number of school children and staff. Numbers meant a great deal to the living but not to the dead, and the dead is who he had his business with.
He reached into the cargo net of his backpack and pulled out a flashlight, moving it in slow arcs throughout the room. Aaron knew he was seen already, he could always feel them stare. Not here, he thought, and then began to walk down the center aisle toward the stage. The fire had taken place between breakfast and lunch, there was to be an assembly that day, wood props of trees and homes were set, the crimson colored curtains drawn back. The dust patterns on the stage told him that the curtains had just been pulled. The piano continued to play, verse by verse in that clumsy way; here, Aaron knew, something strong would be laid to rest today. No echoes. Any sound Aaron made was suffocated the moment it escaped by a weight pressing against him in the school, a gravity.
“I’m here to help.” His voice was calm, but still audible. Aaron tried again, “I’m here to help.” This time, only ‘I’m’ and ‘to’ were heard.
I want to help, he said. This time it worked. The curtains and rod fell and landed with a sharp crack that was smothered at once.
Show me where, Aaron said, his voice stolen before it could know the air.
Show me. The school bell began to ring, muted, but still audible.
Thank you, I’ll be quick. Aaron followed the bell out of the cafeteria and into the hall. He crossed the entire length of the first floor, pushing open doors that had been shut for decades and running the tips of his fingers across the rusted desks. Climbing up the steps to the second floor the bell became louder. He took the ascent with care, over the years he had seen much and his recklessness was often punished. Aaron had to be more careful, he was a father now, and over-confidence was no longer on the table. Reaching the top step, the bell became clear. If you were to stand outside, you would never know it was happening. Every step Aaron took was like lens finding focus in the distance. He walked down the second floor hall toward the severed end of the school. A patchwork of tarps had been placed over the exposed roof eaten by flame with the intention of preserving whatever it was inside for history. No one could agree that museum and memorial may as well mean the same thing.
A storm had blown in the previous night and unbound half the clasps that held the tarp to the roof, leaving the furthest end of the hall exposed to the open air. The bell stopped ringing once Aaron was beneath the rotten and scared roof, but the piano was as loud as ever. No use for the flashlight now, its bulb now a dim flicker.
I want to help, Aaron repeated, each word spilling to another time. There was an anger here and he knew he wouldn’t be breathing soon. No matter how many times he did this, in all the years, he was intoxicated by the cocktail of panic, adrenaline, and excitement that blooms just before let it seize him. The sky was bare but the light seemed to spiral, casting shadows that swirled around him. Colors dulled not by dust or time but by unseen gears that turn silent clocks. It’s a strong one, Aaron thought, and it’s about to get a whole lot stronger. He could hear in the empty rooms the sound of tables sliding across the wooden floor and calm voices that urged everyone to line up in a by the door. The small hammers of the school bell swelled to a fever pitch.
Aaron stood at the building's jagged edge, looking out into the field where what remained of the school rested like charred bones of a great beast. Aaron could no longer breathe. His hands remained still beside his sides while he blinked hard into the open air. The music ceased and with it, Aaron’s heart. He fell forward, one arm spilling over the edge, while his eyes adjusted. The crisp mountain air that rushed in his open mouth soon tasted of smoke and ash. His eyes refocused and saw the heavy billows of smoke traveling through the corridor. He stayed low and began to crawl across the floor, his limbs too weak to do any more. Children hurried passed him with staff members as shepherds. Many of them met his gaze, some even stopped long enough to look upon him with wide curious eyes before being shoved from behind to keep moving. His legs felt stronger. Aaron crawled to the edge of the hallway and used the wall to help him stand. Closer, just a little closer. Fire crawled along the ceiling in small rolling waves and Aaron knew that his time was short.
Where are you? He asked, before turning around and walking back. The only door he found closed was marked 212. Here. The knob was hot to the touch. He pulled one of his sleeves over his hand and quickly gave it a twist. Inside he saw a ring of children, twelve in number and none over the age of seven, gathered in the center of the room with joined hands. At the middle of the circle was a woman slumped on the floor. As Aaron walked into the classroom every pair of round eyes turned look to him.
--You don’t belong here the door is too hot to open we don’t know what happened to her you don’t belong here neither does he it hurts to breathe why did they leave us you don’t belong here help us help us help us is she hurt help you don’t belong here—
It will be over soon, Aaron said. He could feel a heavy breath wash over him as the flame began to eat through the walls and ceiling. The children broke their circle and spread a little wider so that Aaron could join them. He sat crossing his legs before holding up his hands to join them, his large palms engulfing their tiny fists like stones. From here Aaron recognized the woman and saw her leg and hands twitching. Looking at them he said-- Stay with me. Each of you will see a stream and when you do, step into its water. There, you will find your release. Keep your eyes on me. Don’t let go. There they waited while the fire spread across the walls and then, in a violent burst, the air was sucked out of their small mouths and fed the flame that swirled around the room setting all to cinder. They could not scream, but they felt the searing. Neither of them let the other go and the world would never know their courage.
I’m so sorry. Aaron felt the grip on his hands tighten; tiny finger nails digging deep into his flesh, while the fire swept them up off the ground for a moment. This would be what he would remember the most: suspended in the air with joined hands, all eyes on him searching for the river he promised as the fire blackened them to ash. What fell back onto the floor was him and nothing else. Aaron blinked hard again and saw himself rolling on the ground, again on the edge of the severed school. The colors looked a little brighter and the light from beyond the building’s ruin poured over his cold body.
His heart returned to life with sharp raps against the bone of his chest, stumbling before catching rhythm. He couldn’t keep his hands from shaking. Aaron swatted at his body while rolling around the floor, half-believing he was still on fire. Looking at his palms he could see the small crescent shaped marks of fingernails that did indeed draw blood.
From the edge of the building he spotted his station wagon and the toddler’s car seat strapped into the back. Aaron leaned forward, pressing his head against the cold floor and began to weep. He saw himself in the air, looking into their eyes and wide mouths.
He felt himself being pulled down the hall, away from the building's edge, slow at first and then lifting from the floor altogether. Arrested by grief and disbelief while spinning backwards at a speed gaining in momentum. This isn’t supposed to be happening, Aaron said to himself while sailing across the darkening hall. He spun his floating body around and saw the wall at the hall’s end fast approaching. Closing his eyes he put both hands forward and tried to press against the gravity pulling him. The tiles on the wall fell around him while landing with a thump. Aaron rolled onto his stomach, trying to pick himself up before he was pulled into the air again and hurled down the hall toward the opposite end where there was nothing to stop him.
“Shit.”
The hall grew darker the closer he came to the exposed end of the building. The heavy breath he felt wash over him in the class room now made a sublime kind of sense. Five feet from being flung out into the open air to his death his feet began to drag along the floor. He dug the rubber bottom of his heels and leaned back. Three feet away he slowed further and just before spilling over the edge he stopped, falling backward with his sweat-drenched clothes sticking to his skin. The world around him went black in the way a room appears as you fall into sleep. The building groaned and buckled, as if it would collapse upon itself, then nothing more.
He stood up, his muscles and limbs in knots. He found his backpack halfway down the stairs-- its contents exposed-- which he gathered together while trying to slow his heart down. He fell out of the window he came in, covering his arms and jeans in mud, then carried himself across the tall grass to his car waiting in the old parking lot.
After fishing around his pockets for the car keys he remembered that he had kept them in the bag. Reaching into the backseat he felt the car rock side to side though none of the trees around him swayed. He plucked his keys out of the small zippered pocket at the top of the bag and started the car. The engine stuttered and a white smoke crept out from beneath the hood. Switching the radio off, Aaron drove in silence through the winding country roads that led back to the highway.
The Artist’s Pennant
I
do seek.
What eddies
whirl until they pale
beneath, pushing purpose
to flowing beyond me continuously
losing myself to that maelstrom whose
swirling, turning, circling breathes
endless as it pulls me deeper
a storm now evermore
brewing within
this mortal
core.
I
do fight.
A recurring battle
reincarnated at each dawn
carnal as the blood which spawns
words without meaning to life again
to death as the cycle begins another turn
hands ticking seconds to the infinite
surrender, I might, one day if my
breath should indeed cease
but my feet march to
an endless beat to
the final hours
I do not
await.
I
am one.
Amongst the fallen
on the precipice, I am
that banner which stands listless
tattered, marking corpses overrun by
armies whose hands murdered all my
ardent desires and fulcrums I
lost, to be found yet again
as the dust settles in
to that silent
ever dying
din.
I
have lost.
Yet still I kneel
to that ruling hunger
synonymous to my nature both
destructive and creative at its apex
which commands my hands yet again
returning, I must then relinquish
fear once more as the sun
spawns dawn, so now
yet another battle
calls me again,
and again
I shall
begin.
Remember…
Poppies in fields
Bullet holes ripped through the world
Each one a screaming mouth
A protest to atrocities
A medal of the brave
The ranks of good people who fought to save
Who stood up to adversity
Bullet cases jettisoned in the heat of war
Now cool and buried under a civilian law
How easy it is to forget
To disrespect
That's why it's important to take a moment
A little time
To remember
Remember the fear
The hurt and the pain
The loss
The ones who gave with nothing to gain
The brave that endured
So that we could thrive and be free
A minutes silence for you and me
Echoes of explosions and gunfire for the ones that served
The quiet that can never be preserved
The silence never quenched when you witness people die
Your friends and colleagues
The good times and the highs
Shot down by treachery and lies
Conflict and denies
Trodden underfoot in demented trenches
Ripped overhead by barbed wire fences
How do you quiet the spoils of war?
For the ones that served
One minute silence is the least that they deserve...
© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.
Such a Pig
I know full well this is not how to gather friends or win a competition, but here goes anyway...
I don't remember a time when these bars weren't my Monet
Splattered feces and urine soaked concrete to cushion my feet and lull me to sleep
I have an inkling memory of my mother
Though only through images of her mastitic breasts seeping the stench of pus and my rotting brothers
There are so many here
I can no longer see
My eyes have become maggot habitat
But I can hear all too well
The screeching of bowels being shredded
The frantic breath of my neighbor as he's led by rubber boots
Only hoping he may return
Or maybe begging not to
They will come for me too
They come for us all
And I pray I die with the first blow
To my head
The electric current
That should render me paralyzed and shock my brain into submission
I pray that I die then
Please
I pray I do not feel my legs shackled and my body hoisted
Dragged through scalding water
Like so many of us
Awake
I'm not bright
They say
I've only the mental capacity of a four-year-old child
They say
But I see no children here
And I know what's coming
One day
I am witness to it
Every day
How could I not know?
We all know
We ALL know
Everyday
The bellows of death
And discomposure
Of pleading
And insanity
This is our Symphony
How could we not know?
The melody of grinding metal
Smashing
Clashing
Screaming
How could we not know?
I have never known an outside
Though I smell it on their feet
The ones that bash my face when I am
Against the gates
The ones that send me away from this
This...home.
Into the box car
They'll pile us
As if we're already only bodies
Stacked one on top of the other
No room to breathe
Some will die, already rotting before they step foot inside
Fate already sealed
Not strong enough for a sadist ride
They are the lucky ones
This is their last stop
The hungry ones will eat them
Why waste good flesh when you're starving
Why leave a corpse to occupy so much valuable space
It only makes sense
The rubber boots don't mind
Less work for them
There will be light for a moment
My first and last taste of fresh air
I can smell
Though my senses have been
Dulled by the aromatic mingling of burnt flesh and fresh iron with abscess and shit
In here
In the final place
It's stronger
And it dances with the sweet odor of decay
It's an unmistakable smell
Decomposing organs
Terror
Agony
Death
I hope I go quickly
I wish I could say that
I wish I'd known the outside
Or that I could soak in the sun
And bathe in cool streams
Or feel the tickle of sweet morning dew on my nose
I wish I could wish those things
But I know not of them
I only know
Steel
Iron
Shit
Blood
Death
Fear
Pain
I only know the frantic jolting
Driven by electric shock
And fists
I only know screeching and heart pounding
Corners
Claustrophobia
I only know fluorescent lights and needles
Pitchforks
Rubber boots
And soon I'll know what it's like to be paralyzed
And incapacitated
But finally useful
The waiting
Is
Over
I will be stopped
No breathing
I hope
I will be bled
Dry
And
Delicious
I will be blanched
Bald
And
Beautiful
I will be dismembered
Cured
And
Categorized
And I can't help but wonder
If you knew me...
Would you save me?
If you knew me
would you save me?
If I were like you
would you save me?
I think you would
Good morning
I'm your bacon.
Factory farming sucks for so many more reasons than just this.
It truly is horror in every sense of the word.
If it moves you, research...learn...love...
If it doesn't, research...learn...love...
We are all living on the same planet.
Feel free to SHARE wherever you'd like!! :)
Dear Diary
Sept 23, 2016
Dear Diary,
Hello, I guess. Jesus, this is stupid.
I always felt that writing in a diary was pretty much the most self-absorbed, idiotic thing anyone could do, and even more ridiculous to address it as “Diary," but here we are.
Iʼm not sure what Iʼm supposed to put in this thing. I don't know what the weather is like outside.
I smell like a 14-year-old boy whoʼs wearing Brute and forgot to shower this year.
I like puppies and long walks on the beach.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I love no one
Hell, whatever. At least I have something to do now.
I guess if Iʼm going to sit here and scribble with a crayon, I might as well use the opportunity to its capacity.
So, Diary, my name is James. I live in this chickʼs basement now, unfortunately, and she gave you to me and told me to use you to "think about what I've done and explore myself."
Her name is Amy. I'm pretty sure sheʼs going to read this, so let me emphasize to you now that sheʼs just a swell person. It also just dawned on me that Iʼm writing with a crayon, which means I canʼt edit or erase. I hope she can understand that Iʼm not very good at this diary thing and forgive my frustrations.
I hear her coming. Be right back.
Okay, back. Yep. Sheʼs going to read you everyday and counsel me through my issues because sheʼs a wonderful, caring woman with my best interest at heart, and she knows I need her help.
First assignment is apparently to explain why Iʼm here and "how our actions result in consequences." Due tomorrow night at 6 p.m.
Gonna sleep now, Diary. This should be fun.
• • •
September 24, 2016
Dear Darla,
Diary, I've decided to change your name to Darla because why not. Itʼs better than Diary, and you're hot pink, so I thought Darla would suit you.
"Why Iʼm Here and How Our Actions Result in Consequences"
I am here because Amy thinks Iʼm dangerous. Amy told me that she knew I was going to rape and murder her and dump her body in an empty field somewhere, so Iʼm here to learn to keep my hands to myself.
I need to show Amy that this was not my intention at all. I tried to tell Amy that I think sheʼs an amazing cellist, and that listening to her play at The Vine was one of the most intriguing experiences of my life. I told her she was beautiful, and I meant that. I told her that I wasnʼt stalking her. I swear. I was working up the courage to ask her out.
I told her I was sorry for following her to work and watching her on the bus, but I promise I never meant to scare her.
But she didnʼt believe me, Darla. I understand why, but I need her to realize that I wonʼt hurt her. She doesnʼt have to use the gun when she brings me food. She can stay and talk to me if she wants. Iʼm not going to try to leave. Iʼm not going to harm her in anyway.
Darla, sheʼs a counselor, so I know she'll see that Iʼm not bad. She can read people. Sheʼs obviously a brilliant lady.
Talk tomorrow,
James
• • •
September 25, 2016
All right, then. She doesnʼt like your name, so you no longer have one. Sorry about that.
She also doesnʼt like the fact that I tried to use you to con her, and I can appreciate that. She said I should direct questions or comments meant for her, to her. I didnʼt mean it as a con. I do hope she knows that I was being honest. It doesnʼt help to share with someone if they wonʼt listen to a word you say. Thatʼs why I wrote it here. I thought maybe if she read it, it would be easier for her to hear. I know I scared her. Itʼs hard to listen when you're afraid.
So I have to write feelings in here. And I have to answer the consequences question. I forgot about that yesterday, so I'll do it first.
The only understanding I can share concerning consequences is that when we do something, something else happens to balance the action. If you do a bad thing, bad things happen. If you do a good thing, good things happen. I have no idea how to put it into better words. Thatʼs going to have to be okay.
As far as feelings are concerned,
I feel sorry for what I did.
I feel hungry.
I feel tired.
I feel like Amy misunderstood me.
I feel like I wish I hadnʼt followed her.
I still think sheʼs beautiful.
Good night, hot pink book.
• • •
September 26, 2016
Amy says if I donʼt expose my true intentions, I will never leave. She says she doesnʼt like my thoughts on consequences, and she thinks my understanding of them is probably why I've gotten myself into this situation.
Itʼs been eight days in this basement, and I feel like Iʼm losing my mind. I donʼt even know what time it is. Thereʼs usually a window or something in a cellar, but I donʼt see one. I canʼt search around because of the chain.
Iʼm scared now. Amy isnʼt frightening, but I am afraid I donʼt have the right answers for her. I've tried to explain myself so many times, but I feel like maybe sheʼs still afraid. She doesnʼt have to be.
The casserole she brought me last night was good. It really was. I know I should hate her, but sheʼs a great cook and sheʼs taking the best care of me she can in this situation.
Last night I yelled at her, and I feel sorry for that. Sheʼs not a bitch. My eyes still burn from the mace, and I understand that I deserved it. I shouldnʼt have jumped at her. I shouldnʼt have screamed. I was stupid.
I just need her to believe me. I need her to understand that I mean what I say when I say it. I wasnʼt going to rape her. I wasnʼt going to kill her or torture her or dump her anywhere. I really only wanted to get to know her.
I guess I got what I wanted. I shouldnʼt have been so shy.
• • •
September 27, 2016
Nothing I say hasnʼt any impact on her, Diary. Nothing. She doesnʼt believe me. She says Iʼm in denial. She says Iʼm creating an identity to justify my actions, and I need to look harder.
She says I need to dive deep into my psyche and fish out the demons.
Maybe sheʼs right. Maybe there was part of me that wanted to hurt her. Maybe I did plan to rape her. I would never have killed her, but maybe she was just so out of my league I couldnʼt have asked her out, and it would have been easier just to force myself on her.
Maybe Iʼm sick? I think I did need her help after all.
I wish sheʼd leave the gun upstairs. I wish she wouldnʼt pour cold water on me in the mornings. I wish sheʼd loosen these shackles.
I feel afraid.
I feel pain.
I miss my dog.
I feel disappointed in myself for being a monster.
I feel grateful for Amyʼs help.
• • •
September 28, 2016
Dear Diary,
She wants to know my intentions. I told her. She doesnʼt care.
She wants to know how I got here. She put me here. Thatʼs how I fucking got here.
She thinks Iʼm in denial? Maybe sheʼs in denial. I wonder if sheʼs ever considered that, diary.
If I could just kill myself now and get this over with, I would.
I feel hopeless.
I feel alone.
I feel like I can say or do nothing right.
• • •
Not good enough, not good enough, not good enough.
Fuck you.
• • •
September 30, 2016
Dear Amy,
You know what? You want to know my intentions? You want me to expel my devils onto this ridiculous notebook?
You were right, bitch. I was going to rape you. I followed you into that alley with the sole purpose of slamming your head into the brick wall until you passed out.
I followed you for two weeks, Amy, but Iʼm sure you are aware of that. I knew where you were each second of every day. I watched you undress through your bedroom window. I watched you feed that dumbass cat. I watched you check your mailbox at 5:30 every morning.
I saw it all. I know everything about you. No boyfriend. Dead mom. Runaway father. Pathetic job at the high school. Iʼm sure theyʼd love to know they have a deranged slut chit-chatting with their behaviorally challenged students.
I parked my van around the corner behind the school. I was going to shove you through the back doors and take you for a long ride, you psychotic cunt.
I have this nice little cabin outside the city, and was going to take you there for vacation. Show you a good time. Then when I was done, I was going to cut you up into tiny pieces and feed you to my dogs.
Is that what you want to hear? Huh?
Why?
I donʼt know. Because you looked weak playing your cello. You looked like you needed me. You looked soft. You looked like youʼd been alive for way too long. You're disgusting. Whore.
You want to know what I understand about consequences?
I understand that I should've done it sooner. I should've killed you the first night I saw you.
Your soup last night tasted like horse piss. It made me vomit.
Why donʼt you just go ahead and get rid of me now? Because I promise you when I get free, you're going to regret ever being alive.
I feel NOTHING.
• • •
October 1, 2016
Dear James,
Good job. When you can open a line to your true feelings and understand your intentions, only then will you begin to grow.
I knew about the van, James. I didnʼt know about the cabin, but thank you for being honest with me. I agree with you that the cat is stupid.
I understand that you're angry and frustrated, so I will forgive your rude comment about my soup.
I really think we're getting somewhere, James. Iʼm proud of you.
Your next assignment will be a series, and unit one is:
"Letting Go of the Ego: Who are You?”
See you this evening, James.
Best Wishes,
Amy
Squandered Silence
Half alive in the middle of nowhere,
playing solitaire on blank canvas,
drowning in cacophony of noise,
aching to find puzzle piece.
Steam hisses angst in streams -
not human, not part of the world,
measured by money and graft.
Is anyone listening to my quest
for meaning of squandered silence?
Dead empty eyes pretend to be
embodiment of real person, slithering
in decayed world without compass
on a wacky train to vertigo heights.
Reality stretches between my fingers
as villains abound in stars of
ruthless dreams – psychotic anarchy.
I wear perplexity on a chain,
trying to reconstruct my humanity.
I was human once – all that matters
is the tickle of feather dusters
awakening renewal of hope,
ridding bruises and draining blood,
stimulating new growth reaching for sun.
My pith melts and once again, births
my human heart, opening life’s lid
allowing soul to live once more.
We were born as dust
embodied with seeds
straightened as roots grew
multiplied as wind blew
alphabetized by sun and water
and time
running as we're still
waiting for the moonlight
to rest
that's made manifest.
Outnumbered by our own
mid twenties bankrupt babies
crying for job spots
as we were cradled for bigger things
like music for shadow dancers
or night tempered alley performance
but that won't pay
as words don't pay
as filthy governments won't pay
for beauty or harmony,
all is reserved for business
adding zeros to their numbers
as zeros naturally grow in stems
and olive leaves cure headache
that job seeking gives
that's made manifest.
Ecological thoughts
in economical structures
they forgot the numbers
in multiplying roots
hollow sentences
in forsaken harmony
found between black and white
between C and C sustained and A
and F and english breakfast tea
and black coffee and a sour treat
grown in trees
fallen into our hands
while we were thinking gravity
that's made manifest.
Insurance won't cover angst
or depression
or passion scars
or elite art pissing in dark alleys,
but a broken leg is a bigger issue
than sadness in a broken tissue
or everything that drowns
in seawaves and philosophy
inside an empty check
inside an empty bottle
draught by an empty young man
reading an empty manifest
about misconceived things
inside an empty structure
that's also made manifest.
