I quietly shut the door behind me. I left as quietly as I could. I hope I didn't wake her.
I am of two minds on everything. My own worst devil's advocate. Constantly flip-flopping from happy to self-destructive impulses. I read about quantum theory, psychology, parallel worlds. Where once we had only black holes draining space into a null-point, now we may have white holes surging god knows what into our reality.
It's said that every decision we makes branches off into another timeline, running apart yet alongside another where we chose the opposite. It would explain this sensation of being torn apart, but then again so would a simple case of heartache.
I see both timelines stretched out before me, the defining line being drawn between content stability and nihilistic probability. In one world, we're married, there's children, I write for a living and make mediocre entertainment. In the other, my past is just ashes, I'm lost on backroads on a junked motorcycle, a book of poetic prose on my hip.
I can't see too far beyond that next bend though, unable to fully determine the outcome. I ask my therapist which is most real, as if she could make the decision for me. Only the girl upstairs in bed has that power, and really even that power is only within her because I make it so.
Time and space is breaking apart between us. I think she lies in the positive universe, as I dwell in the negative heart. It feels so beyond my control, though I must own the responsibility of my present situation. My choices, my behavior, led me here. I chose not to be there at her friend's wedding, left here there under the cold night sky.
I made that decision. This is the outcome. Has the die been cast? Time unable to be re-written, no do-overs this time, not with her. I broke the spell, created the schism, forged the rift that left the girl I love on the other side. A sacrifice to self-destruction? Am I doomed to self-fulfilling prophecy?
I don't want to believe. I fight, rebel against the notion that what has been done can not be undone. That cracks can be repaired and all can be made whole once more. But every moment is like puzzle-piecing back together shattered glass, trying to recall how our reflections fit next to one another.
I don't want her to see us like that. But how realistic is untouched shimmering perfection these days? With her calamity jane ways and my cursed bad luck, I don't see how it can be properly mended. And maybe I don't want it to be.
In one of those universes anyway.
In the other, we hold each other, melting and molding around each other, snug, complete, whole.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
The New World: Order - Prologue
My father sits outside in a rental car, just as he has done for the past week. He's got a near empty bottle of cheap Scotch and a fully loaded gun he swiped from his brother-in-law. He's trying to figure out if he's killed me yet.
He's wanted to since I first emerged from my mother's birth-canal. Some random impulse, a precognitive message from his final moments perhaps, told him to destroy me as if I were the son-of-Satan himself.
But it was him that was the hellspawn, Christ gone wrong, another in a long bloodline of failed messiahs. God-like vision blurred by alcohol induced blackouts, intentional gaps in information collected from space...or the future, the End of Days, rays sent to eradicate his mind.
Guilt. As it drives men mad, so it drove him right up to New York and parked him right outside my door. Paralyzed and dazed, unable to remove neither himself nor the vehicle. He would sometimes circle the block, getting so far as the BQE, but never taking the exit. He kept coming back.
To the gun. In hand, ready to fire. Or had it been fired already? Were those siren wails the oncoming justice system coming to persecute him for...what was the word for killing your own son in cold blood? Surely there was something more intimate than regular old homicide.
Suicide, fratercide, patricide, genocide. All these fancy words for death, murder more accurately. A nice division of various dissections of taking another's life.
You hope your son figures it out, does grander things than you, but when he does, when he makes it look easy, when he gets all the love and attention that I never got, well goddammit he's got to be put in his place, he needs to be taken down. Shit, that show-off deserves a bullet or six.
And so the battle raged down in the street below, my father caught in a quantum state of murderous intent, which would stall him until I could figure out what to do with him. Can a child really kill his father?
He's wanted to since I first emerged from my mother's birth-canal. Some random impulse, a precognitive message from his final moments perhaps, told him to destroy me as if I were the son-of-Satan himself.
But it was him that was the hellspawn, Christ gone wrong, another in a long bloodline of failed messiahs. God-like vision blurred by alcohol induced blackouts, intentional gaps in information collected from space...or the future, the End of Days, rays sent to eradicate his mind.
Guilt. As it drives men mad, so it drove him right up to New York and parked him right outside my door. Paralyzed and dazed, unable to remove neither himself nor the vehicle. He would sometimes circle the block, getting so far as the BQE, but never taking the exit. He kept coming back.
To the gun. In hand, ready to fire. Or had it been fired already? Were those siren wails the oncoming justice system coming to persecute him for...what was the word for killing your own son in cold blood? Surely there was something more intimate than regular old homicide.
Suicide, fratercide, patricide, genocide. All these fancy words for death, murder more accurately. A nice division of various dissections of taking another's life.
You hope your son figures it out, does grander things than you, but when he does, when he makes it look easy, when he gets all the love and attention that I never got, well goddammit he's got to be put in his place, he needs to be taken down. Shit, that show-off deserves a bullet or six.
And so the battle raged down in the street below, my father caught in a quantum state of murderous intent, which would stall him until I could figure out what to do with him. Can a child really kill his father?
Vile Sublime
GODYESYOUFUCKINGCUNTWHORE erupted from his mouth like the stream of hot cum that squirted onto my face, my eyes closed, pretending that I still had my dignity.
His arm is locked into position, lens focused on my face but I'm sure the videocamera is shaking too much for it to be watchable.
I wonder why this moment, with his body slapping into me with writhing spasms, isn't enough. Does he need to see my disinterest and eventual humiliation again and again so as to enjoy it without my presence?
Now that I'm done he's begun speeding up, pounding harder, shoving himself deeper, his thighs tight and hard as they lift my legs higher, his weight spreading me further open. My gasps of pain seem to excite and stimulate so I dramatize to speed up the inevitable conclusion.
My hips, taut and locked, lower back arched, butt gripped tight, I'm fucking his cock with all I've got and then just right there I'm about to almost nearly throw back my head and cry out body jerking and easing into going slack as I feel complete and utter love.
He keeps the tip of his warm cock resting on the small part of my lips just below my clit. His fingers wrap under the curve of my breasts, lifting without touching, holding me close with one arm tucked under me, drawing me closer to him all while not advancing inside me. I need it. I need him in me, now.
We nearly roll off the bed at one point, though we don't stop kissing, our tongues slapping playfully as our lips slide together. It takes forever for him to put his hand up my shirt, tracing the curve of my stomach, riding along my ribs. With a slick wrist twist my bra unsnaps and we slip out of our shirts, bare-chested and grinding in jeans.
"You're pretty", he says to me as we stand hugging, our heads resting on the other's shoulder. I push away and look him in the eye.
"Kiss me."
His arm is locked into position, lens focused on my face but I'm sure the videocamera is shaking too much for it to be watchable.
I wonder why this moment, with his body slapping into me with writhing spasms, isn't enough. Does he need to see my disinterest and eventual humiliation again and again so as to enjoy it without my presence?
Now that I'm done he's begun speeding up, pounding harder, shoving himself deeper, his thighs tight and hard as they lift my legs higher, his weight spreading me further open. My gasps of pain seem to excite and stimulate so I dramatize to speed up the inevitable conclusion.
My hips, taut and locked, lower back arched, butt gripped tight, I'm fucking his cock with all I've got and then just right there I'm about to almost nearly throw back my head and cry out body jerking and easing into going slack as I feel complete and utter love.
He keeps the tip of his warm cock resting on the small part of my lips just below my clit. His fingers wrap under the curve of my breasts, lifting without touching, holding me close with one arm tucked under me, drawing me closer to him all while not advancing inside me. I need it. I need him in me, now.
We nearly roll off the bed at one point, though we don't stop kissing, our tongues slapping playfully as our lips slide together. It takes forever for him to put his hand up my shirt, tracing the curve of my stomach, riding along my ribs. With a slick wrist twist my bra unsnaps and we slip out of our shirts, bare-chested and grinding in jeans.
"You're pretty", he says to me as we stand hugging, our heads resting on the other's shoulder. I push away and look him in the eye.
"Kiss me."
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