While going through some old files, I found this short story. I wrote this during one of the most difficult times of my island experience when I lived abroad for five years.
I’m not proud of it – not by any means.
I felt beaten up at the time so I was releasing my thoughts on paper, producing this not-so-pleasant piece.
I am not crazy…I can assure you, but my mind was not in a healthy place.
In the air of authenticity as well as truth, I’ve decided to share it, but you really don’t have to read it at all. Really!
I look behind and all I see is wall.
Me, four walls, a dim flickering lantern hanging from the ceiling, and a man sitting in a chair in the centre.
I know him.
He knows me.
He knows me and he hates me. He’s so repulsed by my presence that his odium is intimidating alone.
His eyes recede.
If only I knew what I had done to offend him that he would persecute me for all this time – I’d fix it. Immediately. But every time we’ve faced each other, he says nothing. Shows no expression.
Gives me no indication of rationale, supporting his abhorrence.
If only I could understand. If only I could make it right.
But it’s all part of the punishment. The oblivion. The uncertainty. The lack of knowledge. It makes the penalty that more savage.
He flips his chair to the wall.
It breaks into a hundred pieces.
He is standing now. Six foot eight and wide as a bull, muscles upon muscles, bulging through a white suit, shirt, and tie that match the colour of his long beard.
I always forget how powerful he is.
Why do I forget?
He takes his first step toward me. I’m apprehensive, dwarfed by his colossal height.
I tell myself: I’m good at what I do. I’ve fought this long. Survived for longer.
The air becomes frost, the darkness increases—he’s looming closer.
I put my fists up, but I’m conscious of the futility.
He raises one arm. I cross my forearms. The fist collides with my block, throwing me against the wall, head smashing against brick, dazed, stars, colours, sparkles.
I feel the first punch; all four knuckles embedded in my cheek. It happens again. Then again. Then again. And then again.
My face is mangled, but it’s not over.
I lie on the floor and endure the weight of him crushing me. The wind of his arm pulling back, breezes my nose. That’s the last time I feel anything on my face. Powerful blows, punch after punch sever nerve endings.
Somehow, still astute, I count two-thousand, five-hundred and fifty punches. Five hundred for the face. Fifty to the right arm, fifty to the left. Seventy to my chest. Sixty to my stomach. Eighty stamps on my right leg. Eighty stamps on my left leg. Then a bodily pummelling like a butcher beating meat.
He grabs me by the shirt. One handed. Drags me off the ground so fast I might as well have been catapulted up. He waves a hand in the air and a floating mirror appears in front of us.
I don’t recognise myself.
I would like to think it’s over, but I know the truth. He hasn’t even begun.
To be continued…
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