Prologue

September 26, 2013

The lights are dim and the window to my right shows a blackened sky so I know it's at least evening. I can't tell whether it's early or late; my senses have tried to leave me of late – touch, taste, sight and smell – so it's no wonder that my sense of time has finally bolted. The constant, searing pain in my chest tells me that it doesn't matter. Not anymore. Finally, after so much pain and sadness, finally I'll be allowed to go.

I look around; there's literally nothing else to do. I know, deep inside me where it counts, I know that I've found my final resting place. Some would probably be scared of this. Some would probably cry or wail before succumbing to the unknown. I welcome it, like an old friend I've been waiting on for a very long time. I would have taken my life to meet it far sooner than now, if I weren't such a coward.

It's the same room I've seen for the past week. It's the same white curtain and the same small monitors and the same slight whooshing sound of oxygen being forced into my nose. I've been here before, many times over the previous few years. I've come to know places like this very well. Funny that this is where it should end, much like where it had started those 69 years ago.

Pure, white walls all around me. There's a stain to them that is almost invisible; a film that covers them in the pain and suffering and death of those that have been here before me. There's a story in that dark film, a tale of mothers and fathers, spouses and children, grandchildren and cousins wailing for the loss of their loved ones. The film takes all of that pain and agony and crying and wailing and it spreads it until it covers everything, until the darkness and evil of those thoughts and feelings spread into just the barest shadow covering those pure, white walls.

I will not contribute to that caustic glaze. There will be no one to grieve. My room, when I'm gone, will be empty and devoid of all life. Faceless men and women will come to take care of what I leave behind but they will not mourn me. No one will ever remember my passing.

I watch that film congeal in a corner. I watch it pulse and shiver, a smoky haze growing darker as it is pulled into itself. A black smoke, a dark fog, pulsing and writhing, shimmering into the pain of birth or re-birth. I'm fascinated as I watch it move. There's a pattern, a purpose to it that compels me to watch it in curiosity. Long arms writhe up into 45 degree angles from the main body and the body shivers in pleasure or pain as it rounds and sculpts. Feathery tendrils drip from those arms, an inky black wall fluttering beneath them. The main body curves and pulses, a heartbeat of pain and suffering coalescing before me. From that darkness, glimmering white eyes open and regard me, even as a nose drifts out and a curling mouth forms.

It is a winged woman, naked and young, deliberate in her regard. Flashes of inky black stream from the sides of perfect, onyx breasts. They solidify into arms, the right holding a long staff which she strikes to the ground. The staff makes no sound but there is a flash of darkness that suddenly lights from the rounded head. She lifts the staff high, her wings unfurling around her, the light capturing my eyes and holding them, streaming into them and painting images onto them.

There is a room, much like this. There is a screaming woman, legs bent and splayed to the white coated man sitting between them. She is crying in pain, beads of sweat matting her hair, her face contorted in agony. I hear a word drift to me – "Push" – but it is far away, like a sigh on the wind. I watch the woman, watch her hands clench as she almost sits up. She is straining even as she cries, her face now contorts in concentration, seeping through the pain.

I watch as the baby – as I – am born to this world.

Images flash by that I can barely see. Images of me growing, of my father coming home drunk time and time again, beating my mother, beating me. I watch my face change as it is contorted in the pain of those beatings. They aren't all unhappy times, though. There are some of those scenes that flash by where I'm happy, where I'm sitting next to my mother at her piano and she's teaching me to play. There were far more dark times, however. I watch as it grows older, 4... 5... 6, as I grow older. But still, the beatings continue.

At 7, a pause. An image rather than a movie. Myself, running blindly in the rain. A thunderstorm and a bolt of purest light striking down from the sky. I was ablaze in energy; the fierce light a backdrop to the shadow of my body. Incandescent. Brilliantly beautiful.

The images swelled again and moved, me in the hospital. A miracle, it was said. It was my sole claim to fame throughout my life. At 7 years old, in the late summer of 1951, I had been struck by a bolt of lightning and lived. The rest of my life, I'd have an ugly burn scar in the upper part of the left side of my chest where the bolt had struck me. I was told I was lucky. I was told that I was destined for great things. I was lied to.

And the beatings only stopped for a short while. When I hit 8, there are other beatings, poundings by people I barely know. I'm small for my age, tiny, and there are countless bullies in the world seeking to make their names by pounding on kids younger than them. The world changes around me, but I'm caught in that cycle, caught in the beatings and the pain. Those fights, they are only the precursor. My father beats me when I get home; he beats me because I lost, not because I fought. I can hear the words from him, remembering them even as I hear them drifting through the air. Worthless. Weak. Fucking loser. Not worth a pot to piss in. I watch his face contort as the beatings continue.

I've always been short. Short and fat. There was nothing I could do about that. So I turned to the only thing I could change. I turned to my mind. I've been blessed with a phenomenal memory. In the books and articles I found at the library, I learned to do even more with it. I learned the secrets behind phenomenal memory. I learned how to create a memory palace. And I filled it with everything I could. I stored all of my memories, all of my lessons, into that palace. And, thanks to it, I was able to succeed academically even though I failed horribly physically.

The images stop for a moment and linger. There's me in a car and terror fills my heart. I know this memory, I remember it. In all the years since, I've never forgotten it. It's etched in dark ink upon the redness of my heart. I see my 17 year old self and I cringe. Even then, I was over-weight. Not the morbidly obese troll I am now, at the end, but still fat. That isn't what makes me cringe, though. It isn't why I don't want to see this anymore.

I'm on a date. The drive-in. I've borrowed my dad's car but he doesn't know it. He's off, away. He took the train out of town to a convention or something. Trivialities like that I don't remember or maybe just don't want to. The rest of this, though ... it's a nightmare and I know I'm going to have to live through it again.

The girl is Mary Jo Feckle. She's pretty in a lustful way. She's not thin, not fat like me, but not thin like others. She's got a nice rack; big, filling. She fills all of her clothes nicely, the blouse, the skirt. The face isn't much, nose is kind of pudgy, lips are too big for her head. She wears thick glasses but behind them are pretty eyes, though shrewd and calculating.

She's a 'sure thing'. Round heels. She's a guaranteed lay. I'm not proud of it, but that's why I asked her. I'm shy. Strange. I have few friends and none of them close. I can't take the chance that they'll want to meet my parents, meet my father. I can't take the chance of them hearing how worthless I am, how weak. I can't get a girl, not on my own. That's why I've asked Mary Jo. She's a 'sure thing' ... and I'm ready for a 'sure thing'.

We get hot and heavy, kissing, hugging. I remember she tasted of mint and cigarettes; I remember thinking that at least she took a mint before kissing me. Too bad I didn't think of that. I remember we had spaghetti with garlic before coming here. I can only wonder at how bad my breath must reek.

I cringe as I'm forced to watch this. I have no experience at kissing and it shows. I slobber at her and I watch as she rolls her eyes at me. She pushes me, guides me. After a few minutes, it's not too bad – but it's not good either. Finally, she breaks the kiss – but not because she's eager to be with me; she's just eager to get this over with.

"Do you have a silk purse?" I hear her ask, her voice husky but I can tell even now that she's faking it. 17-year old me doesn't care. I'm finally going to get what I want.

I tore into my wallet and pulled my prize. I waved it at her and smiled, happy at what was finally going to happen. She smiled back, but it was pasted on, unreal. I think I even knew it back then but I didn't care. Mary was a 'sure thing'.

She unbuttoned her blouse and wriggled around as she undid her bra. She performed that magic that all women can do where she pulled the discarded bra through her sleeves. Then, there they were. Big and sagging and real. The first real titties I had ever seen, though of course I'd seen a few in magazines and such. I watched myself as I mauled them, kneading them. The 17 year old me had never seen the grimaces, never seen the pain I was obviously causing but the 69-year old me was forced to watch it. I knew, the experienced me knew, that she would be bruised tomorrow. The 17-year old me didn't know or, more likely, didn't care. Mary Jo was a 'sure thing'.

Finally, when she was tired of being hurt, I watched as Mary pushed my hands away and reached for my belt. My 69-year old self tried to look away, tried not to see what was about to happen ... but the dark angel with her staff glowing blackly wasn't about to let me off that easy. I was forced to watch Mary Jo unbuckle and unzip me. I was forced to watch as I lifted my ass to let her take down my pants and boxers. I was forced to hear the gasp and then, crying, I was forced to watch my 17-year old self shudder away as Mary Jo, the 'sure thing', started laughing at the 4 inch stiffy I was sporting.

Chapter 1 »