Dissociative Disintegration

Skin and Bone

Jack-

Memories are what skin is made out of. Scientifically speaking human skin is a semi permeable membrane thus it stands to reason that when the dead decompose and their memories become part of the air, by walking through that you can absorb some of this memory-gas. Perhaps this is why it felt like there where eyes following me around the tombstone infested ground. But I knew when I looked around I wouldn't find anyone. It was just like before. I knew I shouldn't have come here. Last time I ended up in the cemetery I woke up on one of the freshest graves, not knowing where I had been for the last week. I had no idea how I got there or what had happened. That was the week I came home to find 'home' empty. It wasn't that I blamed her. I would leave me too if I knew what I did. The first night I didn't come home was a snowflake, it had the potential to start an avalanche, but it wasn't the true culprit. What started the avalanche was the following flakes, the ones that turned into snowballs when they started to roll. The second night I said I slept at my co-workers after a night at the bar. It was a lie. The third night came soon after that, and by then the flakes on the mountain had turned to chunks, and the avalanche had started. She saw it all and knew what was going on. I should have seen then how destructive this snowfall would really be. It flattened trees, only gaining speed and strength as it went. Eventually it would carve a scar right into the face of the mountain, and I knew that. I could see what I had started, but I couldn't stop the snow from crashing down on me.

Now I am just living the aftermath of the avalanche. To some the worst was over, no one had died. Right? All that was left was reconstruction, and clean up. Unfortunately my wife at the time was not impressed with my cleanup efforts. I was just a guy with a mop, not the bulldozer this needed. I had agreed to meet her at a coffee shop where we talked about the custody of our child and dog. Jason was old enough to choose which parent to go with, and the dog followed Jason. I'm not mad at his choice, even now that I live alone in a slowly deteriorating apartment, while she got the house, the dog, and Jason. In retrospect this mess that I got myself into was feeling less like a grave that I dug and then jumped into, and more like an unexpected drop in a sidewalk after you blindly round a corner. I try not to be mad at anyone else. This was all my fault, and I was mostly okay with that. It had been a year since she left and about six months since he died.

The 'authorities that be' said it was a suicide. Which would be more understandable if he had not gotten off so easy. But he did. He escaped with a minor probation and community service, rather than the 5 years in prison the juror wanted. He got to go home every night, he had to in fact. If he was not home then home would be a cinder block cell two towns over. He didn't think his lifestyle was a crime, and I was in agreement. But small towns and closed minds go together like Adam and Eve, created with good intentions, but unbelievably innocent and volatile.  

 Splitting pain, that's all I could feel now. My head was slowly being pried open and poked at with red hot needles. The grass was too green. Green was evil and it burnt my eyes. But black on the other hand. Black was nice and soft, comforting almost. So I fell into it, forgetting about my grim surroundings.