kagablog

Right now. I lie here. I think I have experienced it. Death. Mental Death. Physical deteriation. Lying here for days staring at the ceiling waiting to be carried up, or go plummeting down. My stomach tight with hunger. My legs cramped from malnutrition. My back aching from not moving. Hair turning strawlike and beginning to thin and fall out.

I remember I’m 25. Born in 1980. How did it happen this fast? I remember the first time I read Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and read the part about the lobotomy, and the way the protagonist was after it had happened to him, dead in the mind, unthinking, but still there physically. He sounded like the luckiest man in the entire world.

I envied his no longer having the torment of having to think, or worse, having to remember. Waiting for a nurse to come and do everything for you four times a day. Feed you, bathe you, empty your piss and shit, shave you. Watch Nascar on the television for hours. Watch the cars go around and around and around and around the track, never stopping. There is no world around you. You are no longer aware of it. It is gone. You are inside of the safe brick walls. Not inside your head anymore. This is mental death and it sounds wonderful.

Cut to him. He’s fucking your ass from behind while you’re barely trying to cling to the wet, slippery walls of the bathtub while he slams your head into the faucet. Snot mixed with blood and shampoo drip down the side of the tub. There is no escape from this. There is no stopping this. It is raining hot water all over your back, which only makes the walls more slippery, harder to balance your two small hands on so that you don’t go crashing face first into the bottom of the bathtub and break your face open.

There is already blood in the bottom of the tub, although you have no idea from where, it just exists and more is coming. Is it yours . . . his? Too hard to tell. Everything hurts and is wet and slippery. The stench of blood and semen is ripe and in the air. I was born for this.

His engorged cum filled dick slamming into me. I think about my organs moving in all different directions. Through this I am able to stop and wonder if he can actually alter the way that my organs are arranged in my body if this sick troll pounds me enough times.

This is not intercourse. This is not sex. This is not fucking. There is only one word for this and it is sloppy and disgusting and rife with hatred. I look at my legs and see streams of blood pouring down each of the already bruised wreched sticks. How did I get here? I wonder what organs are dying inside of me now.

I know what this is, what is happening, and I say it quietly. And when I say it I scream, and when I scream I scream over and over again until it becomes a horrible beautiful resonating song in my head. He shoves my bloody face into the shampoo again. The bitter taste is inhaled into my mouth while the fake strawberry stench mixed with that of the blood and the sweat and the semen and the genitalia and decay makes my body wretch.

I vomit a light pink color into the tub, followed by seemingly buckets of blood. I repeat the word quietly, over and over. For me, once a word is repeated I soon become numb to it for a time, but not this one. I rip it apart; scrunch it up; step on it; throw it; inflict endless violence to the memories and to this word, but everything is still there. The word, the memories, death is still in front of me staring me right in my bloody bruised face, giving me a sly wink because they all know that they will always be there and that I will never get rid of them.

I want to go home.

I want to go home.

I will not tell anybody what you have done to me. Just let me go home. I wont tell anyone honest.

I will never go home. I will live a desperate rotting life. A life of constant insufficency. It will be ugly and demeaning to all those involved in it. Especially me. The small humilliating embarassing and humiliated product of a wreched degraded and degrading process. My mind, my body, my fucking being. All the time. Everyday. Every fucking Minute.

RETURN TO ABOVE.