The wind stirs me like the way you look at me sometimes cold, sometimes quiet more days of breaking branches and fallen limbs yet the power is exhilarating caught up in the storm and tumult the virulent caress as I fall to pieces whining in the breeze like a forlorn poet hopeless voice and tedious breaking and begging if you could stop and listen hear the crack of my bones as you drop me down like new growth you would sense I pain and know as old forest
Today is different than yesterday. There are strange occurrences taking place. Some of us are disappearing, without being beaten, without being tormented, cut, castrated, or murdered. I have learned that death comes in many forms, and that there is no death without suffering. We do not die peacefully. However, at this time there is no stench of blood, no screaming. We are confused and frightened. Yesterday we didn’t know if our throats would be cut or if our limbs would be severed from our bodies while we were still alive, but at least we had structure, and the routine was our only security. Today we are without even that.
Something new and sudden is happening to me today. I am loaded into a large box or crate of sorts on some volatile machinery and no others are with me. I know it is a machine because I hear the familiar sounds of one. Machines typically mean suffering and eventually death and therefore I am terrified. When I hear the machines, I hear the screams, the bellows of discomfort, I see the blood and smell the loss of life. This machine begins to move and the motion makes me sick. I cannot stand very well because of the movement and sometimes I lose my balance. But through the cracks in the wooden crate, I smell fresh air, not death.
I arrive at what I suppose is where I am intended to be. I don’t want to come out of the crate because I am scared. But they beckon me to come, they do not beat me, and I am curious, so after some time, I exit and go to them without their force. They lead me to a wide open area within a wooden fence. The fabulous brightness burns my eyes and it is wonderful. It is the sun. The sun amidst a blue and endless vastness. The air is filled with a light wind carrying the scent of apples. I look around and learn that I am seeing a brilliant apple orchard and the smell is perfect. I feel like I never really breathed before today.
I am given food that tastes good and natural and I instinctively recognize that it is what I am supposed to be eating. There is a little one with long, curly hair, she calls me pig, and she feeds me from her hand. It is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I realize that the thing I was lacking yesterday was connection. Connection with another living being, connection with life itself, not just living. In the place I was at yesterday, we were crammed together, we could barely move, forced to impose upon one another’s space. We had no connection but the awareness of each other’s suffering. Here, I am joined by others and we play. We run. My legs experience a brilliant ache as we run in the grass and the sun is so hot, we roll in the dirt to keep our skin cool. The water we drink is clean and the taste is pure, for me it is as sweet as the apples.
I am also given what I learn to be medicine to help take away the pain in my body. In the other place, they did not bother to bring relief for pain, only to purposely inflict it. I no longer feel afraid. However, I am certain that I will die. I have learned that death is inevitable. But instincts tell me my time is not too soon. I don’t know what form it will take, but until then, I am comfortable, content, and I feel safe. They will not hurt me here and I am no longer an object, but a life. I do not know why I was in that other place, or why I am now here. We were all different creatures there but we were all treated the same. I don’t know if others were saved from slaughter. Maybe they are still dying in pain, lacking what I now have. I do not know what distinguishes fate. I am a simple being, but my heart beats just like anyone’s. And today I am alive.
As a result of my “Macaroni Necklace” post, Becca at http://ladyornot.com/ became convinced I have artistic talent. I told her it took me less than five minutes to draw the picture, then I told her I would draw one of us either on a picnic or playing in the snow. This was a few days ago, and I’ve finally gotten around to drawing the picture. Yes it took me about three minutes to draw it, but some days before I got to it, so this is why I’m not an artist, but a writer. Also, this is no high caliber ability lol, just a fun sketch. And yeah I really do say “wicked awesome” because I’m from Boston. But I try to avoid writing it, though sometimes it’s a struggle.
I want to lay my body down the earth beneath me with you upon me like a tree bending with the wind strong and rooted arched back and leaned forward then your hair blinds me from the sun as you lick my lips my hands hot from your body slick along the sweat on your back and I hold on so I may experience every moment of you
I can smell it. Death is all around me, wherever I turn. The stench of blood, the terror, the screaming. I want peace. I want to live, I don’t want to die, but my time must be coming soon. I can feel it. I can feel something. Perhaps it will be today that I die.
They beat us. We sleep and live in our own excrement. The food we eat is foul, recycled, unidentifiable, yet I know they have made cannibals out of us all. It is not natural for us to eat this way, but we must eat in order to survive. Each one of us desperately wants to live.
Yesterday, one of them came in and beat us all with a pipe. They wanted us to move from one place to another, so they beat us to do it. One of us was bleeding badly. They picked him up and threw him on a pile where others were dead or dying. He wasn’t dead yet, but he will be. Maybe tomorrow after lying atop the heap of bodies, some lifeless, some still with beating hearts. Then he will be recycled. I see the pile from where I am inside this large, crowded room where there is no space to move, barely room to turn around. Yesterday I saw him lift his head, but he was too weak to make a greater effort. Our instincts move us to survive no matter what but he had lost his strength, and his life would slowly leave him. Today I see his heart still beats. Perhaps he’ll die of hunger, or thirst, or be crushed by others that will eventually lie atop him. Regardless, his last breath will be filled with the decay of corpses that he rests among.
Yesterday, one of them knocked me over and stood on my body, which made a cracking sound. I don’t know why this was done to me. I couldn’t breathe and it hurt very much. The pain is still there and I believe some damage happened inside my body. I couldn’t breathe and I was afraid. I didn’t know what else they were going to do to me. But I am still alive.
Some others were hanging upside down by their legs. Their legs were probably broken because they were violently swung upside down and their agony and discomfort were obvious. Once you’re hung upside down you know it is your time to die, and that never changes. The routine is always the same. Your throat gets cut, but that doesn’t always kill you. You just bleed. And death comes slowly, painfully.
I am deeply frightened. I do not know why I am here. We are born here and we die here.
They kick us when they walk by. They seem amused by our pain. Yesterday I stood in another’s blood. I never know if it is my turn to lose my tomorrow. Though we endure, because we must. We want to live.
We die young here. We never get the chance to grow old. We are taken from our mothers in infancy. I have heard some mothers singing to their babies just before they are taken away. I have heard mothers crying once their babies are gone. Some mothers never stop crying. It is the saddest sound we ever hear, it stirs us, and in that we find beauty. They are killing us.
The air reeks of excrement and carcass and death. I am scared, we are all scared. We are powerless and cannot help one another. We have no voice. We are not recognized as living beings, only objects. There is absolutely no escape. But I am fed and I am able to sleep and I am alive. I will live until I have no choice but to die. Then I will feel that at the very least, I had the chance to live, despite my uncertainty as to why.
There is something lacking in my world and I can’t quite decipher what it is because I’ve never heard of it, witnessed it, nor experienced it personally, yet I know it exists. I know it. I can sense it. It is something comforting, perhaps. Something that defines the vagueness and possibly lends a feeling of security. I lack this thing and though I cannot comprehend what it may be or if it is indeed real, I feel as though having it would make everything more tolerable. But desire means nothing here. There is nothing to want but to live.
…to be continued…
Sometimes I'm really stupid and I forgive myself sooner than others do however tight the misconception because my words just leap out of my face like chameleons blending in with the cool things I might say or demons trying to fuck up my moment but that's being human Sometimes I'm really stupid which comes down to being human therefore I deduce being human is being stupid damn, that can't be true I must have done it again
Refer to the FAY Index page for a chronological list of posts and their shortlinks: http://wp.me/P2DnTA-ko
The man begins to cut and the pain shoots up in currents through my body into my brain. I am strapped down so thoroughly that I can’t struggle; I can’t even move my head. I feel I may hyperventilate or asphyxiate as I breathe vigorously through my nose and strain to bring in enough air to keep me conscious. My stomach turns and I fight against vomiting because it would come out of my nose and I would drown in it. The pain is distracting and my body begins to tremble. I begin to scream within the gag. Tears drop down my temples. It is not an emotional response that triggers crying, rather my eyes are watering because of the agony.
The world around me becomes blurry and the voices are hazy echoes. I continue to scream as a cloth of sorts is draped over my eyes and the darkness consumes my psyche. It is my screaming which awakens me. My voice is loud and unmuffled. I scream, awaken, and my attempts to struggle result in my falling to the floor. I prop myself up and find that I am once again back in the room with the fireplace and the brandy. The comfortable room. I appear to be alone. Efforts to stand quickly are stunted by the sharp ache at my genitals and I grab hold of myself to contain the discomfort. It’s quite obvious at this point that my testicles are still in tact. If it weren’t for the pain, I’d suspect it was another twisted dream or delusion, so I undo my pants and drop them to the top of my thighs in order to inspect myself. Everything looks untainted, yet I am shaven and as my hands seek evidence of the surgery I find two areas which are dressed in small bandages or bits of tape in an X, probably to cover or close small incisions.
A noise from behind one of the doors in the room provokes me to consider escaping. I do up my pants and retrieve the fire poker, trying to decide whether I ought to stay for more abuse in order to find my Fay, or if I should leave and somehow try to find her on my own. I wonder if in fact I’ve willingly walked into another state of captivity. The last time, I awoke in my own bed with the police banging at my door, so I’m uncertain as to how I escaped then, or perhaps if I was set free.
The man enters and I decide to break my vow of silence and ask him questions. I’m sure it is clear to him how little I know, therefore admitting as much should not make me more vulnerable. Rather, he may in fact provide me with some information that could help me. He laughs as he sees me standing there with the poker.
“No more games.” I say, and in a force of great will against my impetus, I choose not impale him.
“There have never been any games. Not from me. You should sit, because you must be sore.”
“What did you do to me.”
I slowly sit, because he is right, I am sore.
“I’ll answer your questions.”
“That’s a complicated one to answer at this time.”
I want to get angry, but I believe that anger is a weakness, it prevents clarity and forethought. “Why is it too complicated to answer.”
“Because you need to know other things first. If I tell you where she is, you will feel you don’t need me. Then you will impulsively pursue her on your own, and fail.”
“Why would I fail?”
“Because you won’t know what you’re capable of.”
“What am I capable of.”
“Why don’t you back track your questioning. We’ll get where you’re going, but I think we need to go back further.”
“Is Fay safe?”
“For how long?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Is she being abused?”
I lean back and breathe. My body releases a mountain of tension. My muscles are left trembling from the fatigue of carrying that weight.
The man responds to my relief by saying, “No harm has come to her, she has been cared for.”
Then I begin to cry. Fear for her has been the worst torment of them all, and knowing this information makes everything I’ve been through seem bearable. I hate that I am crying in front of this man, it makes me feel weak and breakable. But I cry and it is a joy to know my girl has not been mistreated at all. I just want her back now to hold her, to bring her home, wherever home may be.
The man adds, “That’s not the sort of danger she faces.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes and the mountain returns, though now it’s not a heavy weight to bear. I am the mountain and I decide at that moment, that I am more powerful than him.
Don't call to me with your vacant intentions the violence of your gloom and waste go ahead and hit me again your fist filled with selfish reflections that have naught to do with me I won't walk away this is happening here and now I won't be the one to choose malignance against someone else's humanity I'd rather shake your hand and part as friends