I couldn’t sleep last night… I found myself tossing and turning, unable to switch my brain off. I get like that from time to time, but I never really think about why. It’s just something that happens occasionally. It begins with each new year, easing with the onset of summer. It usually screws up my internal clock. I never really tried to figure out why… until last night.
You see, it hit me, January this year marked the twelfth anniversary of the year I believe I died.
I have never really or fully shared this story with anyone, dear reader, mainly because I know no one will believe me. In many cases I think people I would actually LIKE to share this story with would actually react badly to hearing it. but I think the reason I have so much difficulty this time of year is not only have I not ever really shared this story, but I have never really FACED it either.
That time of my life was a blur, a haze of confusion and change. The heat of hatred and anger toward my peers had culminated in fantasies of genocide and, at times, suicide. These emotions and desired caused fear and uncertainty. And it was that same uncertainty that led down a dark and terrible path to the home of the madman. The madman and his insufferable family–a depressing lot of religious fanatics who blindly obeyed the rantings of the madman, believing all the time that their actions were called for by God himself. I thought I was alone then. Although I thought I had no allies. No friends. No one I could trust.
I must pause and note, I was wrong. I did have one friend. it’s unfortunate I didn’t realize how so until he had gone. however; because of my blind malice towards ALL mankind, I made it my purpose to quietly play the part of the fool, complaisantly obeying the orders of the madman, like everyone else in that hell they called home. only occasionally forgetting myself by whimpering a challenge here and there… only to be “reminded of my place” by the madman.
While most of the story is lost–and frankly, unimportant–I was sick, I had diarrhea and so understandably I was dehydrated. adding to my state, I was fatigued and frustrated, having dealt with the rantings and forced labors imposed by the Madman. To be honest, the work wasn’t all that bad, if not for the insolent Madman. After suffering yet another brow beating for using my intelligence–an attempt on my part to alleviate stress endured by both the illness and the fruitless efforts of trying to thread a cable through a pipe I knew to be blocked–The madman flew into the last rage I could tolerate.
Fed up, tired, sick, and sore, I finally threw up my hands and cursed the madman. I had had enough and would tolerate no more. So, I tried to leave. Not willing to suffer my curse, the madman attacked me, his wish to inflict a parting blow not only to my body, but to my will.
Blow after blow, the madman struck me about my face and head. I don’t remember much of the beating, I fell in and out of consciousness seemingly with each blow. But I do remember the dreams I had while in those fleeting moments of unconscious delirium. Terrible dreams. haunting dreams. They were the dreams that haunt me to this day.
After beating me for what must have been only moments (though it felt like hours), the Madman dragged me from the pit and expelled me from his home.
Battered, bruised, sick, and dehydrated, I supposed he had expected me to simply sit and wait there on the edge of his property. I understand his assumptions, we were after all, in the middle of a desert–further proof of his insanity and desire to control his brood through forced imprisonment outside the watchful gaze of neighbors who would have reported his abuses. I suppose some part of me WANTED to collapse there by the side of the highway. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t surrender my last bit of self respect to the madman. So I walked away, into the desert.
As I think back, I know I had suffered a minor concussion in the attack. I remember feeling so tired I could barely stand. I wanted so badly to sleep, but somehow I knew that sleeping would kill me. I don’t know how far I made it before the nausea set in and it took all my efforts to keep upright. The world constantly turned and fell away from me, I know I stumbled because I constantly picked myself back up. I knew I had to get water and soon. though I didn’t–at the time–really understand why.
I don’t know the exact day, but I know the time… roughly 4:27pm. I remember that time, because that was the time on my watch when I fell for the last time. I knew I had to stay awake, but my body simply wouldn’t let me rise again. so I lay there, defeated and broken. all I could to was focus on the one thing in my field of vision, and hope the flashing dots on the LCD could somehow bring me back. I was wrong.
It was a dark place, neither warm nor cold. just empty. I vaguely remember a being somewhere… else, but that vision left my memory long ago. And then I was awake. I must have rolled in my unconscious state because I awoke with my neck twisted. No longer facing my watch, I found I had somehow pressed my head and face into the ground. Choking on the dirt I coughed and the discomfort forced me to once again right myself.
Still beaten. still sore. and still ill, I managed to drag myself through the desert to a nearby township. I found a kind soul who provided me with water and aspirin.
Hours later, I found myself out of the path of the Madman. I returned to the home of my parents where I recovered without incident. never to speak of, nor dwell upon the events that day, alone in the desert.
I don’t know why I never pressed charges on the madman, God knows It would have done a world of good for my sister and her daughter had he not been around. But I could never bring myself to blame him for my fate. He had given me a gift. after that day, a part of me that had never before existed. A piece of my being–more human that the rest, I think–that can step past my disdain for my fellow man and allow me to live and work among them. That part of me was born that day.
and now, dear reader, I want you to know, I do not intend to impart some “moral” to this story. I did not tell you this story for your benefit, I told you for my own. you see; I don’t care about you. I never did.
