I didn't start out with the intent of killing them. My purpose was simply to awaken spirits; to shake souls from lethargic march.
I did not mean for people to scream.
But I'm glad they did.
When I raged with teenaged testosterone pulsing through every cell, my eyes were both more clear and more blurred. I had the focus of a dart, no a spear, piercing wind; lunging at reality with distractions none. Often, I would hit. Deeply, selfishly, skewering prey after prey. I never acted on my impulse, of course. Only with my mind's dance did I conquer. Once, in seventh grade, I tried to ask a girl to dance. Tried. Mama said not to, they'd hurt me.
I hid my wart finger, holding it closely in the grasp of its brothers. I can't remember her name now. I think it was Denise or maybe Deanne.
She had brown hair, or auburn, whatever that is. She was with her friends. Before I was within ten steps her eyes caught mine, which immediately widened. I wasn't ready yet!
Those eyes rolled, back turned, disdaining giggle, and one word. "Gross!"
Thrust after thrust, damn to that auburn hair.
When I was seventeen they hurt me. The prom king? No. The superjock? No. I had my ass kicked by some no name geeks who were simply one step higher on the ladder than me. My face was hit, first with a book, then a fist of sorts, then feet. Lots of feet. It was because I wore a ninja turtles belt buckle. I was in the hospital for three days.
I never told who did it.
It was then that I saw the pattern. The ebb and flow of popularity. The hierarchy. Our caste system. I never intended to be an anarchist.
As I said, I wanted to liberate souls. To help humanity see the error in its thoughts. It almost worked.
My grades had always been good. C's and only a D or two here and there. I even got an A in Health Class. That may have been because the teacher liked me.
It's too stale to say I was like a caterpillar turning into a gypsy moth, or perhaps too eloquent, I'm not sure.
The spirals, they are everywhere. Obviously they are in galaxies across the universe. But they are also in eddies, both in rivers and in the inset corners of buildings where leaves dance. They are not afraid. They are in relationships. Most people are submissive, like I was. A few, the elite, press their brand of reality on those around them, creating a spiraling cascade of dominance and submission, dominance and submission.
All because people like to be controlled.
Not me. Not anymore. Mama told me to come home each night so I could tuck her in. So I could wash her feet. So I could help her into her sleeping gown and make her coffee. So I could make her happy the way dada used to. I was the man now. But she treated me like the sub.
I was twenty five when mama died. I won't talk about it, other than to say she died in her sleep. Like I said, I learned some stuff in school. Mama has auburn hair too, whatever that is.
Nobody knew she was dead for months. I kept cashing her checks from the Welfare like I always did because she never left the house. They finally asked her to come in for an interview. I moved. It wasn't hard. I had nothing in my name, I was invisible, I was the outermost arm of the spiral, the trailing edge.
I know how to janit. Most don't care how floors are cleaned. Most only care if they are not. I focus on corners. If the corners are clean, everything else takes care of itself. I like corners. They are the farthest from the center. They define that which doesn't let them play. In a way, they are the guardians of existence. They establish the barriers which keep the chaos at bay. Walls are almost as good, but not as brave.
I lived in the corner for years. It was secure. No one could sneak up on me and hit me with a book. My fantasies happened in corners. A lot. Moths live in corners. A lot. Dust gathers in corners-until you kill it.
The bus had one of those logos on it. Blue swirling with yellow, almost like an epileptic yin yang wound too tightly. In its center was a cross. It pissed me off. Not the cross. Not the bus. All of those misguided people inside, waiting to travel somewhere else, laughing. A woman looked at me from near the back of the thing. She rolled her eyes and giggled. I saw her lean to another lady, then point. At me.
That's when.
Right there.
I got off my bike. I walked to the parked bus. The door was still open, no driver yet. I grabbed the rail, sticky with the grasps of so many boarded before me.
As I climbed, looking at the passengers, they quieted. I walked toward the lady. She was no longer laughing. She looked a bit like mama. My eyes kept her from speaking. I never looked away, never blinked.
Slowly, I reached to her, by her throat. I grabbed her cross, defiled by her goiter. I pulled it off, harsh. "You don't deserve to wear this." She seemed afraid. The other women were shocked. One began to speak, but my glare kept her quiet.
I scanned the bus. In the corner, near the back, were two moths, caught in a web. They struggled. I went to the web, grabbing them, to set them free. The web stuck to my hand, and to the moths. I rubbed to get it off of me. The moths were dead. The women began to yell. I left the bus, with the cross. A man approached, the driver? He did not stop yelling. He had a bible in his hand. A reverend? I took the Bible. From him. It was easy. He was old. Older than my dad would be, I think. I hit him with the Bible. "You don't deserve this book." I hit him again. He fell.
The women looked helplessly. All but one. She ran off the bus and straight at me. Her nails were sharp, but she fell too, grabbing her face. Bibles hurt faces. I kicked her. A lot. He wasn't moving either.
I peddled away with the cross in my pocket. I still held the Bible.
When the police told me to stop, I did. Now I'm in here, waiting.
Today I get zapped. It's ok, they don't really zap you anymore. They'll juice me with a cocktail that will kill me. What's interesting is the tubes. They are laid out nicely, spiraling up from connection to connection. There are also corners. The room is small. It's like being in two corners at once, four if you count the ceiling.
I hope they learned something, though. There's only so much spit a guy can take.
When mama died, I didn't cry. She passed in her sleep. We had no money for coffins. Mama said. When I buried her, she barely gasped.
I had oatmeal for my final. Simple. Filling. As I record this, I want the world to know-
I miss my dad. When mama killed him, she said things would get better. They never did. So many people are full of shit.
I'm sorry I killed those moths.
jrc 7/1/2011
