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Klutch.xls: *##*
Only a week till Christmas and my room's a fucking mess. I had another blackout. The final hour or so cuts through my memory like a grainy public access channel through the static. Must have stumbled home sometime after the sun came up. There's a bloody mass of female form taking up most of my mattress. The heavy black rotary phone is clumped with flesh and hair. At least she's still breathing. Burns from the tangled cord she used to tie me up mark my neck and forearms. She lifts an arm beckoning for a kiss. The transistor radio calls out for wind and snow. Only two cigarettes left. I brush the tangled hair from her eyes and give her a butterfly kiss. Two bottles of V8, three packs of smokes and some chickletts ought to do it. I'm terrified to enter the real world in this state but there's no way she's up to it. 20 Minutes and I'll be back to this paradise . . . I got to keep thinking it or I'll wind up going on another tangent. Pump a little "Ice-T" into the chilled morning air, breathe in a little carbon monoxide and smoke that first cigarette of the day to take the tightness out of the lungs.
Thank god we got home safe.
The car stereo is mumbling about the same blizzard. The only snow I'll encounter this Christmas will be cut on a broken shard of the bathroom mirror. Shit, forgot about caffeine. I should have put a pot on before I left the house. I'll not be able to think of anything else now. Probably forget the chickletts . . .
shit, shit, shit . . .
I'm drifting. One small step off my plan for the perfect afternoon and I'll never get back on track. I tell myself I can stop for Dunkin Donuts on the way home but it's too late. I'm trapped in my mind.
If I don't do things in the right order (putting the coffee on for example) I'm useless . . .
drifting . . .
drifting . . .
Now I remember why I hit her with the phone. It's because I love her. I love her too much, and she loves me too much and last night I started drifting and I ended up back at this corner of my mind.
. . . she's been with other men. Not now, but before . . . my angel . . .
Stop stop stop. I'm libel to end up driving mad cross snowbanked New England into some unknown unmarked territory.
The phone crashed down on her head and she screams in pleasure pain. She thinks it's a game. A little drug induced, hallucinatory sex game.
I could have killed her.
But the force of the phone coming down towards her sweet little face jerked the cord still attached to it and my neck and sent me to my knees gasping for breath. If not for that cord the blows would have kept coming. All the rest is just static.
Fuck, where am I. I'm sure I missed the store. I just hope I'm not being followed.
My muscles tremble, my eyes burn, my clothes don't feel right on my flesh and my flesh pulls tight along my body. Oh to close my eyes pump the gas and wait for the inevitable. Something does not allow it. Minutes like hours were spent in the car in the parking-lot before entering the people infested country mart.
Curled up in withdrawal depression, tears streaming, begging mercy and forgiveness from my female cupid. She sees me as ridiculous, sad, something explodes outside. Through starry eyes, sirens reflect on the window. The first snow falls. The sound of the soft snow pounds in my head, deafening, I scream in terror. Unable to escape this mind which controls my body. Body tries to numb mind creating a hollow feeling . . . the snow creates an additional ceiling which constricts and adds to the
claustrophobia. She gets up and acts out real life, folding clothes, lighting cigarette, standing in warm hallway light. How can she be fine when all I can do is shiver.
Vibrate, vibrate, vibrate.
Maybe I can shake myself out of this soft shell and leave it all behind.
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