In the dim that infests a single twin
room, resting like a cavity, dead center, in an end of the road motel, the
darkest of dreams will visit one's mind. Even when they one is wakeful, or
leastwise fitfully unable to sleep. When rest eludes the body the mind
traverses plains unknown to all but psychotropic enthusiasts and romantic
poets.
Humanity likes to imagine that a man
living in destitution does so alone. Each cavern a pre-emptive tomb for an
unknown soldier in the war against capitalism. No one is ever alone though. If
one is not indulging in vacation provided by acid, the other inhabitants, the
bugs crawling over one's skin, must be real. It is enough to make one
fantasize.
It is said that every man has at least
one homo-erotic fantasy in their life. Mine was high tech. A robot penis. I
imagine it would be hard, cold, and taste slightly oily. Such a creation would
ejaculate a super hero. I contemplated giving my first and last blow job and
the force of the machine's pleasure driving my thinking machine out of its
case. A short step from deviant lover, to abstract artist. The robot in my
dreams would paint the wall in red and gray. Crafting an image a psychiatrist
could use to diagnose madmen.
Wiping the insects from my flesh I knew a
change of location was necessary. Thus did I go from nearly dead to wandering
vagrant. A dumpster, a cardboard box, an abandoned tent. Any one of them would
do, sleeping under the stars would do good for my soul after so long in
confinement. Then I saw it.
A Victorian treasure stood before my eyes. A for sale sign out
front gave me hope. Not to purchase it, no. Men like me, those unemployed and
lost to society, did not own homes. Instead I meandered to the convenience
store and borrowed their phone.
No offers were as yet on the table, and
no showings for at least two weeks. The asking price was high enough to make a
millionaire blush. I would be able to squat in this home for months, if I was
lucky. If I was very careful.
My possessions were sparse to say the
least. I laid out my winter clothes, the mud stained item I would don, over the
urine stained items I currently wore, when it grew cold. I laid out the faded
blue piece of foam that served as my bed. As i prepared to lie down I looked at
the wall.
Amidst the beautiful paper was a stain. I recognized the type. It was much as the mark
left by sweat from a desperate man will imprint on a threadbare mattress when
one foregoes sheets to save on water.
Peeling back that paper I found a hole
that echoed the ache in my heart and lack in my soul. The dark cavern was
filled with a corpse I recognized. How could I not? One is bound to know one's
own face.
I drew back in horror, thinking of who
to blame. I wanted to lay this at the feet of jack-booted government thugs. The
wished to blame it on the indifference of corporate fat-cats. I knew though. I
knew it was me. I left this corpse here when I gave up and gave in. In the
homes of the hearts of every man over twenty-five there was a sacrifice like
this. Laying discarded, waiting to be found.
I knew this must be disposed of. Nobody
must ever see what I had done to myself. I thought of what those heroes on
television would do. Retrieving the plastic utensils I kept for the rare
occasion that a man of mercy provided me food I began to consume the remnants
of the evidence of my crimes.
#shortstory #author #Awethors #surreal #writing #writer
