The Worm Has Eaten My Brain

A short story about a sad and pathetic old man who is dying slowly in a nursing home. He writes a note reminiscing about his early life.

The Worm Has Eaten My Brain

Author's Note - This is the first short story I have ever written.  I usually focus my energy working on longer works of which I never finish.  The idea of this short story was to raise the question of whether this old man's philosophy, or to say the worm and disease eating his mind, were caused through thinking it out, or whether it was a reaction to a hostile environment of his youth- whether his seclusion were caused by his superiority or inferiority, or whether it were a reaction to circumstances in his experience.  This short story is much less like a short story and more like a journal entry or essay.  It will be the first short story in my collection of thirteen short stories I am currently writing, and will be the opening to the book.

The Worm has Eaten My Brain

    The worm has eaten my brain.  Beneath my skin I feel it creep and crawl.  There’s a pestilence in my body for which I do not know the cause and can’t resolve.  This creature has nestled itself very deep within me and now wreaks havoc and beleaguers my mind.  There is a hostile feeling I have, a nervous brooding, which makes all unsatisfactory and leaves me famished.  I am certain that this slug has buried itself very deep and now sucks up the life blood, draining all nutrition away from the source- with its sharp little teeth it feasts on the pulpy flesh of my now feverish brain.  This very night I have felt it slithering beneath my skin, making its way through my nervous system- causing all electrical disturbances.  Because of this I cannot function- not in thought- not physically- a haziness has overtaken me- like walking through fog or smoke, and my body twitches, and my legs are restlessly moving, my shoes tapping on the floor.

    I sit here now at my desk and write this note- fearing that if I should die from this ailment no one will discover me for well over a month, and that the stink of me will permeate the entire complex.  I have become extremely isolated.  This is in a way by choice- I don’t pretend that I have ever made any real attempt to make friendships or to have love affairs.  I am a cowardly person on the whole, and I hate and fear people.  I loathe the human species.  They are all wind without raindrops.  I know that the feeling is reciprocated, and that they detest me as well.  I am not someone for whom smiles and cheer and good will were meant.  No one ever smiles at me or greets me, and even the young man who brings me my meals is disgusted by me.

    I have noticed people glaring at me or else making snarky comments about me to their friends when I come around- sometimes they do not even bother to hide the fact- they know I am too frail to do anything about it.  I hate them and wish that I had strength to do some terrible act, like box their ears or spit at them, even to stand up for myself, but I do not have the energy and instead I hide within myself and snarl.  I know why they laugh at me- I am an ugly and pitiful old man, and I shuffle pitifully when I walk- I have lost most of my hair except for a few long grey strands that hang from my bald spot- I look like a hairless rat.  I do not bother to groom myself properly.  I was once young and handsome, virile and active, and played the game well, but now I don’t care about the world of events or convivial arrangements.  I allow myself to sweat and stink in the hot summer sun and I do not shower or bathe.  I do not care should I smell like piss.  My bladder is swollen from the sickness and I must make use of catheters to drain it- the doctor says I have cancer of the prostate- I will die soon enough.  And what have I learned of all the useless time I have spent living? what answers have I found to questions of meaning?- nothing is remarkable, nothing is beautiful- this is just a blue marble, and the constellations are a joke.  The child screams and cries and I want to suffocate it.  I hate children.  I hate the young.  They make a mockery of this and they waste everything.

    I have always walked painfully through life- never has anything been easy for me.  I have had no successes to speak of.  When I die, as every man must, I will leave nothing behind me of any substance.  Practically speaking I will vanish.  My stories are of very little value, even to me- my hours are of brittle stuff- and I have had no children and have never married- I doubt anyone will make appearance at my funeral- no one would listen to the sermon or the speech.  There would be no one to make a speech!  I belong to no congregation, and eternity is strictly for the birds.  Other people are full of optimism- I have become a cynic.  I don’t believe in anything people hold sacred, and I believe in neither God nor any other mindless invention of man.  Everyone wants to be a servant of something.  I would serve no man. It is all contrived to give meaning to the meaninglessness.  God, if he does exist, is either the greatest of tyrants, or else he is an absentee landlord- sitting on his golden throne on a cloud making merry.  I think he does have a sick and perverted sense of humor.  If I had to make a guess of that son of a b***h, I would guess that he were laughing at us whilst we are taking a s**t- and he witnesses all the terrible acts of mankind and does nothing about it.

    Humanity is an ugly thing, because we are at once capable of extraordinary things, but we also do so much damage that it were not worth it.  Think on this well.  Mankind is a vermin or a scourge, like a swarm of locusts on the field- so does he contaminate and dominate the landscape.  He erects monstrosities and births abominations.  He must be eradicated.  I am no different.  I have a horrible spirit within me which contaminates- and my wounds fester and bleed.  The world is too much with us.

    I love my suffering, I truly do.  I love that I am diseased and dispirited.  It makes sense to me that as the world suffers so should I.  Those who live life well are not appealing to me.  I don’t like people of accomplishment, people with jobs, people with families- people with security.  They have found a purpose, and believe too much in things that don’t matter- like politics for instance.  I never wanted such things out of life.  I have never been called or saved!  I have my own security, that is true, but the nurses at the home reserve nothing but contempt for their patients.  I am a ward of the state.  I love to be despised or made a fool of- I snarl at the sleepy worker bees.  The orderly who brings me my food, I’m sure he spits in it, though I never eat it.  I have given up every comfort, every desire, every pleasure, and all happiness.  I will starve to death.  It is my pride which guides my heart thus.  I am proud to suffer, it is my own little insignificant rebellion from the world- and I am glad of its insignificance.

    My body is in such a way- it has rebelled against me.  No matter how long we live we must always understand that when it comes to the hour, the body will betray.  I have never believed much in the physical world or in the beauty of it.  Nature is a beast.  The female form, or the moon and the tides, the ripple on the water- it is all just an illusion.  This world is a prison for which there is no escape.  The mind is so corrupted.  I have become over time a complete mess.  My teeth are mossy, my toenails infected, my skin is greasy yellow, and my eyes are pale and full of puss.  It hurts whilst I urinate, and I cannot empty my bladder, for which I must make use of little plastic tubes inserted through my urethra.  This is pathetic, and I am a pathetic old wretch- I do not deny this.

    I have no family.  Of course at my advanced age, most of those people who I knew in my youth are either dead or are far removed from me.  But, I never did procreate.  I would never bring another person into this cruel unforgiving world.  I am very unhappy that I have had to endure so long, as life is a test of the extremes of endurance.  Life must be endured.  No one comes to visit me.  My mother, the saint, died many years ago- the only person for which I had any real love.  I never visit her grave.  I wish that I had courage enough to commit suicide, old and lonely as I am, but I will not.  Perhaps it is because I enjoy making myself suffer, and am obstinate.  I am full of contempt, and for this I will not let others have victory by seeing me depart so soon- though I have lived for far too long.  A person should die earlier than this!  When I do die, I wish it to be in such an ugly way, such a pitiful way, such a slow and arduous way, that others will be revolted by it.  I want to make their faces curl.

    People do not in the natural course of their lives consider death.  They go about life as if it will never end, never considering their own mortality, they waste time, and have nothing to say.  I am proud that I at least have something to say, though it be detestable, it is of importance- or not important, I don’t really care should it be found interesting, or even found at all.  It is all time-wasting and a waste of time.  I resent all those for whom life is about joy and pleasure- the young people with their idiot electronics, and the middle aged people having children and holidays.  It is a simpler way to live- and I envy them in a way, even though they are ignorant.  Suffering is enhanced for those of refinement!  It takes a cultivated mind to throw off everything for nothing.  It remains nothing to be sure- I have found nothing of substance in relationships or in meaningless tasks.  Work seems to me a slow boring process, where everything goes in a circle- and relationships are all painful when you cannot find an equal.  And how would I ever find an equal?  There can be no companions for one as profound as me!  There would be nothing to talk about anyway, since truth cannot be expressed in words.  So do I write!  Although, this work expresses nothing, and I do it out of boredom.  All our lives are boring- there are no shooting stars.  The individual is without significance and everything is small and contained.  Nothing breaks free, and there is no freedom.  Death is inescapable.  All men are born into chains.  The pigeon crashes into the window pane.  So much of our lives are guided by genetic factors, and sociological factors, that I don’t see much cause for trying.  The entire of people and places leaves me wanting something more- that there were something eternal and untouched on this mortal coil- that something could be pure.

    Sometimes I walk down to the common area of the complex, and I sit and watch the television- usually the news is on- they play nothing else.  I love the news, because it shows more than it is supposed to.  It is a mockery- some pundit speaking on subjects which he knows nothing about- reading from a teleprompter the tragic events of the day.  The president’s do no less.  Nothing ever changes.  There are wars between people for religious or ideological concerns, and nationalism and patriotism infect the population.  It is either God or the State, and both are infectious diseases.  I watch the politicians preach on the television, as they convince the public they are there to protect them and defend them, whilst they steal the liberty of the individual in order to feed the masses.  They buy every vote.  They steal from us and build their giant bureaucracy, trying to satisfy all slaves who depend on them.  I do myself depend on the government to survive- as I have said I am a man of contradiction- I am a wretch.  But, I love getting taken care of by the State.  This is because I am in my small way attempting to drain the beast.  I am owed something for having to put up with this existence.  I have paid enough of my money into the till over my lifetime that now I should be able to take out from it- or maybe I haven’t- it makes no difference to me.  They owe me more than they could ever repay.

    One day while I was sitting watching the news on the television, stewing in my hatred, I noticed that the elderly woman who sat next to me on the sofa had come under some duress.  She reached up and grabbed her throat and her mouth opened wide like a fish- she stopped breathing, and a dribble of drool quivered from the crack of her lip.  Her eyes rolled back in her head and she died right there on the sofa next to me.  I didn’t move from my seat, gave no voice to a cry- for some reason I was without emotion- I was not scared or shocked by it.  It was inescapable.  I just looked at her stiff face, with her mouth wide open and her eyes bulging, as a nurse came over and tended to the corpse.  The nurse, looking at me with somberness, told me “I guess it was just her time to go”, and I looked at her without expression, stood up from the sofa and walked quietly to my room.

    I live in a small room with no pictures or knitting, no kittens or books- I refuse to live like an old woman.  I receive no letters, and I wouldn’t read them even if I did- my eyesight is going anyway.  I suffer like all the elderly through routine.  I go from one place in the apartment to another, or I go down to the common room and watch the television.   I move terribly slow- my body has atrophied.  I don’t play games in the game room like the others, because I do not want to put up with the stories of the other patients.  They tell such boring stories, and I have no interest in their relatives- in births or in events.  I live like a hermit.  I admit no one into my secret world.  I can’t escape from the torrent of these sad unhappy thoughts.  Memories come to me out of nothing and return to nothing- and I can’t find anything in the jumble.  I can remember images, and I dream in images, but all that I can remember clearly is what is painful to me.  Isn’t it true that a man cannot identify his happiness? but can identify every injury, every awful thing that has happened to him vividly?  This may be the tragic flaw of it all- but who am I to analyze?  I know that misery has followed me everywhere and will continue to do so until I die.

    There is a mole on my shoulder which continues to grow, and I attribute this to my disease- my skin is paper-thin and my hearing and sight are limited.  I have no strength in my muscles, and I hunch over when I walk.  It is terribly cruel what age has done to me.  I have crumpled and withered.  It doesn’t matter- I was never happy when I was young, and can’t remember a time when I did not feel like I was falling apart.  I will be forever useless.  But, I’ve always had my pride!  I was once considered handsome, if you can believe that, but inside I was always ugly.  I used to punish myself daily for my inner-ugliness- the impurity of my desires and my sick fantasies.  It was always the sickness- the worm eating on me- I know that now.  It makes my mind weak- it brings horrors to my thoughts.  I have lived my whole life with this ailment, and it has slowly been feeding on me- so that now I am not a man at all, but some kind of ghastly ghoul.  I know the feeling of being lonely, and I know the torments of self-reflection and self-hatred, but I never learned how to be happy.  Or am I just most happy being miserable?  Some are so inclined.  I have lived my whole life under a dark cloud- and though I tried at times to pretend that I was normal and kind- my true nature was never well concealed.  Everyone always recognized my disaster.  I am a truth teller in this way!  If you look at me, you cannot help but see right through me.

    The truth is that I once pretended to be kind to people, but they would never have it.  I was always awkward and self-conscious, and this made me unappealing to them.  They judge such thoughtful people as weak.  They do not respect a man of inaction!  I tried to put on false smiles and false statements like the others did, but this only made me feel dirty- like I should wash my hands.  But, what care I to be appealing?  I knew then what I know now- that I know nothing.  This bothers me- that I can never answer the most difficult of questions.  When I would say something or make conversation, always something would ring false- and I would punish myself for my imperfections.  It is as if some false wind had escaped from my dry lips- a stinking breath from more tragic thoughts.  In a way I never wanted to be a human being- a human being is full of such marvelous imperfections.  I wanted to perfect my spirit, to perfect my soul- so did I always flog my own flesh.  I can only understand renunciation from life, and not affirmation of life.  I only know the most severe of punishments.

    Why should I not renounce this existence?  There is so much pain and inequality.  One man is born to conquer the world, to be a tiger, the other to be a lamb to the slaughter.  I love only the lowly people, those who are the victims of the strong.  Most people worship heroes.  They love those of strength and courage, they wave at bomber planes as they go by- but I see nothing to honor in this.  I won’t salute the flag or the President!  I won’t salute soldiers or other people who commit brutal acts.  I don’t admire the Greeks.  I don’t admire courage or commands.  Courage fails in the face of insurmountable odds.  I love the abandoned infant, or the savage who has been shot through the heart- so am I a savage.  I understand his resistance- it is the same as my solitary resistance.  I do it out of spite- and out of contempt for heroes.  I am a dog!  Or a lone wolf to be more precise.  I will bite the hand that feeds me!    I like those cultures that have been defeated- there is much to admire in defeat.  I don’t like victors or victory- all victories are shallow- they do not teach as much.  I am defiant!  Injustice is the rule, and so we should learn it early.  I love the idea of a child watching his mother and father being burned at the stake.  I love the idea of a mother abandoning her infant to wolves.  I love orphans- they are the only children to be admired- only they know the reality, and their teary eyes speak of the ‘real’.  Most men are gelatinous grubs.  I love the ostracized and the hated.  I love heretics.  They are my only true companions.

    Among the general population there are very few thoughtful men.  Most cows go willingly into the slaughterhouse.  It stands to reason that the machine has become so immense that no one can claim to be an individual anymore- no man lives in the woods.  We are all in the cities, gathered like maggots on rancid meat, so do we gorge ourselves on the blood of this supposed ‘free’ society, and make gnawing sounds in our contentment.  We are happy and well fed, this is normal, this is good, to be so fat and well taken care of by our systems, that no one could imagine living outside the complex.  There is no garden, there is no island in the sea.  I have fashioned myself an island!  But, this is no paradise.  This is just a place where I have chosen to rot- to stink.  I am a rock, I remain fixed and unmoved, and I am stubborn like a deep rooted oak.

    I have never believed in those of authority.  They are convinced that they are better than I am- those hilarious fools.  Because they believe they are better than me they look down on me, and they disregard me.  They could do no less.  I am inconsequential, and should be ignored.  I like to be ignored, I do not want attention.  I have no need for honors or rewards- such things are for shallow people.  I would grow content with myself and my truth, and because of that I would cease to be true.  My truth is ever-changing and cannot be held in the hand.  It is better should no readers hear my voice, no audience hear my song- it is a dreadful thing- and will cause irreparable damage.  Not many were ever meant to be led outside the cave, or to recognize the shadow dancers- they are hand puppets on the wall.  The people would lose their minds should they witness the abominable.  The abominable truth!  I challenge everything, and cannot leave well enough alone.  An aged rebel is of no concern- I could cause no harm- and I don’t have any desire to commit any action.  Should a man want to lead me to paradise, I would not follow him- many are tricked by such delusions- many are convinced of such things.  I know no paradise exists.  I am no gambler and do not place my hopes on the lottery.  I know that there is no winning.  Everyone was born to lose.

    How do most men waste their days?  With action, I tell you! They are nothing but parts of the machine, and it is always in motion.  They are convinced it is for their benefit.  They create families and build infrastructure.  I would have no family- that is where the pain comes from.  Most men cannot help but want to conform because so much is offered to them.  They drive their automobiles everywhere in rows like little ants.  They never make a row.  They are the happiest of slaves- they don’t need to be whipped, and work in the cool of the house- guided by the invisible will of the community, and the buying power of the consumer.  They are dignified servants.  I despise the community!  I despise the consumer!  I want it to fall apart.  I want to bring the walls down!  I want everyone to starve to death!  But, alas, I will lead no rebellion, there is no cause to do so- no one would follow me and every revolution is doomed to failure.

    There can be no change- most things stay the same.  In the human world nothing ever changes.  Sure, there are political and cultural shifts- but it is evident to me that the animal himself cannot be fundamentally transformed.  I have heard it said by learned men of the institution that humanity is moving toward something in the distance- that all of our supposed ‘progress’ will lead us into a better future.  This is not true.  Humanity will never ripen or achieve anything until it can move beyond morality and beyond belief systems entirely- they still defend these systems with all of their might.  And in a mass they are horrible and mighty, and they play follow the leader.  The apple is rotten.  I don’t know what it is which makes a man listen to authority figures in the first place.  Don’t they know that these men are not worthy of respect?  They are men of many words, they appear dignified- but they have no integrity.  It is the most corrupt of our species which seeks political power- they only want this because they believe themselves to be superior to others, and therefore should be allowed to order others about.  It may be as well that they are convinced of their judgments, and want these to stand fixed like monuments.  They author many commands, and we live in command societies.  They want to lord over the monkeys.  Perhaps I am no different.  I believe my soul is superior.  But, I don’t ever want to have authority over others, because I know what I don’t know.

    There is a security guard who works the front desk, who I have nothing but contempt for.  He is a slovenly fat man of middle age with a shaved head and beady little eyes deeply set in his heavy head.  He eats constantly, and never moves from the front desk where he watches over the monitors- there are burger wrappers from McDonalds around his chair, and he always has a large soda drink he sips from.  He is the most revolting man I have ever had the displeasure to look upon- he has sweat stains under the armpits of his blue security shirt.  I have never spoken to him.  I have watched him from a distance, sitting there, gorging himself on chocolates from the vending machines.  I’m sure that his plump hands are sticky from the chocolates.  He is fat and ugly, and I wonder how he ever became that way.  Certainly, his mother did not know when she gave birth to him that he would turn out to be such a disappointment.  Someone must have loved and cared for him at some time and hoped and dreamed for his future, but he had wasted it all to become nothing more than a vesicle on societies rump.

    I am reminded in watching him of my own deterioration.  How I am petty and unfriendly and despicable.  How my mental state has slowed, and how my body has turned to mush.  Could my mother love me now?  At least I am not a buffoon!  He gets off on his authority, and I have often seen him making a show of it- yelling at skateboard kids in the parking lots and chasing them around in his golf cart.  The youth find this hilarious.  He patrols the grounds.  Give an insignificant man even the least bit of authority and he will become the greatest of tyrants.  A small man cannot help but feel himself very large should he be given a title and a badge.  Not only is this security guard a fat incompetent dullard, but he is also a crass brute, and he takes himself very seriously.  Imagine, a man like him taking himself so seriously!  I am no different- a dying old man in a home- who would care about what I have to say? who would care should I die in my bed tonight?  I take myself far too seriously.

    There has only been one person who has ever cared for me, and that was my mother- the dead saint.  She was full of love for God and nature and motherhood, and took care of me well.  She taught me to read and write at an early age and introduced me to literature and poetry.  She also taught me the scriptures, and was full of holiness until her dying day- believing that she was one of the saved and would be delivered of all worldly things- that Christ dies on the cross for her.  I remember going on shopping trips with her on the bus, hiding beneath her skirts as we walked through the shopping center, and I would always get a candy at the counter.  She gave so much of herself and only lived so that I could be well taken care of and happy.  She was a strange woman, very quiet and serious.  She used to drink wine and write poetry late into the night.  I would hear her crying about the past- things of which I knew so little about- but I gathered from her wailing that she had been through much disappointment in her life.  Everything is disappointment!  My father was never around, and she would never speak of him.  I gathered from what little bits I could that he was a rich man whom she had an affair with when she was young and beautiful.  It was this man, of whom I know so little about, that impregnated her and then offered to buy her off- to pay for my welfare for the rest of my life.  He was a wealthy businessman who already had a family of his own, and he did not want dishonor to come to his household.  He had political aspirations.  I never asked my mother what had caused her to make such a mistake as to get involved with a married man, since she was never a fanciful or a stupid woman, and I am sure she always regretted the way in which it came to pass.  So was I born a b*****d child- and good for it!  I love the idea.  My mother worked tirelessly at the factory to provide for me and never took a dime from the government or the business man.  She wanted no hand-outs!

    All my mother did when times were tough was to pray, and she did so often.  She would have me kneel down next to her at bedtime to do the same.  We would pray for each other, and for our happiness, and for good things to come to us- both of us believing that God took pity on the meek and would reward us for being good.  At the time I was really a true believer.  I believed that if I just prayed hard enough and often enough that good things really would come to us- that God in his infinite wisdom would see us kneeling there and would know that we were faithful.  Sometimes I would sneak out of my room when I would hear my mother’s sobs, and would see her sitting at the kitchen table counting change.  She was trying to scrounge together enough money to allow us to eat before payday.  We never had enough, but what we did have was love to get us through, love for each other.  She would come to my bedroom some nights all in tears and she would hold me tight for comfort.  I was all she had in the world, and she was all I had in the world, and it was good.

    When I was still a young child my mother was especially tender with me.  She used to sing me to sleep or read me stories.  I remember these stories with fondness even now- and remember the way her voice sounded- loving and womanly.  I would drift off to sleep in my dinosaur sheets, and dream only pleasant dreams.  She was a kind woman, and often took me with her to the movies or to the library.  We spent much of our time there together.  My dreams were full of stories and my imagination was blossoming in those early days- the early buds of May.  Everything was play, and because of my happiness in my mother’s company I usually forgot about how we were hassled by poverty.  I would play with my toys in the house, or would imagine myself to be someone else- my fantasies were abundant then.  When she did not have to work at the factory, on weekends or vacation days, she would spend all of her time with me.  We were inseparable.  She didn’t treat me like a child.  She spoke to me as if I were already a fully grown and mature adult, and didn’t hide from my curiosity.  She answered all questions for me, and I never questioned the answers.  She was a woman of profound intellect and good sense- and she would take me to church and tell me about Christ and all the miracles he had done for the poor and sick, and I believed whole heartedly in these miracles.  I believed that we were even blessed because we were poor- and were of a chosen people.  Although I wished that we had more power over our circumstance, there was not much that troubled me about it- since we were poor in ways and rich in ways.  My mother was pure in her faith and in her soul and did not make a show of it.  She was not like the hypocrites who only serve God with their lips. She often felt terrible about the mistakes she had made in her youth- she said that she was all too submissive and fell into trusting people too easily.  She was too decent and good, and because of this was made a victim by unscrupulous people.  Although she was poor and had to work hard, she still gave money to the church, and gave me spare money to spend on my way to school.

    My mother and I had created a perfect private world, and we were both happy, although we were alone.  She never was the kind of person to have many friends or to join up socially, and people found my mother to be odd.  This was because of her natural tendency toward seclusion.  She never invited any other people into our home, and kept to herself for the most part.  It was always dark and musty in the home.  The white curtains were yellow from cigarette smoke.  People did not know much about her- although they gathered from her casual dress and church going ways that she was a simple and good natured woman.  She never went to my school on parent conference days, because she did not want to talk with the teacher.  I don’t know why my mother was so unsociable.  I don’t believe she harbored any animosity within her toward other people.  She loved people as far as I could tell- but she had no interest in socializing with them.  They were all full of gossip of worldly things, and she wanted no part of it.  My mother was an ascetic, and did not believe in much comfort or possessions.  She found them unnecessary.  She never replaced our old furniture, or made much effort to decorate her house.  She dressed very simply in housewife dresses, and did not put on much makeup.  She didn’t have the money to be beautiful.

    I notice other women now and again, and I cannot find the beauty in them- all their faces are painted and their bodies are too dainty- only my mother was truly beautiful.  She was robust.  I don’t like the skinny women, or the thin and athletic.  I don’t like those who care for their appearance.  My mother was haggard and beaten down.  She was plump and poorly dressed.  She cared nothing for her appearance!  Her prettiness had faded with age, and her manners were none of the best.  She was forgotten quickly at a glance, and people never admired her.  But, she was the only woman worthy of admiration in my eyes.  Her hands were calloused from the factory, and her hair was dried out and grey in places, but she was a woman of the earth.  She cared for me and was perfect in motherhood, in spirit, in art.  I hate the pretty!  The pretty people dwell only on the surface and are full of trite gossip.  Women like that are only pretty because they have the money and spare time to be so.  They are petty.  They marry for money.  They have not been through the necessary trials of life- they have been spared the damage of hard work and poverty.  My mother was sacred, and our relationship was sacred- the salt of the earth.  I relied on her, and she relied on me- without one the other would soon perish.  She was the light of the world, and everything I had was in her keeping.

    When I would go to school the other children would make fun of me for my frumpy clothes and my lack of social skills.  I had cheap coke bottle glasses, and my vision was poor- they recognized instantly that I was weak and secretive, and because of this they would beat on me and make cruel remarks.  They were unrelenting in their torments of me.  There was one especially strong and charismatic boy who used to take special relish in this cruelty- and because of this I began to refuse to go to school, often feigning sickness.  Sometimes I would pretend to get ready for school in the mornings, only to walk around the block and return to the house.  I had to walk to school because my mother had to go to work, and this allowed me a certain kind of freedom to do what I wanted.  I would gain entrance through the back door, and would go straight into my room, where I would read a book, or else play games with action figures, pretending that I was Superman.  I realized however in time that Superman was a joke, and I ceased to play these games.

    I was a weak child and often came down with terrible sickness.  I had asthma, and would have trouble breathing some days.  It was a horribly frightening experience, to be unable to breathe.  My chest would get tight, and my lungs would burn, and I would wheeze and gasp.  I also would come down with fevers, or else ear infections and colds- I had a weak immune system to be sure.  My mother was forced to make frequent visits to the doctor because of me, and she barely afforded it, since I was not insured.  She couldn’t afford to take the money out of her check each week to get insurance for us, and had to pay the doctor’s fees out of pocket.  Money is far too important when you never have enough.  I learned early about the trouble of money- the way in which it is wasted, and the reason it is coveted.

    However, my constant bouts of sickness did allow me to develop my expansive inner world.  Since I was not influenced by other children I had to rely on my own devices for entertainment and knowledge.  This was an important part of my development as a creative person and an original thinker.  I would write short stories, which I never would complete because of my perfectionism- and would draw my own illustrations.  I also began to spend all of my time thinking- and considering questions too large for a child’s mind.  I withdrew from the world, as my mother before me had done, and began to be more interested in my own dreams.  Lying in my sick bed, I would dream such interesting pictures, and would try to draw them, but I was never satisfied with the end results.  I began to carry a book always with me, and read often- starting with popular fiction writers whose work I found entertaining- but I soon grew tired of this and began to want something more from my reading- although I didn’t know where to look.  I always wanted to delve deeper and examine further.  My mother was not very much help with this matter, since she was uneducated, but she did offer encouragement.  She said that I was always very bright and should consider an academic life.

    I remember looking out the window of my mother’s house when I was sick and watching the other children playing in the street.  They laughed and were having a grand old time with a ball and a stick.  The boys chased the girls about, and then the girls chased the boys, and I admired them and wanted to go out and play as well.  They looked to be having so much fun.  But, I was sick and had to stay inside with my toys and my books.  This was painful for me, because I wanted so much to be a part of their play, and I longed to be able to join the crowd.  But, they would have been cruel to me even if I was to go outside.  They would have made fun of my coke bottle glasses and my poor clothes, they would have pushed me down and called me names and made me feel sad for being myself.  I saw that the large boy who had always been tormenting me was playing in the game with the other children, and he was laughing and full of joy as he batted the ball with the stick, and I secretly began to despise him.  Their joy began to sound menacing, and I soon turned away from the window and sat on my bed thinking to myself how much I would like to take revenge on them.  I wanted to be part of the group, but since they would not have me, I dreamed of taking retribution.  But, I knew that cruelty was sin, and I knew that my mind was impure and my thoughts diabolical, so instead I began to punish myself for my own failings.  I hated myself most of the time, and didn’t like my dress or my glasses, and didn’t think my sad thoughts were natural.  I felt like I should be punished for my ugliness.  I felt that it were justified that the other children should hate me and ridicule me at school. I wanted to be punished for being weak and frail, and I hated that I was different.  I didn’t yet know how unique these feelings were.

    One day I came home from school agitated and lonely looking, with my jeans grass stained and torn.  My mother noticed my sad sorry state and asked me about it, to which I responded that nothing was wrong and nothing had happened.  She didn’t believe me, and although she was not overly/overtly concerned, she pressed the issue, until I told her that I had been beaten up on my way home from school.  My mother looked at me with a steady stare, and asked me if I wanted to talk about it- to which I responded that I better not.  My voice had suddenly grown weak and a tear fell from my cheek.  It streamed down my face and made a greasy streak, and I began to cry.  I ran over to my mother and wrapped my thin arms about her waist holding onto her while I sobbed, and I asked her in a cracked and injured voice, “why do the other boys and girls hate me at school?  They beat me up and take my money and make awful comments about my looks.  I never did anything to them.  I wish I wasn’t born this way.” 

    My mother asked me, “born in what way?  You are perfectly okay, there’s nothing wrong with you is there? You’re perfect as far as I’m concerned.”

    “But, I’m not perfect.  I have these awful looking glasses on my face, and I’m smaller than the other kids.  They look down on me, and I have no friends.”

    “I’m your friend aren’t I?”  My mother said.

    “It’s not the same thing.”

    “Listen.  There is nothing wrong with you, and it’s okay that you’re different.  We’re a different kind of people, you and I, and there’s nothing wrong with that.  One day the others are going to realize how special you are, and you won’t even need friends then, because you’ll have so many of them.  You’re different, which is a remarkable quality.  You’re a bright young man, cheer up.”

    “But, why must the other kids beat on me?  Do they really hate me that much that they have to go out of their way to hurt me?”

    “They’re just ignorant.  Don’t worry about them.  They’ll try and hurt whatever is different from them.  It’s not your fault.”

    “How will I ever get them to like me, or else to stop making fun of me?”

    “Sometimes people will like you, other times they won’t- what’s it matter to you?  Be comfortable in your own skin, and don’t worry what other people think of you.  Sometimes a person will hurt you for no reason.  It’s not your fault.  Some of us were just born to have to go through these things, when other people don’t have to.  Life is a game of craps.  Cruelty is the nature of things.  You’ll learn to overcome it someday.  God will not put before you anything you can’t handle.”

    My mother made me feel better by talking with me.  She always made me feel better.  She was the only one in the world, and I loved her so much, because it was unconditional love.  I knew that she would never turn her back on me or abandon me- that she loved me for who I was.  I never found this in any other person.  No women, no friends could compare to her with her tenderness and kindness.  She was never cross with me or mean spirited, even when I would treat her rotten, she would never come back with a hostile word.  I was a moody child and often went through extremes of emotion- but she could handle it.  It wasn’t my fault, it was the way I was born.  I was uniquely touched in a way- to be more feeling than other people- to be more emotional then other people.

    My youth was both happiness and misery.  My mother, who was the light of my world, who protected me and took care of me as only a mother could, soon became separated from me when she fell in love with a brutal man.  She had met this man at church, and was impressed with his knowledge of the bible, and his strength and good looks, and she soon brought him into our home and married him.  He was large and imposing and was critical of me from the first.  I don’t think he liked that my mother even had a son, and he took this out on me at every turn.  He was physically strong and worked with his hands, and he believed that I should do the same.  He was not a man of high learning or books, his knowledge of the bible notwithstanding, and he was an authoritarian.  He ate large meals of mashed potatoes and gravy.  He wore a blue mechanic’s outfit for work, and his hands were grimy and harsh.  My mother relented to him constantly because of her natural kindness and meekness, and he soon began to run our household.  My mother and he would sometimes fight when they had been drinking, and I don’t recall any tenderness between them, although there must have been.  My mother probably just needed companionship of some kind, and had relented to this man’s persistence, giving into him.  I never forgave her for this weakness.

    This brute of a man began to make constant demands of me, and made comments about me which demeaned me.  My mother didn’t come to my defense, and I think she feared him.  He was puritanical in his Christianity, and often beat me with a belt when I was obstinate.  I began to become rebellious in small ways- not trying my best when he put me in sports, or running to my mother for protection when he would try to punish me.  He would beat my mother.  He always wanted me to be involved in sports, although I always hated it because I was so terrible, and had not a bit of talent.  I also never liked the idea of sports- the competition and the masculinity of it.  I was a delicate person, and could not keep up with the stronger and faster who excelled.  My stepfather tried to train me as best he could, and wanted to ‘make a man out of me.’  As he saw it, men were supposed to be of a peculiar sort.  They were supposed to excel in sports and eat raw meat.  I never responded to his ambitions for me, and began to refuse to participate, at which point he gave up, but not before beating me until I was black and blue and purple bruised.

    My mother also got her share of the abuse, and I would hear them fighting and my mother crying out when he would hit her.  The cops came frequently to the house, but my mother always refused to press charges, saying that she loved him.  It is true that we often learn to love our abusers.  Weak people cannot help but admire the strong and ruthless.

    The constant beatings and cruelty began to work their way on my gentle psyche however, and I soon began to cringe at everything.  I began to learn how to hate, and I hated him and I hated my situation and I hated myself.  He had made me into a monster.  I became morose and further isolated, and my childhood became a nightmare of insecurity and self-doubt.  At school I couldn’t explain the bruises.  The worm began eating on me then.  I was very critical of myself and felt that I deserved the abuse.  I looked into the future with foreboding, and saw nothing there to encourage me.  All my childhood optimism had vanished.  I was faded and broken.  My mother was abused and I was abused and this was simply the way of it.  And good for it!  I’m glad now that I had such a wonderful stepfather to show me the ways of the world.

    Soon my mother and stepfather did divorce, when he became involved with a sixteen year old girl- a daughter of one of the women at church.  My mother cried and cried over the affair and acted as if it were the end of the world.  I could not understand her.  I was painfully confused.  My confusion also led me to blame myself.  I couldn’t protect her from that brutal man.  She loved him certainly in a sick way, but she finally did say goodbye to him.  I didn’t move on from it for a long time, and was still terrorized by his memory.  He still came into my thoughts at odd times and gave me shudders- my nerves were in tatters..

    In my youth I had learned how beastly the human species is- and how like and unlike an animal he is.  He is unlike an animal in his higher faculties, his ability to think and dream, qualities of the mind- of which I greatly respect.  But, in his body and desires he is always an animal.  My stepfather was an animal!  He was an immature and evil man without a conscience.  When people are ignorant or lacking intelligence they may be said to be more like animals than human beings- it is the rare man who is actually a human being at all.  I noticed that the boys around me at school had become strong and healthy, while I was still frail and weak.  They were also full of hormones, and began to compete for female attention- the physically stronger winning out.  Competition is natural and ugly, and when people are young they compete through sports and drinking games- or they try to show dominance by putting down the weak kid.  But, after high school when you enter the adult world it becomes all about wealth and authority- women are always attracted by such things.  They sleep with brutes!  Of course, a woman is usually caddy and small-minded- she competes with her appearance and is all about appearances.  She captivates the dull witted beast with her swanky feathers.  She desires to be with a man who can take care of things- or who society has selected- a man who has been given such skills and advantages that would make him capable in earning a wage.  I never considered these things very important.  I was more interested in my mental life than the physical.  But, the world is not so advanced as I am, and it never will be.

    I have grown much through contemplation, and most people never contemplate.  They are simply energetic actors who play on the stage.  I stay behind the scenes.  I am a social dropout and an outcast.  I feel privileged to be so.  I never wanted to be understood.  I am uncommon, and my ideas are uncommon.  I have never met a soul like mine.  I am an artist, that’s to be sure, because I can see more than others- although I am no craftsman.  In my youth it was always the men of learning and high culture who impressed themselves upon me.  My admiration for poets and thinkers led me to the path which I have traveled.  But, what has come of it?  It has led me into despair.  The more you know, the more you suffer.

    It was a kind of escapism for me- to hide in the library among the stacks of books, reading and digesting remarkable things.  This gave purpose and meaning to an otherwise dull and pointless existence- to be as poets are, to be as gods are.  Through these men of high thoughts I was transfigured.  I slowly began to see the structure in the rubble.  I was building my philosophy.  And what is my philosophy? To say ‘yes’ to everything, and ‘no’ to everything.   When I look about me and see what has become of my fellow man, I say ‘no’ to it.  All of history is tragedy- it is man against man, making war, spurred on by ignorance- forgetting about the essence of life altogether in his quest for worldly power and domination.  Where many see progress I see a profound digression.  I see destruction and despotism.  All over the world people live under government authority, or religious authority, and cannot breathe free air.  They are trapped in the cities, where everything is easy to purchase, and ‘struggle’ is a foreigner’s word.  Here in the West we market and package everything and put it on a shelf- and people worship the shopping mall universe.  The good life has become all about the accruement of possessions- and many people spend their whole lives trying to gather wealth- or else slavishly work for pennies.  A man’s worth is here measured in dollar amounts and everything is a commodity.  Even sex is here for the selling, and most people are w****s.

    The sole conviction of my life now rests upon the idea of non-compliance and resistance.  I believe the only answer is to withdraw from the world of violence and authority, and to live a life rebelliously from the main.  To live a life of inward contemplation and creativity is far better than to seek power in the world.  Worldly power is an illusion, and possessions are not lasting- the only thing we truly possess are ourselves.  We must try to elevate and liberate ourselves!  When I see the rest of humanity working for the man, or the minimum wage, I am horrified.  Don’t they know that we were not created to be office drones?  Don’t they know that there are other ways to live?  But, I have said that freedom doesn’t exist anyway.  Perhaps it does, in some small way, if you live a life of opposition.  I have always lived a life of opposition and I am proud of it.  I’ve always done exactly what I wanted to do at any time, and while others were spending their time working for the bottom line, I was in my own imaginary world where people could not touch me.  I have found here within myself a place which they cannot get to- not with their laws or authority- I am completely independent in my thoughts.

    I have often speculated that I am a great man, but this lightness is always brought back to earth whenever I consider how terrible my existence is.  I cannot claim that I am or ever was a great man.  Yes, I was superior in many ways- in that I never sold myself out or bought a sale’s pitch- but I was also inferior.  I believe I hid myself from the world from fear and never really took up a challenge.  I was always fearful. I never experienced the joys most people hold dear.  All my experiences are of quiet sort, reading and writing, thinking and dreaming.  I still believe that is the only way to live, but surely I missed out.  I never was in love, and never had a truly close friend.  I kept myself secluded as a matter of course, and never revealed much to anyone- knowing that they could never accept me.  Maybe that’s why I now write, because it is my way of making a connection, and speaking clearly what I have found by overturning stones.  If only there could be a real connection!  But, what have I found?  Nothing remarkable.  I found no God or paradise in these useless books, no Utopias or afterworlds.  I would have nothing which could connect me to people.  I found no love or ecstatic truth there in these wet but dormant pages.  I wish my mother were still alive.

Reviews

[LyLy]

This was great! I really got into it. You'll go far with this book, I can already see. ^^

[char]

Whoa. This is amazing. I truly do mean that. I always had appreciation for life. But damn, I guess when life deals you a bad hand, you become a cynic. I do agree with your character's thoughts about how the young waste their lives away. This story is so freaking amazing. So real and, in its own way, very beautiful. I love this story, so I'll say it again, this story is freaking amazing.

[John Christopher]

Thank you so much!