I’m not even kidding. Except for one guy, and he only liked it after I explained it to him. So, I put this to you, dear fellow bloggers and friends. It’s horrible, it’s sick, it’s twisted, and dark. A master piece it isn’t, not by a long stretch. And to be perfectly honest, it’s something I cranked out in a few minutes. But tell me your honest opinion, don’t hold back. Believe me, I can take it, and I’m sure I’ve either heard or thought of it before anyway, so no worries there. It’s been published before, in a magazine that had about 2,000 copies in print, of which about fifty were distributed to family and friends (and I’m sure various dustbins as well, don’t ask me why I’m using faux British English all of a sudden here). So while technically it’s seen paper before, I highly doubt it would count (except maybe in a legal matter), but I do retain all rights. So, here, without further ado, it is. Please let me know what you think, tell me if you’re a boy or a girl, and be aware that it’s very, very dark and disturbing.
I’ve always hated ball games, of any kind. There is a good reason for this. They make me aggressive, powerless. Until Thursday, I was convinced that this was merely due to some childhood event (several childhood events) of watching the crowd turn aggressive at the games. But now I know better. I finally know why. Let me warn you, as the expression goes, it really ain’t pretty.
I’m here, at this particular ball game, because I just might see the Eternal Warrior, the love of my life, of my lives; for we have lived together before, countless times, living out, enacting, reenacting the infernal tragedy that brought us here today, in the first decade of the 21st century, again and again. As the Eternal Warrior once said to me, on the rare occasions that we did manage to speak, “because we never learn.”
My usual system of protection, the people that manage to somehow – and I’d really love to know how – ground me, pull me back in, ward off what could easily turn into a horrific situation, (and I mean this in every sense of the word, though infernal might actually sum it up better) – is not in place, not that I thought it would be. These people are not likely to hang out here, even though they are connected. To be honest, I’m not even thinking of them, my spiritual guards. All I can think of is to find the reason I came here, to finally right all the wrongs, knowing full well that this won’t be achieved in one day, never mind a few minutes. But you have to start somewhere.
The music playing, is, let’s just say iffy. There are some songs I can deal with, that won’t leave their mark on me, and others that draw me straight in, transport me to another reality, one in which I should no longer exist but that is all around me just the same. The next song coming from the speakers is proof of this. I regress, I regress completely, pulled in by the song, evoking a memory I never even really knew existed, pulling me back into that other reality, one from centuries ago, the same way an obsidian knife cuts through the body with surgical precision, seeking out its designated area, honing in on its target. And this time – as opposed to all those years ago, when I could sense it but couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly – I’m perfectly aware. My entire body language changes, I become a different . . . being.
Normally, I either sit in some abstraction of a yoga position or slouch deep down in my seat. Now I am sitting straight, whether it is at a table or in the actual seats (like I said, I am searching and can therefore not confine myself to merely one location), hands folded in my lap, demure. It is a necessity because he is sitting next to me; the other person, the one who instigated all this, the one who is (partially or fully, I haven’t decided yet) responsible for my deep and intense hatred of ball games. He is taking it all in, watching, knowing what will happen when the game ends, not particularly bothered by any of this. It is after all what is expected, what has to be. The same way it is expected of me that I sit there quietly, silently, erect; my face emotion and expressionless, displaying no trace of the turmoil and intense pain that is raging on inside. My silent pleas for the one sitting next to me – my husband, our leader, the one who literally holds life and death in his hands – to rethink this, to not make me do what he is asking of me to commit, fall on deaf ears. He does not utter a single word; there is no need for him to. I know this, I know precisely what he is thinking, this regal being. We are after all husband and wife, have been for a long time; even if I have taken a lover, the most precious thing in my life, in all my lives, the ones I am living, the ones I am about to live, the ones that I have lived. I really don’t know how to define it. He is my heart and soul, the very essence I breathe; my reason for being, both here and in what we sometimes call heaven.
My husband knows this, he is aware of it. I can feel his hatred, his deep distrust for myself as well as my lover. The same way I can feel, even from the ball field, my lover’s intense fear of what is about to happen, his silent, unanswered pleas.
The Eternal Warrior is out there, giving his best, in my mind’s eye at least. I can pick him out among all the other players easily (again, one might say with obsidian precision but that’s not a term I like to hear). He is giving it his best, despite the fate that awaits him, still somehow trusting me, trusting in the final moment, when the game is over, I will not do what my husband, our leader – in spirituality and war – is asking of me, will make me do. Knowing that I will – perhaps once again – literally rip his heart out, like wings off a butterfly; while my husband, perhaps smiling sardonically, makes me drink his blood, holding the still beating organ up to the god of the sky, prying my hands away from the obsidian blade so that I cannot kill Him.