Hurting for More

Suicide is man's way of telling God, "You can't fire me- I quit"- Bill Maher

It really doesn't take much. The knuckles crack, briefly, and brace for bustling force. The jaw splints and cracks under the pressure of one thousand Suns. Or, that's at least how I would like to think of myself; An inflated perception of an ethereal, other-worldly being, most powerful without bleating. I tilted the crown on my head back to its proper resting place. A blotching of blood here, a splattering there, and spurting from just for them to come to. Another blow to the groin should be feasible. I wouldn't have to follow through with these decrepit actions if their heart did not yearn so tightly and with so much intention. Almost remarkably, the beaten man raises his fist in the air, signaling a strength of losing triumph. Wobbling and swaying, the man gets to his feet, standing on his heels as to not fall. The sight of his visage was incomprehensibly inhuman, blended with lackluster features. The face of this man resembled a long forgotten loaf of raw meat. Many of his bones penetrated through his skin, almost as if they were trying to escape from his beaten body. He then spoke, breathless but direct, "The...candle...provides the...light, needed to... see those in the.....dark". He then reached into the back pocket of his now tattered and patched garb to unearth two lightly-colored, rounded stones. With now regained breath, the beaten man cooly states, "But, I have no candle", and raised his two gnarled arms above his head with a stone in each hand and struck them together. His body engulfed into a hungry fire, and he lurched forward into a sprint. Blinded by the fire that seemed to burn too brightly, every path within the stoned corridor faded from view. This wasn't fire; it was passion. And its flaming and wisping brought me to my knees. I spoke my last words, defeatedly, "Passion, you have bested me within my own walls, but I should thank you for your presence. I thought you would never return to me". The flames grew higher and outstretched to ravage the entirety of the kingdom. However, no screams were heard, and the only sound that remained within these stone walls was the crackling of the fire. The flames burned, but it did not hurt. For a while, there was darkness, but images started to flow like a lazy river, increasing in speed with every image. And then the jarring piercing of sound and a sudden flash of white forced my eyelids astray. I must have been trapped within my own mind for some time now. My head pounded with pulses of high magnitude earthquakes. I took my head off of the table where a large puddle of spittle shined with the reflection of the kitchen lights. I was confused and dazed, for I was a very powerful king of a fertile land just moments ago. My vision returned with clarity and the color orange stuck out amongst the vast amounts of alcoholic beverages laid sporadically amongst the smooth grain of the oak table. They were capsules, or maybe tubes? One capsule was on its side where a handful of white pills sat scattered and without organization. The label had the name of a, "Harding, James". I began to feel a nauseous rumbling sensation deep inside of my chest and a sinking stomach. "Oh, that's right", I whispered. I pushed amongst the table's edge to comfortably stand on my two feet. The chair screeched loudly as I did. With heavy and scuttled footsteps, I walked to the kitchen island where a single piece of paper lay, ominously and intently. The penmanship, I noticed, is of my own, although, stained with grime and moistness. I snatched it without reading the vast amount of lines written upon it, crumpled it into a ball, and kept it furled into my right hand. My grasp was weak. I continued the shuffling of my feet to the other side of the room to where a handsome hearth and fireplace crackled, albeit without much flames. I stared at it, entranced. But even so, I threw the crumpled ball of paper onto the smouldering coals, where the heat was enough for it to combust. I watched it burn and burn and burn until the paper was nothing more than ashes, distinctly indifferent from the ash of burnt wood. I sighed deeply, "I'd like to live again".