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"Rozary"Written By: Switchblade003
Pairing(s): None Warning(s): This is from one of my darker days. Be advised. Rating: NC-17, for violence, mental derangement, and social disorder Archive: www.wuffie.net Notes: There are a lot of historical, literary, and biblical allusions in this piece. It’s basically Duo contemplating life in a philosophic format. Complete analysis of the work by myself and my colleagues is always available upon request. Don’t be shy: Superfuturesque_sound@yahoo.com. +++ Rozary
I’ve always had an unhealthy fascination with sharp objects, and it’s not as bad as the Surgeon-General makes it out to be. It hurts more than the inner turmoil of a scarred childhood, more than the confusion of adolescence in a place where you just don’t belong, and more than a hollow, failed attempt at circumventing a friend’s suicide, because that’s what’s expected of you in a situation that you recognized to be futile from ‘day one.’ It aches more than false promises of a Garden of Eden returned and the daily insecurities of never trusting your closest friends for lack of being able to trust even yourself. More painful than physical blows, yet just as satisfying as delivering them yourself, self-mutilation is anything but a defacement of the human body. Dragging a newly-sharpened blade across sensitive skin, watching in morbid fascination as the blood pounding through your veins wells to the surface, pooling in an awkward puddle of sanguine until gravity takes control and it runs down your skin in a thin rivulet… It has to be one of the most therapeutic and relaxing experience in the world. It’s all about concentrating on something other than the problems at-hand, when ordinary distractions simply will not suffice, and you need a release. It’s a scourging of the soul, vigilante-style. Smooth steel over pale flesh, crimson splashes on ivory tiles—it’s gothic surrealism in its finest display. The acute sting of a freshly-slashed wound is more overpowering and NOW than the dull, steady ache of lies, deceit, and self-doubt, a wordless poem that would do Poe proud. Sometimes the marks are shallow, and I’ve had a conflict emerge for the day that I simply could not fix, and other times the rivers run deep, and they leave marks, subtle reminders of problems still lurking in the woodwork. And then there are times when I cannot identify the discord which disrupts my precariously-balanced life, and I cut for the twisted familiarity of the act, pulling the blade over my arms as a harsh reminder that there IS some order preserved, no matter what might have transpired during the day to convince me otherwise. It’s a moment of ultimate high, of the absence of an ability to worry. There’s a disturbing mood that accompanies the urge to cut, a well-known default state-of-mind that I revert to when I pull my blades from under my mattress, and it’s comforting in its simplicity. It’s a feeling of detachment, of utter loss of care for anything but that brief albeit all-consuming moment of clarity, when the stinging from the self-inflicted injury subsides and the redness blushes across the wounded area, and then the blood bubbles to the raised skin of the mar, and the only sound that pervades my senses is my own harsh, stuttered breathing echoing off of a melancholy nunnery of black and white tile. It’s a feeling that my empty shell of a heart longs with full broken spirit to convey during every minute of each agonizing day, but only in the act of purging can it reach its prime without the trouble it entails. And in that three-second nirvana of absolute purity I can find my way out of the storm and back to my subverted realm of apathy. It’s an exorcism of troubles, without the corruption of the Church. There are scars. Some are darker than my olive-tones skin, and they stand out in an odd array of criss-crossing lines, a psychotic pattern of problems pushed aside but not forgotten… never forgotten. And some are lighter, the deeper incisions that will never heal completely. These serve as biological memorials to trials and tribulations passed, ordeals through which I’ve managed to live. People will stop me and ask if I have cats at home, as if that would explain the anomaly they’ve witnessed engraved upon my arms, and I nod and smile. ‘Yes,’ I tell them. ‘I have cats.’ Why not spare them from the realities of purging, the vicious cycle of my life? Who would suspect, or even dare to accuse, someone of such a hideous disfiguration of his own body? I’ll bet the cut, too. It’s intoxicating. It’s a release without permanent release. In a world of perpetual alterations, where change is the solitary constant and confusion reigns supreme, it’s a wonder that even cutting works its magic to soothe over agnostic spiritual pains and bind fast the demons which feast upon the minds of dreamers. It’s said that John Brown predicted the Confederate War for Independence before he was hanged in Virginia for the raid on the federal arsenal in Harper’s Ferry, and he was a murderer, which tells my delusional mind that sinners are in the hands of an angry God and on the information circle with Lucifer. So with keen eyes and a mirthless smile I’ll sit back and watch through my tinted, three-by-four square of reality, troubles tied securely until tomorrow, blades at the ready. "God is in his heaven, and all is right with the world." As prophets paint the town in gore and Pilate preaches from the pulpit, it’ll all pass me by, and perhaps I’ll venture out of my ‘illness’ long enough to watch. The irony of it all is almost laughable to me at times, but for now it’s too agitating to deliberate. I’ll stick to the basics, the roots of human thought. Emerson’s all-seeing eye spoke of returning to the original relations of man with nature, and I couldn’t agree more. The complication comes when we’ve destroyed nature—and our HUMAN nature—so entirely that life wants a new beginning, a new origin. I choose to become one with the Over-Soul in a more direct way. Am I stable in the mind? Definitely not. Am I insane? Quite possibly. But am I a danger to society? Debatable. If society weren’t already an ever-expanding threat upon itself, then perhaps the time could be taken out to assess my role in the destruction of civilization, but I have it on reliable authority that Trieze and Romefellar are a bit preoccupied discussing the distribution of the Mark. So I’ll walk idly by through this life, and possibly the next, with a blade in my pocket and an unfeigned smile at the knowledge that I may very well be certifiably psychotic, and someday I may wander the streets of L2 a raving lunatic, but at least those collective seconds of true enlightenment have shown me that I won’t be missing out on anything overly grand or spectacular. +++
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