Different Acts



Across the road from me, there’s an old woman sat in a wheelchair. It looks as if she’s got some kind of growth problem, and although she’s smiling, I feel sorry for her. Not just because of her disability, but because she seems like a good person. And life has a habit of shitting on those with good hearts. In the next town over, a mother of four was stabbed to death in her own home at the beginning of the week. The attacker slashed at her throat before fleeing and leaving her for dead. Reporters and police officers are now gathered around sniffing for clues. Some reckon it was a botched burglary while others think it was an honour killing as the victim was Asian. In the photos they showed on TV, she had a kind smile. Like I said, life shits on those with good hearts. Somewhere in Venezuela around the same time, two inmates in an overrun jail were tied up and had melted plastic poured over the exposed flesh of their chests and arms. The screams they made my stomach heave, and the look of terror in their eyes followed me everywhere I went for the next two days. Not even the thought of sinful acts with brunettes could take them from my mind, but as with everything, they faded with time. But those brunettes, they gave it their best shot, they really did. Going to fetch a beer, I stop halfway and turn around. Reading a book on Ted Bundy, the night sky is gentle, and although someone is shouting outside, it doesn’t dampen my mood. The world is a horror populated by savages and whores, and yet there are pockets of resistance. If you know where to look, there are sights that will melt even the most cold of hearts, but such sights are becoming more and more fleeting. I’m a good guy, but I wish I weren’t. It would be easier to become Legion; to disappear into the machine and never look back. Each day is a struggle. Each breath a conscious act of rebellion as sordid as those performed by brunettes with blood-red gums and sharpened teeth.

2 replies »

  1. To keep from thinking there’s something wrong with me, I tell myself I’m far from the only one who subconsciously hoards the horrors of the newsreel, lasciviously, in some disgusting way awakened.

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