CH. 4

4.

Consequences.

She’s been on everything I’ve written ever since, probably, certainly, in an attempt to make it all feel just like a story. I’ve talked about her to everybody that I’ve felt were worth talking about it, and it won’t stop hurting. Some say it’s not a big deal, don’t be a masochist and get it over with. Others say I should be in prison, which is a bit closer to what I feel. After all, it doesn’t matter anyway. Because this time, all of this, all that I can grasp, it’s not for others or me either, it’s only for her, for you, wherever you are, if you still are.

Kovu’s most practical trick under the sleeve was ketamine. It was available at any local vet drug shop for a few quid, and was easily cooked on a metallic ashtray to a few grams or so of snortable white powder, the most excruciating snort, but that never matters. It’s regularly used as an anesthetic in animal surgical procedures, like castrating cattle. I guess it may be concluded that it is pretty dissociative when blown straight to a puberty brain. I used to lay flat on bed, looking at the frame of me lying flat on bed looking up, from a top view, very exciting. We had little cans of it hidden in our socks and used to do bumps before every class, pretty much numbing the pain of boredom and disagreement, all day, with that stuff.

I met you while hooked to it. Kovu had been dating some girl that worked at a video rental joint, she had a friend, wanted me to meet her, you.

I don’t remember how we met, or how many times we went out before that day. I do recall one time that I was hugging you from behind, both looking out the window of my room to the park, and you asked me if that was the place where I took all my other conquered girls, it made me feel a bit ill. I can’t tell how you looked either, all I see are those line scars on your arm; you said a car accident with your family did them. I don’t know your name.

We were at Kovu’s. He lived on the second floor of an old ladies house with rooms rented out to youngsters, users. We locked ourselves up inside one of those. In the most pathetic case of peer pressure, you had agreed to give it to me, be the first one. Stupid people stretched immaturely trying to catch a peek through the windows. I closed the blinds, scared them off, or something. We starting kissing and I started touching you. I reached down the front of your trousers, under the panties, and went for it. The denim, then you, was too tight. It made it difficult for me to go in with a finger, only some of it did. It hurt you. You asked me to stop. It was way too dodgy for a first time, such a shitty place and situation, even I could get that. I halted, we left.

Ridding on the further back seat of Freddy’s you squeezed my hand almost painfully. He started bitching about petrol, he always bitched about petrol. You lived far, and we were late to pick up some other girls. In English, so that you wouldn’t understand, we started arguing, but you did somehow know, the fear in your eyes told me so. I honestly can’t tell, if it was Kovu´s, or mine idea, it’s of none importance anyway, we parked in front of a random house.

-“Come down with me.” I told you. “We’re going to go fetch a friend of ours.”-

We walked the yard up to the door. You knew what was coming, your hand was shaking. I let go off you, turned around, and sprinted back to the car. We took off. I saw your hands veiling your face. Freddy noticed your purse, checked it for cash, and threw it out the window.

That was the end of many things.

Your friend told Kovu, who later on told me, that you’d somehow made it to your home, and then had to be hospitalized out of a psych breakdown of some kind.

I didn’t deal with all this until after maybe a couple of years or so after. I just wouldn´t play the tape, until one day I realized how much of a real mother fucking pussy I had to be to do that. –“But I was only sixteen.”- And so the fuck what, I should’ve known better. And to think that it was all product of the obsession to probe myself a point: I’m able to destroy. 

The most common, less elegant, inherently putrid, obscenely primitive, disgustingly easy, detrimentally idiotic, realization about oneself. 

So I keep on writing about it, a dying fool I am, to try and cure something, anything. But I know that, even though several years have passed, and every molecule of my body has reborn, in conscience, I’m still the same system of organics and energy, I did it.

Priests have told me that god has forgiven me, to go ahead and pray a couple of holy maries. The problem there is that in the way that I’ve always understood god, is in, on, by, through and with me. So if I haven’t forgiven me, how could he?

The only way that I recognize forgiveness is advancement. I haven’t got far enough, trying with my whole life, forever, I will be.  

That’s what I want to tell you. I want you to know that the harm I did to you somehow attaches me to a lifelong quest for good, or anything like it. That I became cognizant, too aware, and now I also hurt, all the time, everywhere.

When I’m with them I feel crippled to love them, self-mutilated. Perhaps I’ll see some of you in them until I grant myself the realization that I’m able to create, therefore love them.

To me, you are the purest form of a martyr, the one that doesn’t even know about it.

You are my muse in every possible way.

I’m sorry.