Jey Roz, Awakening

A Story by ZBeyer

In his last moments, Jey Roz monologues to himself of his malcontent.

“Alas,” I said, as the dark crimson rivers flowed from each hole in my side. They began to harden.

The blood rushed to my face as the mind drifted into fantasy. Echoes from a distant thought muddled in the remnants of cognition. I was losing grip on the situation. A burst of nerve signals returned me to a point of almost feeling, not receiving information, but asking for it. My body was alive without me. It teased and tormented in a cyclical way. Its ambitions--without pause or pretenses--were to instill an insatiable and unbearable desire. The colors swarmed before me, vivid and bright, with seething sounds inside my head.

Earnest were my intentions. My feelings were sincere. To be dominated and have dominion over that force, my inflection, and to explore each tendril of this raw emotion was my aim. Chemical in nature and spiritual in sensation, the desires and archetypes of empathy are. Yet in all my lusts and daunting goals, something shallow had emerged.

A castration over the feral ludicrousness of public facing had occurred. In all a human body’s capacity to feel, it was not accepted to react. A dark shadow of guilt overpowered me. When such feelings emerged, and fear dictated no response. When the noise of joys overwhelmed my senses, why must I be stern?

Too often the chords of that aching warmth warped around me, only to be smothered. I yearned to feel.
This was not a selfish indulgence. The deformed stains on my pallet--as a cancer or vile filth---bore witness to false feeling and indecisive dissemination... so irreparable. Those malicious noises, which were thought by name, does despair and disrepair to a foully as a fickle feud.

Without sin might I be ravished--through sight; by sound; by taste--but tolerance was shattered, when another uprightly claimed this place. In no dignity or diligence but in laxity, lust, and shame the peers abound do flirt around and care not for their disgrace.

Why when I--an analytical listener--felt strong and pure in form, was scorned and taunted beyond reform, but these foul children--without respect--were encouraged to create anarchy.

“Alas,” I repeated to myself, with held back tears.

“Alice. I shall never hold you again. I am sorry.”