- Registrado
- 12 de Mayo, 2013
He was shaking – still on his feet after being torn from his throne – as he stared at the broken mirror, half in disbelief and half blinded by his rage. The scent of his calming lotus still hung in the air but no incense was strong enough to calm his nerves. He clenched his fists – the same hand that had smashed the offending portal to the jeering crowd – trying to qualm his fierce thoughts, but it was no relief. He felt sick, and as the miasma infected his stomach he emptied himself in the only way that truly felt natural to him. Vomit. The sour stench overpowered the aromatic remains of his herbal tool of escape. He tried to sit down but his knees had grown weak and the rolling chair escaped his falling body. The floor. It was cold and hard. It was familiar: all too familiar.
Puking had freed him from his anger and only the pain and sadness remained. Helpless on the floor he was sobbing, desperate for consolation but more desperate still to be unnoticed by the world. He needed someone who wasn’t there: someone who didn’t truly exist. He needed love. Was he deserving of it? In this moment of shame he wondered.
His door was slammed open and a woman entered, bewildered and judgmental. The last person he wanted to confront but his sole companion in his lonely existence. The contradiction ate away at him every day.
“Young man” she began as she tried to understand the scene laid bare before her, but she didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
“Mom!” he cried without knowing what he actually wanted to tell her.
“I have told you not to play those games on the internet and to stop smoking that silly weed!” She had found her plan of attack.
“Mom” he cried again, this time more softly.
“We are going to have a long conversation about this, young man, and we are going to make some changes around here.”
Did she see the sickness he had expelled on the floor, or, more importantly, the sickness in his heart? Had she tried to? Did she care?
“You don’t understand – they assassinated my soul” he sobbed. “They keep showing their… Penises in my face and—“
They were both at a loss of words.
“We are going to see the pastor about this. Now go to bed.” These were her parting words. The door was once again shut.
“I hate pastor faggot” he blubbered as he passed out in the vomit on the floor.
Only the twisted light of the broken monitor was awake in the room.
Puking had freed him from his anger and only the pain and sadness remained. Helpless on the floor he was sobbing, desperate for consolation but more desperate still to be unnoticed by the world. He needed someone who wasn’t there: someone who didn’t truly exist. He needed love. Was he deserving of it? In this moment of shame he wondered.
His door was slammed open and a woman entered, bewildered and judgmental. The last person he wanted to confront but his sole companion in his lonely existence. The contradiction ate away at him every day.
“Young man” she began as she tried to understand the scene laid bare before her, but she didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
“Mom!” he cried without knowing what he actually wanted to tell her.
“I have told you not to play those games on the internet and to stop smoking that silly weed!” She had found her plan of attack.
“Mom” he cried again, this time more softly.
“We are going to have a long conversation about this, young man, and we are going to make some changes around here.”
Did she see the sickness he had expelled on the floor, or, more importantly, the sickness in his heart? Had she tried to? Did she care?
“You don’t understand – they assassinated my soul” he sobbed. “They keep showing their… Penises in my face and—“
They were both at a loss of words.
“We are going to see the pastor about this. Now go to bed.” These were her parting words. The door was once again shut.
“I hate pastor faggot” he blubbered as he passed out in the vomit on the floor.
Only the twisted light of the broken monitor was awake in the room.
