Primeval maximum (the first four or five pages.)

 

                                1

Therapist - “I think you should morn the children you’re not going to have… as if that loss was measurable and as tragic as it feels.”

 Drew - “I am trying to but it’s hard since we still talk.”

Therapist - “I fall on your discernment of whether us seeing each other is too hard on you or not.”

Drew - “I don’t think I can handle a life without you…”

                                 2

  

Alison Josephine Mouse (she changed her last name so she would share one less thing with her father). Was looking for a choice that did not involve leaving her old man with a piece of cooling lead inside of his cranium. 

There seemed to be no way around it though… whatever he typed out the black hole of a brain he had hid away inside his skull came to pass in the world of fiction that Mrs mouse lived in.

“I understand” she was thinking “this is all a part of the hyper neurotic fiction of his identity trying a sense of self in what he is typing…”

And she was right I made all of that up. But this is as much her story as it is mine. 

This is one more tragedy happening while we all wait for the apocalypse.

This is the high cost and karmic hassle of trying to be a non combatant.   

                             3

“What the fuck am I doing here?” - the Therapist.

                             4

So let’s get through this… there is no happy ending for me. I love you. I am a bastard. I am fatally alone and desperately trying to exercise the demons moving my fingers on the keyboard.  

I am twisted piece of work typing and getting high off my own bullshit. Looking for a way to get even with myself for letting there be a hope that a worthless philistine pig piece of excrement could ever be happy in a world where I exist.

I have not told you this in a session but the other night I had a dream… I dreamed I put a gun in my mouth and blew my fucking head off. I felt my dentures chip before the sweet embrace of the abyss swallowed into whatever hell I have earned.

I did not bring it up in therapy because it is selfish of me. There is a us. Even if it is not romantic. There is an emotional connection that means more to me than anything else in my feeble life. There is a fight in my heart to express how much I owe you and yet I also feel that there is nothing to talk about.

You are happily married. You know all of my secrets you can weight my heart on a scale better than any one other except our Lord and Savior.

In our last therapy session you tried to be reasonable. That is your job.

“I think I told you I love you. I really don’t feel like it is a delusion.”

The Therapist - “I don’t know what you feel.”

That is why I am writing this. I want you to know how much I love and the high cost the guilt and confusion of that has weighted on my heart. 

I want you to know how important you are to me and how I could be on the verge of tears as I write this.

I’m not going to use your name. I have too many enemies to be stupid enough to do that.  You owe me nothing I am putting it in writing I made all of this up… I made you up.

And I dedicate this work of fiction to you. 

                       5

Our daughter was never born. She was never conceived. She exists in this disturbing work of fiction trying to fight her way off of the page so she can have her freedom of non-existence by assassinating me. Not the half life of near death in the dawn of reanimation that she is stuck with. Not the purgatory shame my very existance brings to anyone unlucky enough to come in the gravity of my orbit. No she does not exist, and she wants me dead.

                        6

Pain is a vehicle to the understanding, with the lesson being, learning never ends. 

                         7

Josephine, (our daughter who was never born) and she is sitting across from me in my memory. 

I wish I knew what happened between us. But his is not our story. It is our daughters. This is the life she never had. The only life I can provide for her. Me as a single parent. Doing my best and failing at it.

Most of her memories she knows I made up. They are a series of pastiched bullshit from the world she never got to experience. 

She is compilation of the best moments spent with my niece’s and nephew’s.

She is the day dreams I had for ten years of painful hope. That never came into fruition. 

She is the child we never had and mourning her is making me snap.

                         8

Chunky lil legs stomp around the room holding a foam samurai sword. Our daughter is swinging it around and laughing.  I am the demon lord of the shadow land and she is the noble warrior sent to slay me. 

I growl out demonic and low roar. Doing my best spooking carny barked dragon roar.

She is scared just a second and then stabs her foe (heroically I may add). She continues bonking him well after he lays dead and slain. Until grouchy and tired of being relentlessly bonked… he growls a surprised roar. she acts surprised more than scared and then our daughter the bravest thing that can be done when confronted with a undead dragon. She grabbed her sword and slayed him again. 

                        9

Hi, Mommy. It’s me Josephine. If you ever read this I want to know when I kill the bastard for what he did to you, by him writing this book I want you to know I am doing it for you. 

When I was old enough to read it myself. I was fifteen and I waited with a loaded gun. For him to come home from his daily walk. The sun in my eyes I capped him in the head.

I should have done it twice. I am a pro now but I was naive by design. The next time it will be a double tap.

The next time the story will be over.

But right now I am listening to anemone by the Brian Jones town massacre. 

It”s Drew’s favorite song. 

I hate that fat delusional bastard. I hate how he refuses to stay dead. I hate how he makes you feel. I hate him more than I should and less then he deserves. 

                 10

The bittersweet curse

Nothing feels as good as going home.

Nothing feels as good as leaving home.