Although my life was back on track, the stink followed me everywhere. It was infuriating.
At a specific nadir I scrubbed my skin till it was red and raw. Nothing alleviated the stench which no one else could seem to hear.
As with all disasters, the relief of surviving slowly wears off as you become acquainted with the little problems which fill the day. However I didn’t remember always being so agitated by them. Gwen was helpful, but ultimately her efforts only angered me more.
Of course, some things stay with you. His face for example. Not that I was horrified by the memory of it, but as is the running theme; I am agitated by it. His gloating smug little face. He had won the fight, but I had survived.
Had I though? I’ve been wondering about the afterlife. Perhaps because of the lack of life or living I see around me. I should be ‘Happy to be alive’ the doctor’s said. Sometimes I wish I had died on that operating table.
At least then I wouldn’t have to deal with the bills. God damn bills, the constant wolf at the door. That’s the thing with modern life isn’t there’s no finality things just go on and on and on. That’s the reason I hate that smug little face, he’s free now from theis tediousness.
It is not all gloom though, there is a glimmer of hope in this dark patch. It appears the night air soothes my short temper as well as blowing away the incessant smell of sulfur and rotting fish.
I think about the history books I read in high school as I walk the dark streets. The trouble with society is that we have forgotten the virtues of the past. Instead we value these gadgets and gizmos– but they never really solve anything, a newer one comes out and then a newer one and on and on.
Same thing with magazines and newspapers, the new issue comes out and suddenly the last one is worthless. Gwen loves those sorts of publications, apparently I have PTSD and then the next week I am a ‘complete psycho’…
She’ll probably come back from her mother’s with the latest Woman’s Weekly feature article on how I need to ‘get help’ before it’s ‘too late’.
Fucking bitch. Doesn’t she realize everything is already too late. You can’t turn back time, it is a one way river and I am living in backwash. As the samurai and knights of old would agree my survival was a disgrace and a dishonor, I should have fallen upon the sword. It was his right to slay me he beat me but…. Argh that incessant smell it never ceases!
…But he let me live and he knew what it would be. Life is a curse.
And it goes on and on and on.
How do you fix a curse? Through a ritual.
I look in the mirror and see the same face as my attacker. Tortured and alone. The same scar is cast across my face. But he was smug and smiling. Happy.
I need that.
I feel like a night walk.
An end can be achieved. All it will take is two knifes and a brave opponent.
I understand now.
I am watching the sun set and the smell is overwhelming, there no point resisting it anymore.
The sickly sweet stench must spread and I will be its deliverance.