f
I have been lying to you.
I don’t know why.
I am in my own house.
In my own room.
It is my father who locked me in here. He roams around out in the corridor, muttering unintelligibly to himself.
Scorning his terrible life.
Mocking all whose only folly is enjoyment.
Such is his fate.
Moirai. Parcae. Norns.
Whatever you want to call them.
Amor fati.
That poor girl.
Twisted witches. Drunk and randy with wine.
If you’re fucked, you’re fucked. No two ways about it. Sorry. Of course, there will always be one who will hold his hand up to complain.
—Please.
—Yes, sir.
—I think everyone deserves a chance.
—Good for you. I don’t.
Let me judge and jury and I will sort out this world in a flash.
Fucked to the left. Unfucked to the right. Then, whoosh!
Granted you may have to schedule this process for one a decade. Just in case a few bad apples get through.
What am I saying.
Every few weeks.
You just can’t trust people. One minute they’re one thing and the next they’re another. Friend to foe.
Fuck them all I say.
Who came to help me in my darkness hour?
Sorry?
I didn’t quite catch than pathetic ejaculation that suddenly left your gob.
Let silence be where it is and fuck off under your hole.
Anyway.
The truth.
My father.
His incessant shuffling causes me an increased sense of agitation. You may note it the ways that the pencil pushes into the paper, blurring slightly the edges of the words.
If I could reach out, I would kill him.
Strangle him with my bear hands.
But I would first have to open the door. And before that I would need to get out of the bed.
But my legs.
But the handle.
Scrapping.
What is his doing?
—Shut up, you mad fool.
Let him laugh.
Give me a few more days and I crawl through that fucking wall, brick in hand.
Yes.
It will be a long burial. With much tears and laughter.
Have you ever seen a man spitting out dirt while also attempting to catch his breath?
I doubt you have.
Unless you’re a seasoned war veteran whose speciality was in the burial of subservient.
Yes.
You know who you are.
Granted.
I do not mean to come across so bitterly. But if you remain here with me for the duration, believe me, you will find me a very reasoned and deliberate man.
Yes.
Now.
I need some sleep.
If only I could sleep.
I might dream of her again. That woman.
Is she my wife?
My mother.
I am so confused.
My consciousness is clouded, off track.
Delirium.
It is such an ancient state. The oldest of all I am told.
The great stress.
The great curse of existence: having been born.
That is the trouble I think.
Of course I blame my father. But how much is my fault.
Answer that then and be down with it.
—Yes, sir. You down the back. With your hand in the air.
—I have a question.
—Go ahead.
Silence. Very little. Almost nothing.
—Has the cat got your tongue?
Prick.
