The Terrible Time when it all went away and came back, slowly. A Confounded Letter.

The Terrible Time when it all went away and came back, slowly. A Confounded Letter.

Status: Finished

Genre: Memoir

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Memoir

Summary

A frightening Confounded Letter even now

Summary

A frightening Confounded Letter even now

Content

Submitted: January 28, 2009

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Content

Submitted: January 28, 2009

A A A

A A A


So you can hear that, can you? The shouting scream from a dense dry throat that strut stutters its croaked dry way to a brief comfort conclusion. The hanging horror arriving once again throughout that long lonely day and night. After running all the way home. The coming and going after being lost in an owned mind. But you shrink from this, I see, because you are there. No greater terror time than this. Never, ever.

What you hear is a troubled teen tasked to lying on a sweaty by now settee in rough grey and red cheap plastic. Two women, Mother and Grandmother change his dark soddenness during a brief happy hiatus. Otherwise....

Backwards bending comes again. Begin as if you had a choice, choice. With ticking neck, tick, tick clockwork spine that comes and comes and comes; whisper the choice, no more making up of strange words to utter in your/his grief. For this cannot be you. This weak whisper of a sick boy strut stuttering his way now quickly to a bow arched back bentwards. Sodden sweat bursting again and flowing not dripping down rough grey plastic wing hard. Changed again. Eyes white and sight no more.

Bite mark an arm, slap mark a face, “Stop it you are doing it to yourself!” Don't you think I know, no that? What do you think I am trying to say? Stop, stop, stop. I am saying because you wont give me the pain I need.

Doctor asks, Doctor says, Doctor states unequivocally. Nerves, nothing more. Doctor asks “What do you read?” What do you mean? Strut stuttering. It was Molly Bloom then and then. Doctor gives a Beano or a Dandy or a Topper. Read to switch off the light instead and then sleep.


This sick nerve back bending once a two or three fit comes from unrequited girl love known then. Girls who don't and won't ever know until much, much later. When they cease to become important and looking means having. When constant post mortem means thinking about, not shying from.

This fit of nerves goes away with a punch in the back out of single night sight. When the medical voice behind the paisley apron hospital screen shouts about killing him now. He, you, me, hears heard, just before light and life faded hard bow backing,but briefly for a long time, once again. Coming back from eyes white gone and back bent sweat sodden shuddering, to doing it now, do it now. Otherwise.

So you can hear although you wish not to. You hear the clean, chrome, chlorine of a cart with swinging wheel of drugs. You hear and feel echoing, the busted bubble of a syringe and the cold of sweated back naked exposure. "Straighten him out, I can't do this like that." Strange it is all so crystal both now and in your memory of eventful nights.

You need this. You need to go far away for a while, my love and love don't worry, you will come back. Alone but peaceful pieces will return with you, when you do. Different, no one has the gut, says. Go softly into this dark then you who hate yourself because of your fragile feelings. Go soon so you can come back. As if you have a choice. Blankness.


© Copyright 2018 Ken Simm. All rights reserved.

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