The following is a stream-of-consciousness post. Apologies.
A person can make only so many promises to someone. People are incredibly harsh when it comes to mistakes, depending on how severe they are. And yet, some of us, the foolish ones, remain faithful to the liars who continue to break those promises.
My father the drunken fucking bastard.
The clock has run out.
It's been rewound many, many times before and even replaced after it breaks, but finally it's run out. After 19 years, the clock has stopped running, and I've had the nerve to throw it in the trash.
When you accept that life is a roller-coaster that peaks in its insanity and drops in interest constantly, what is the point of riding the same coaster over and over again when every ride ends in a violent, fiery crash?
The brute, the barbarian, spewing out his bits of language in different settings like a sprinkler. Only swear words can escape his lips, putrid words that falter in flight as soon as they're spoken, dragging themselves onto the ground much like pouring salt in the gardens.
He stands proudly on his territory, a broken household filled with cockroaches and rats, his closest companions. A tiled-up porch broken to bits, a gaping hole beggin' for someone's leg to get caught up in it and snap right off. A house that has a clear view onto the neighborhood, full of fools, bastards, drunks, liars, adulterers, idiots, believers, nonbelievers.
I sympathized with the beast many times. It was his birthday the following Thursday, and we did very little to recognize it besides sending a birthday text. How lonely can someone be when his own sons abandon him like this? He has a very difficult job. He's a construction worker and a damn fine one. I wouldn't be surprised if that was the reason that sets him off.
The beast is capable of camouflage, disguising reality with trickery, able to produce tears that even the saltiest oceans couldn't. He stuck to his story for almost a year now and we kept pulling ourselves back into it but we couldn't help but listen.
It's morning time now but my body is still in action mode. I don't think I fell asleep to tell you the truth. If I did, I'd probably feel more in tune, refreshed but instead I can only remember the position of the room, the yellow light marking its way in the room as the beast stumbled from his cave to cast us out. The brave warriors holding their weapons but forced to drop them as they knew they would only be repelled by the beast's scales.
If none of this makes any sense, how could it ever? How does it feel to have irrefutable proof that someone you once loved can't be saved.
In 11th grade, I was the only one who defended Blanche Dubois of not being crazy, but at the very end of Streetcar Named Desire, I found out she was. And so I've made it to the end of my own play, with all the ducks in a row ready for fire.
Life sucks. That might be the most blunt way to say that but sometimes, that's the only way you can say the obvious. Life fucking sucks.
End scene.
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