y
We are coming towards the end.
My end.
Your end.
The end of us all.
The great end of great ends, of emperors and peasants, masters and slaves.
We are all ending.
It seemed I had caused quite a lot of trouble in Connemara.
Even the National News, our illustrious RTE, had gone down to film in the wake of my destruction.
Fires!
All across the bog and ferns!
They fucking love fires on the news. They cannot get enough of them. Perhaps it is the colours that they communicate on the television. Or maybe it is the primeval surge they cast into us, reminding us of our ancestors, who burnt themselves alive in order to know they were not dead.
Gladly, I can say only one mad died. And to be sure, I could have killed more, in the pursuit of my past and present self, but something held me back, something deep inside me, or outside me, I don’t know which.
I was in my bed.
Back where I belonged. At the beginning of my beginnings.
—How’s the writing going, Mister Licky inquired?
—Well I said.
He taunt and stretched self demonically hovering over me.
—Did you learn anything?
—Not a fucking thing.
Escape was on my mind. I could see that he see that. But I kept silent. I kept my braining for talking.
—Going anywhere today, Max.
—Down to the strand, maybe.
—Very good. You should try and get out more often.
—I should. Maybe go for a swim.
He laughed.
I looked out the through the large bay window. The room was so bright. I recalled my birth for a brief instant. My mother’s face. First moments. An instance of the first instance, of my first breath.
—Have I always been here, I asked Mister Licky?
—As long as I can remember?
—Do you remember my father taking me here?
—It was your uncle McGonagall that brought you here.
—My uncle?
That prick.
—When was that?
—Years ago. When you were a boy. A little boy. Only just a baby.
—I have been here all that time.
—You have indeed Max.
—Why did he bring me here?
He paused.
He did not know what to say.
—I’m afraid only you can tell me that Max.
How could I tell him? What could I remember of that instance? I had a suspicion he was lying to me.
Fuck off then, I said.
He left, calmly closing the door behind him.
Only I can answer that.
What bollocks.
I screamed loudly, casting the loose pages around the room. Let it go. Let it all go I said.
My story.
I got out of bed and trampled on top of them. Ground the words into the ground. I was in a forest. In the sea. I was. With half my head up my arse and the other half buried in someone else’s past.
I walked to the window. Looked out over the bay.
Bray.
How good you have been to me.
I turned and looked back at the pages scattered over the room.
There would be no story.
There would be telling of the tale, founding of some glorious truth.
Fuck it, I said.
I took a match from out of my pocket and lit it off my arse.
I watched its flame.
Hail Mary full of grace.
Then I cast it into air, followed its trajectory, as it spun round and fell suddenly into the papers.
This is my body.
I give it up to you.
