The Daisy Chain (WIP)

Chapter 3: Little Pink Slips/Those Demoural Blues

(In order to prevent further self incrimination in the court of law all people, places, and things in relevance to my current pending case have been omitted)

When dad moved out I expected a cataclysmic disaster. I expected bombings of Israel and Egypt. Fish dying out. Government mandatory chips in wrists and foreheads. Prisons in the desert opening up for non followers of the new morning star. Military home invasions and the hobbling of Christians. I would lay in my bed eyes wide awake until 5 in the morning picturing the draft being reopened. Kids younger than me staining bullets with their blood in a war where both sides fought for unholy causes. I pictured myself walking through what used to be a small town in ((REDACTED)) foraging for canned food and sundries in a gutted and desolate Walmart. I imagined me crouched with a Savage .22 long rifle in a small tollbooth with the iron sights set firmly on a ravaging scavenger. Dry dusty landscape splattered with small colonies and refurbished rubble towns decimated by ongoing wars between what's left of the U.S. Government and the uprising rebels of the fourth reich. Revelations meets Book of Eli meets Thunderdome.

I was ecstatic to say the least. I wanted the bombs to drop. I wanted the great war between good and evil to begin. I wanted to deliver cold metal holy justice to the beast on the corner of 5th and Hartford. Most of all, I wanted a purpose. I wanted some sort of assurance that i'm not just waking up just to get through till I can go back to sleep.

The first time I ever rolled Demoural I got called into work.

1:30 p.m. and that little pink slip of paper with the illegible picture on it slips between my teeth past my tongue and down my throat. By 2:30 p.m. I'm sitting behind my desk at ((REDACTED)) more pissed off that i paid 20 dollars for a sliver of paper than the fact I'm at work on my day off. Less learning the mysteries of the universe and more learning about how to not trust friends of friends. 25 more minutes passed, a dead store, and being fully convinced i was gypped, i pull out my phone and start dicking around. Past the unlock screen, past the browser being opened up, past the words falling on the screen and something didn't feel right. It didn't feel wrong, but it didn't feel right. It felt... Different. I let my finger slide across the screen and realize i'm having a hard time embracing the fact that there is a real connection going on between my fingers and the pixelated colors and text seamlessly flowing beneath layers of glass. Its going to do what it's supposed to do, who am i to try and intervene?

I feel the room sort of de-span into the size of a cardboard box and myself telling ((REDACTED)) that i'm going to step outside for a cigarette. I cant seem to force my lips to make the necessary shapes to convey words, but her nonchalant response made me very aware that my brain is running on autopilot and the words are just somehow flowing seamlessly through my closed mouth. I felt my body gravitate towards the door and before I knew it I was exploring the outside of the building. A gust of wind rocks the streetlamp and it seems to dance and sway in the wind for an hour straight. Loose trash, pedestrians, and the occasional car seem to intertwine and melt with my surroundings and it occurs to me that everything makes so much and so little sense at the same time. I really like the fact that I can walk, rather than only having the ability to be stationary like a rock, or a dab of concrete.

I ebb and flow my way back inside and into my chair, still holding my lighter but have yet to actually make it past that initial step in cigarette smoking. I turn to ((REDACTED)) and she's getting chatty with ((REDACTED)), a usual customer in the store, and she makes an offhand remark about how I'm hungover and they both roll their eyes with a hearty laugh. I'm shell shocked. She's bringing attention to me, now. NOW. Of all times. Why is she doing this? Doesn't she understand that she's breaking the sanctity of my trip? Why is she doing this to me? Can't she think of someone outside of herself and see the beauty for what it really is? Why is she forcing this, like everything else around me is constantly being forced? This all seems like some sort of sick joke and even as they moved on they're laughing in my face.  Laughing without laughing. The twisted bitches.