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I don’t know what I want in life. Somedays I want to make my parents proud, other days I want someone’s head on a stick. Father tells me of the importance of making a name for myself, of working to obtain resources and then the importance of distributing said resources to those in need. He says how a meaningful existence is one in thrall to everyone else, a devote beacon of good who is a sacrifice for the world. I think a meaningful existence is a hopeless dream only possible due to the susceptibility of the mind, as goodness is just fabricated evidence for the lie.

Father thinks my cynicism is a byproduct of laziness, that it is much easier to hate then love and much easier to falter then struggle. That I am weak and unable to stomach that there is potential inside of me strong enough to rout the guidelines of this world, and that me saying people live in delusion is just a foolish projection. He says just because a quest has continual sorrow and defeat at the end, it does not mean the quest is useless. For the beauty lies in the journey, and I am just unable to see the fact.

Father does not realize that perhaps I do not wish to be subject to a cursed quest, and that I have no obligation to attempt to enjoy or finish the quest. Father had that wish instilled in him, but all I have inside me is wrath. Wrath at the world, wrath at the fictional characters above, and wrath at myself. I can’t parade with my own head on a stick, but I can with those around me.

The desire today to pluck one of their heads and to place on a pike as if a marshmallow. For the eyes to bulge out with the tongue out the side and dark red blood adorning the stick. To carry it as my rightful scepter I have earned for recognizing the intense frugality of the world and the power I have to do whatever I please to disrupt it.

Teacher asked the class what their dream home was. They said their castles and lavish mansions with all their ostentatious cars and stupidly intricate cut trees. Some got creative and wanted a place on the moon, or underwater, or one even answered a house that always featured his idiotic family. My answer was in my head before she even explained the parameters of the exercise. My hand gripped the pencil so tight to prevent myself from writing the contents of my head.

My house would feature a wall made out of piked heads to keep out all and any life. It would be filled with books and nothing else so to not waste my time. Its smell would be warm like a fireplace, its feel would be coarse but one that clings to you. It would be ugly in nature with monotonous colors and a lack of furniture, though absolutely perfect to me. It would be dead quiet except the chirps of the birds and the hums of the insects who would provide the music to my life. My father would have never existed, in my dream house. Not dead, not away, but just never to have been a thing.

Teacher was so pleased with what I wrote on the paper, about how my dream house smelt like floral lavender and felt like a solid and protected space. It would be bustling and vibrant as if to express my true nature, with wide windows that let in nature’s light. It would be filled with the noise of my parents and friends and everyone I loved who provided me the will to continue on with my daily life. My father would be there at breakfast everyday, giving me a firm handshake before I left for school. I crumpled my paper as hard as I could after she graded it.

Shut up Jason, shut the fuck up. I do not care about your desire for me to move, I do not care if you do not eat. It pains me deeply to morph the corner of my mouth in a smile to his excuse me as he grins back before walking past me. I grab his neck from the back before turning

him around and then. I hate his stupid backpack, I notice his huge metal water bottle as he turns the corner.

Father always tells me that I should attempt to make friends at my school. I told him I would rather be buried alive then to willingly start a convo with someone not him. Father told me that would be arranged naturally, and that my inevitable death would occur much sooner even with breath in my lungs. That people were what gave this world meaning and that my lack of people perfectly explained my lack of meaning.

I told him its not purpose I seek, and he told me of course because the concept is not possible to someone like I. I told him off the morons and freaks who go to my school and how I envision their every atom and wish I was a small termite who had an appetite for just that. He told me my violent mind is the reason I am unhappy, and I told him the world is the reason for my violent mind.

He said that this was another example of me being weak, that we all live in the same world but only I am weak enough to get influenced by it to this extent. I told him everyone else is oblivious and he disagreed and said they are full of guile, which is a necessary skill. I asked him how he was with his peers back in his school days and he told me how he never could interact with any of them.

That he was targeted and punished by kids for no justifiable reason and that he was never given the chance to interact. That he dropped out of high school and started working in extensive labor, as he wanted money to leave the wretched town he had been living in. I felt for father even if no one dared to ever even think of bullying me.

Those smart mouth assholes who like to mess with people stop with me just when they can see the look on my face. Maybe my eyes telecast my desire to stab them repeatedly in the throat with my pencil. That my only fear in such a situation would be the lessened fun from my pencil lead breaking, but that I would still continue to stab until the body started to turn cold.

Father’s eyes get sad when he talks about his past, or when I truly express my actual feelings about things. He wants me to be good, to be everything he never had the chance to be. But he does it with such pureness that it actually makes me want to somehow attempt to oblige his wish. He isnt doing it for himself, hes doing it for me as he believes it will actually be good for me. That it will be the thing I want, but that the concept is just to foreign for me right now.

I want to be better but I don’t know how. Shut the fuck up Jacob. I want to make my father proud, I want him to respect me like I respect him. Father tells me only someone who has seen the dark can use the light effectively, and I am that dark. I want to be a sacrifice if only for a small spark of light. A glint, a gleam, a flash, a ray, a beam.

Father says I think of rainy days in the bright sunlight that the light is already there and I need to let it shine over me. Jacob’s hair has a little downward triangle on the back of his neck, I want a guillotine to chop it off. I shouldn’t feel this way, father said the people with the most differing of opinions have the potential to be the greatest acquittances. I have no acquittances but father told me acquittances are painkillers and a cold beer in the burdens that come in life.

Hello Jacob my name is ______ _________ and its lovely to meet you. He turns from his chair and his face features a hint of fear, a dose of confusion, and a smudge of annoyance. I'll fucking kill you. We have been in this class for over a semester now he says. I know Jacob, its

just that we have never gotten the chance to talk until now. He ushers his head to his chair and back to mine before nodding. Its nice to meet you too he says.

His eyes are uneven as if each conveyed a slightly different emotion. Pompous and stupid, ugly and boring, enraging and fucking enraging. Would you want to maybe do something after school one of these days I ask him. His face scrunches, his eyebrows point downwards as his eyes change to dazed and confused. What do you mean he asks me as if I was a fucking pawn and he a king.

I will checkmate you right here you bastard. We could maybe work on homework or watch a movie. His face hits the final douchebag form, the scrunch so severe like a piece of paper being folded. I want to burn this paper and smoke the ashes. I’ll let you know, thanks he says before turning around. Translation of that would be no you freak, father I hope you can take solace in that I tried.

I look at my hands, and my polished and clear skin. Not a hair on them, let alone a hint of blood. I envy demons, they feel what I feel but they feature the power to do something about them. Father says demons are the lowest of the low, but I counter and say god created them and that it was his fault the way they turned out. Father then asked me if it was his fault for how I turned out. The idea repulsed me.

I told father that god granted demons the potential to go rouge, and that doing so was just in his nature. That father was just a caretaker to the potential god granted. Father then says if we didn’t have the potential to be bad, then good would never exist. And that staying away from the bad and the reward of the good is another thing that gives life meaning, and another thing I fail to grasp.

God, why can’t existence be a simpler vermin. One set with one specific task, and I disagree with father. He tells us we do have one task, to enjoy and that all good nature and actions falls under that broadness. I miss father’s smile; I hate fucking teacher and his stupid smile. Father smiles like an angel, so even a devil like I can feel its beauty and warmth. A campfire to a flame that grants no light.

Teacher asks us to write about love and its importance. My mind does not feature the answer to the second part of the question. Father told me about how he woed mother, and that how before her he had featured a series of heartbreaks. That each of the people his hungry heart felt for struck their own varying blow on the same aching wound. But that mother came and healed that wound, bandaged it up to the point where he began to appreciate the scar.

With my mother is the only time I have seen father happy. Father is a happy being, its just that my negativity is a parasite. I hate to upset father but I do not know how to be any different. I want to put my head on a pike and to give father it, to show him my upmost devotion and care. To let him know I regard his teaching and differing opinion with the upmost respect even if my character struggles to show that.

What is my character, teacher what is my character. Teacher what is my character I shout while jumping out of my chair. You are a beautiful thing full of good and who can do no wrong. I get up I grab my pencil and I run up to teacher. I grab his shoulder. I angle the pencil. I stab and stab and stab, he starts to shriek the pencil cracks but I continue with the dull end. My fist does more damage then the pencil but I don’t stop drowning out the class from behind.

I look at my paper and see I have no words down. Teacher comes behind my desk, father sees love as beautiful so maybe it is. Me and father disagree on virtually every imaginable thing.

Father says I don’t have to answer his questions anymore, because he can answer it himself and that the polar opposite choice would be mine. Father tells me love is the answer, but my question doesn’t allow it to be a choice.

Love is the answer I write on the paper. The meaning of the answer I know not, even the question is one I know not. I don’t know anything; father should have done more to prepare me for it all. I am on raft amidst an absurd and raging ocean, and he with diligence informed me of my place but offered no solution. Am I just to drown, am I just to float till the end of time. How could love be the answer, what can love do for me. What can father do for me, I just don’t know.

I wish I could speak to father. I can say all that comes to my mind, but the things hidden behind a dam of delusion are unreachable even. Father would tell me that love is a thing that must be experienced and cannot be explained, just as the smell of a lovely flower must be smelt and not stated. He loves to speak in cloaked phrases. Life is a journey adorned with a mask down a curving road, why should my wisdom be any different he says.

I wish I had father’s wisdom, he knows of love and its importance. Jacob seems busy at work with his pencil, the words seemingly flowing out at a constant pace. His hand struggling to keep up with his mind, my hand struggling to refrain from gouging his eyeballs. All around the scratches and rustles and erases rouse me causing my breath to be stuck in my throat.

Love is the answer. But how, why, where? Love is the answer because it brightens father up, but teacher wouldn’t take that, teacher cannot comprehend me. Neither can I neither can father. Love is the answer because it is what created me, and thus cursed me forever. That makes love a horror, a fucking hell. Love is the answer because it is laced with longing for someone to finally accept you. I accept father, do I love father? Does father accept me? Does father love me?

What does it even mean accept someone, I accept father. Does telling myself that mean I accept father, do my actions show that I do. Is Jacob accepted, is Jacob loved by anyone. Love is the answer because it provides meaning to an otherwise meaningless existence. Love is the answer because it is warmth in a cold cold war. Love is the answer because

Teacher looks at my paper I follow teacher’s eyes and see the vicious scrawls and erratic scratches done over my words. Teacher picks up my paper as her eyes dart from it to my face. Teacher is judging me, I wish to disappear to poof away from any form of existence. Teacher is just the same as everyone else. Teacher peers at the paper intently as I clench my fists till my hands shake under the table.

Why did you ruin your paper ______?

I look up at teacher who’s eyes have strict corners at the end of the downward oval who’s sharpness thwarts all malice. I didn’t like the words I put teacher.

Love Is the answer because it is laced with longing for someone to accept you. Love is the answer because it is warmth in a cold cold war. This is great stuff, I can’t make out any of the rest but I can’t imagine why you would decide of crossing any of it.

Speak to me ______ your writing is beautiful, you articulate with a clear talent but I've always felt you lacked something. Don’t look at me, don’t fucking look at me. Just leave me alone. Don’t be upset, I mean that in the most incredible way. The thing you lacked I was perplexed about, I could feel it when I read your work but I never quite could name it. Now I see you lack a sense of passion. You write elegant words, but your words are just that. Your heart, your soul is not really with it. When I read this though, when I stare at this paper with all your vicious scribbles I see the life in the work. I see the art that transcends you and this worldly life.

The place you went, the things you thought, the ideas you created to write this. Please implement that in your works, they will propel your work and serve as catharsis for you in expressing yourself.

Keep up the good work ______.

I sometimes dream about being alive. No matter how silly it is in reality, the notion gives me a sense of due comfort. I dream about being a human, being the same as everyone else. Knowing what to say, knowing what to do, knowing what to think. I wish I could create things for myself, create my own path for once. I wish I could perhaps draw or sing or just live. I wish I could be Jacob, I wish I could respond to teacher. I wish I didn’t have these deep deeply rooted feelings of ardent dander and relentless undying woe. I wish father could be my friend and someone who I share a loving bond with. I wish mother never left and that she never took fathers smile and heart with her when she did. I wish I could love, I wish I could know about love .I

dream these things, not in my sleep for my mind is a rampaging uncontrollable beast who dwells on the worst of the worse and I wish it didn’t have to be that way.

The bell rings which causes teacher to finally hand me back my paper which I take and leave without a look back. I go through the halls feeling a multitude of shivers cascading through my being, as my breath gets stuck in my throat. I must hurry quick to meet father. His presence will be my soother, it will play the part of love.

There he is, waiting alongside the flagpole as he always is. He offers a sad smile, which at this moment is more than enough and all I could ask for. How was school he asks me? Purgatory I respond which causes him to chuckle which causes me to chuckle. So are your sins repented? School feels long father but its not actually eternity I say. You give yourself too much credit, it shouldn’t take you more then 15 minutes to cleanse your soul. Souls don’t exist father. Just because you are unaware of something, does not mean that something is not there.

Just because something sounds coinvent that doesn’t mean that something is there. The soul is there, it is there the same way the morning sun is. I can see the morning sun. I can feel the soul. Well, I can’t. You don’t let yourself do so. How can I let myself, wisdom is wise when given to be applicable. When something happens to you that either threatens to take your soul or cleanse it, then you shall know. That day will mark your rebirth or death, that day will be the surest proof of your existence.

Did you have such a moment father? Oh yes, it is the very moment that plays through my head at every moment. It was when you were born, and me and your mother marveled at your beauty and the love that created it and the love we felt for what we created.

My palms cling to my sleeves as I look up and stare at father who smiles while looking away, nostalgia outlining his eyes. Is this what love is?

Father?

Mhm father says. His eyes back on mine, misty but still carrying that blissful smile that is so rare to see now.

Do you love me? Hey, hey ______.

Jacob, what is Jacob doing here. What are you doing man?

What do you mean Jacob.

His face displays that same confused look as he did in class. I look at father who’s smile has completely disappeared. These are the kids you so want me to befriend. I whisper it to him even though I know Jacob heard. Father’s face stares intently at Jacob.

Uh just never mind then.

No tell me, what are you talking about.

Father looks scared, why is father scared. What is father scared about. What is Jacob.

Tell me what you are fucking talking about. His eyes stay on me the whole time, as he too seems fearful.

Who are you talking to?

I am talking to you Jacob.
No not that, not that. Before I came up to you.

What do you mean?
Before I said hey you were talking. Who were you talking to.

I stare at father and stare at Jacob, as father finally turns back to me. I see his face and then I see a hole. And then I see him still. And then I see flashing lights. And then I see my world crumble before me.

Father no, father what happened. The wretched smell, my ears ringing, I’m lost. Father how could you, are you leaving me father. Father. Father where are you. Where did the school go, where did anything go why is there only darkness left. A light appears in front of me as I smack my face to rid the trees and stumble towards it. Father its you it has to be you please.

I see Jacob in front of me with eyes wide open and a being frozen. Its like all else is gone, and all I know is my face connecting repeatedly with Jacobs. I punch and punch and punch as my own fist gets heavy from the blows. I continue till the blood gets overlapped by fresh blood. His nose smashed down going in multiple directions. I punch and punch Jacob’s face. Father lays in his place drowning in his own pool of blood. Father how could you leave me, how could you leave me. I shake him and shake him wiping my nose trying to get rid of the smell. I push against the hole made in his face, I pick out the parts that came out of his head and try to place them back in. I take of my shirt and use to to tie it up. Please father come back to me father.

I grab my head as I fall to my knees. I scream and scream. Its all too much I cannot, mother its mother. I smell floral lavender and I'm at my old chair at the dinner table. Father is

there too and its just us three together as it always used to be. Mother and father smile vividly at each other as I get out of my chair. They look at me a bit startled as I run to father crying as I hug him and grip as hard as I can. What's wrong father asks. Things are back to normal, things are perfect. Why are you crying? Because I missed you guys so much. I run to mother and I hug her too as she puts her hands to the side of my head and angles me towards her.

Do you think you can erase your past by delving into delusion. You never wanted to hug us before, doing so now will not erase all the times you didn’t. Even in your head you cannot be truthful with yourself. I push away from mother as the house disappears and it is just a dark room with a small circular table surrounded by a ring of light. I see a knife on the table, its blade the length of my hand. I grip it tight and turn it towards myself as I stab it inside my neck. The pain burns but each time I think of father’s face and I want to push it in deeper.

I lodge it in as I choke on myself and my own blood. I ignore my own gurgles as I attempt to move the knife left to right except the knife is gone, and I'm in class once again. Teacher stands in the front of the room pacing. What is wrong with you, why do you hide yourself from your own writing. Teacher comes before my desk and slams his head down. I pushmy chair out and back away, as I see a deep anger in teacher’s eyes. You need to stop running ______. You need to stop; you need to stop right now. He grabs my shirt and throws me against the wall. My head bounces off as I scream in surprise. He puts his hands on my neck, as teacher becomes father and father is now choking me.

I try to put my hands up to stop him but they are immobile and stuck to my sides. His eyes are filled with blind rage as they deeply focus on my neck. Some beast has taken ahold of father, and now he is no longer that sense of light I so require. Perhaps to die by father’s hand is the way for me. Just let go, just let go, just let go.

Just let go ______ the drop isn't as bad as it seems. You know how to swim we have practiced this. Besides I’ll be here, forget drowning you won’t even have to struggle. I look at myself and I am seven again scared to jump. My mother is holding my hand, my father is in the water eager eyed waiting for me to jump. I look around in every direction, I see the worn-out chair that has my mother's purse, my father's keys, and all our clothes on top of it. I see the other kids playing amongst themselves, people tanning in the Sun, conversing with smiles on their faces. A breeze strikes me that makes my body chill up but the feeling grants life in me.

How can I preserve this moment. The answer comes to me as soon as I think it, and it is as definite as it is solemn. I hold on to my mom’s hand as tightly as I can, as she gives me a warm squeeze back. She turns me in her directions before bending over and lightly grabbing my shoulders.

What’s wrong, why are you scared honey?
I am unable to speak as I choke up my childish sob, my mother gently wipes them away. There’s nothing to be scared about, your dad is there to catch you if anything goes wrong. If only she knew.

But you don’t need him, I know you can do it all by yourself. You are a big boy now, if you jump you can go play with all the other kids. Look at all your friends they are waiting for you. Now come on jump honey.

I grip her hand tighter but this time my fingers pry themselves open, as my mother kisses my forehead and I stare at my father. He waits for me full of joy his hands open. I jump and await the water and it comes but in scalding amounts as I feel a wall crash against me. I open my

eyes and see infinite darkness as I submerge and emerge repeatedly out of water. I kick and try my hardest to stay afloat, but each wave comes and knocks the wind out of me and throws me of my course. Each hit causes me to lose a bit of fight, as I scream. Not for help but for myself.

My words to father were always right. Life is a cruel and corrupt bargain. I put myself on a raft that comes to me saving me for the moment, but each wave threatens to push me off and swallow me whole. The worst part of it all is that I bet time and time again someone as me stood and fell just the same. With not a thought given left behind as the world continues to spin. Stuck, stuck in a cruel loop, a perpetual maze. What choice do we have but to drown in the abyss where we drift endlessly.

I steady my footing and stand on the raft, my eyes might have well been close for not a speck of light can be seen in any direction. Just darkness, the light is far gone. Come on then world, if I am your prisoner I shall not give up without a fight. Your tyranny owns my being but not my mind. The raft suddenly stumbles as a weight enters the other side of it. I look up and see me staring right back at me. My eyes are sunken with not a hint of anything, my lips part in a blank way. ______ I say, ______ I responds.

I am sorry I could not do anything about anything.
Is that something you tell yourself to excuse the way you feel?
It was all too much I could never get over-
You could never get over yourself?
No listen to me, its not my fault. It’s the world it’s the way things are. Then why is it only us stuck on this raft?

Because everyone else lives in their delusional cordons unaware of the real world, unaware of what we know.

What's the point of knowledge if its nothing but a curse you can’t even acknowledge.

I do acknowledge this, I know we are stuck on this raft and nothing is left for us other than sorrow and pain.

You know I'm not talking about this raft ______.

Then what are you talking about?

You know it. I know you do. I am you and the memories of it play through my head at every moment. I didn’t run like you did, I faced it head on like I was supposed to. Even now, even knowing all my pain you still can’t acknowledge the reality.

You think you are better than me because you create narratives to back up whatever things you find wrong about yourself and the world? You are nothing, you are me but not even me. You run just as I do, you are just as helpless as me. If I am stuck on a raft then you are right next to me. Don’t speak like we are different, don’t speak like you are better. I went through life, I wiped my own tears, I did what I had to in order to live. In order to pass every single day. Who are you? Who do you fucking think you are. You are just as bad as me okay, you are fucking worse than me. My hubris is just a reflection of yours except you encompass a tiny droplet and I a massive storm.

Does saying any of that actually make you feel any better? The ocean is nothing so what does that make you?

Shut up, shut the fuck up.

Why ______? Are you too scared to face reality again, is it all too much for you? Stop it, fucking stop it leave me alone.

I am you, I am everything of you that you neglect and ignore. You cannot rid yourself of yourself.

You are not me you are nothing like me. Just get away from me, stop fucking talking.

You couldn’t make it out of your own head. Your mind is the only thing you can control and yet you couldn’t even like yourself. You couldn’t even have a moment of peace, a moment of enjoyment.

Please I beg you, just you can’t. You can’t do this to me please I can’t take it.

I know you can’t take it ______, you are too weak for this world. Father knew so did mother. You are the reason mother died, you were too weak to save her.

You fucking bitch. I’ll put your head on a stick you fucking bitch.

You are the reason father hated you and began to hate everything else. You are the reason he died. If you were never born mother and father would still be alive and in love together.

I grab myself and a long blade comes into in my hand. I don’t even know who I am anymore but I slice it against the nearest neck I can find. I feel the cut but I feel the act of cutting too as red comes and overpowers the darkness of the night. I feel a head in my hand as a pike appears at my feet. I grab the head and shove it on the pike as I stare at father beheaded and impaled. I look into his eyes and as if they were a window into the depths of my soul I see reality unfold.

I hear the rattle of chains till I feel scalding metal wrap around my arms and legs as I scream from its burns. My skin boils as searing coils form and lock me in place. I close my eyes and I'm

at the pool again and im swimming towards father who is glee with joy and I feel like two knives have been stabbed in my eyes as they are forced open. Every time I try and close my eyes, I feel my eyelids being ripped off of my face. I try to scream but I can’t even hear myself, as I am forced to do nothing but simply exist.

My mother appears as I cry her name hoping she could save me. She sits on our sofa humming a tune while our old cat lays in her lap. She closes her eyes and strokes his fur without a care or worry in the world. Even if my body is burning through hell seeing her like this oh so beautiful grants me such dear contention. I stop resisting and try to soak in every part of this image, as I know just like other joyful moments the nature of it is fleeting. At that my father enters and from my first glance I can tell this isn’t father.

He turns and looks at me and his haze is apparent as is his high. I’ve seen that face before. Father walks towards me with that face whenever I said something I shouldn’t have. Father grabs mother and I pull against my constraints even if they rip off all the skin on my arms and my legs. Let her go, let her go please. Mother’s once serene face turns terrified as she struggles to get free from his grasp. He slaps her and she falls to the ground and he picks her up again.

Her sobs ring in my ear as she begs for him to let go. I’ll put your head on a stick you fucking bitch father says to her. I stop resisting against my confinement as I cease to exist. I close my eyes as I barely even feel any pain from it, even when I feel both of my eyelids ripped off of my eye. I direct my pupils gaze to behind my eyes. I hear mother screaming until I don’t and I just hear a body thump to the ground and father yell in his rage.

______! ______!!!. Come here, daddy just wants to play.

I look at him and I feel such disgust for the one thing I thought made life okay. You killed her, you killed her for no reason. You ruined everything, you ruined everything. I hate you, I fucking hate you. If I could kill you repeatedly for all of eternity my thirst would still not be quenched.

He turns and looks right at me. Your anger is tactful, you are better at being angry then upset. Your vengeance is a farce, you feel heartbroken for what I did. You still cannot accept the fact even if the scene was replayed right in front of your eyes.

I can accept it; I know it all. I can remember now; I can see it in my head. You killed mother and goaded about it.

Come on ______, I know you better then that son. Even you know that doesn’t make sense and that there is more to the story. Tell me then, tell me the whole story.

That is the whole story you murderer, there is nothing you can do to justify what you have done.

Where were you then, where were you when I was murdering your mother?

Where was I, where was I? I was trying to stop him I had to have been. I love mother I would have stopped father I know I would have. But mother told me I was too weak to save her, then what did I do where was I. I need to know father please tell me I need to know.

You know you don’t want to know. You know you can’t take the truth. I know this because you already know what happened, you where there of course. So ask yourself ______, where were you when I was murdering your mother?

I don’t know, please just tell me leave me alone. I don’t know.

Why is it that you can’t remember anything other than the words I say to you? Why do you have no memories of your childhood or the present?

I don’t know father stop please.
You always had a strong imagination, but I never knew it was this strong. I pull on the chains as hard as I can.
To create whole conversations all by yourself.
Wait these chains aren't even real.
I guess your imaginary world needed some context.
The chains come off of me by themselves.
What are you going to do now, seek your vengeance.
I wrap the chains on my now healed arms and work towards father.
By killing the one you love you won’t be able to find peace.

He doesn’t even resist as I walk behind him and pull the chains around his neck. He just manically laughs as I tug on the chains while placing my foot on his back. I think of mother’s face as I pull as hard as I can. Her angelic beauty ruined by the demon he is. Even is laugh drowns out into the corners of my mind until all I hear is the thud of his head bouncing on the floor. I hear it bounce repeatedly as noises of people crowd my ear.

Hey ______ you good? You went some other place there.

I look and see Jacob wipe off a bead of sweat from his forehead as he places his arm on my shoulder.

Come on let’s do this, the game is tough but we can still win.

We are on a basketball court seemingly in the middle of a game. Who am I, when is this. Can such a mundane thing be the product of my imagination?

Why aren’t you coming what's wrong?

Is this real Jacob? He laughs hesitantly.

What do you mean man? Where is this coming from.

Just answer me please is this real?

Can this not wait till after the game? I don’t know what you mean of course this is real.

Would I answer that to my own question. I would try to dodge it and say some smartass comment. How did we get here?

This is gym class man we walked here from lunch. What happened why do you seem so different?

Could this be real? Do you care about me Jacob?
Of course, man you are one of my closest friends.

Is it that I just want this to be real? Jacob when did we become friends?

Look if you arent coming im going to go play. Everyone is looking at us, why can’t you coninute your bizarre integration after the game.

I feel a tear roll down my face. Please answer me right now. Please I need to know.

He takes a gulp. Well you talked to me that one day in class and then from that day we were friends.

I thought you disregarded me asking to hangout that day.

Well I did but remember I saw you after school talking to someone.

Who was I talking to?

Dude we have to play.

Who was I fucking talking to?

You were talking to your dad.

Was my dad there?

No.

So who was I talking to.

You asked me if I could see your dad but I couldn’t.

Why not?

Is this some cruel joke that you are playing on me?

Why couldn’t have my dad not been there?

Because ______ your dad died before you were born. You know this, you let yourself slip too far away from reality. You’re doing it again.

But father could not have died, could he? No he killed my mother I know he did, these feelings are real. You are lying to me, you are fucking lying to me. I don’t even know whats real anymore, but I never did. I have no memory of anything, I don’t know who I am.

Are you ready to face the truth?

No I’m not, I hate the truth I hate the lies. I hate everything.

Then you are. Once you acknowledge that you are avoiding the truth because you are unable to handle it, then the truth shall show itself to you. May your soul find its way to some form of solace.

I’ll put your head on a stick you fucking bitch.

I open my eyes and its father carrying me by my neck. I look past him and see my mother’s limp body against the wall and as I look into my father’s eyes I know I'm next. His rage will be the very thing that shall contaminate his soul and free me from mine. I don’t even think of resisting but in fact I smile as father liberates me.