Written in Blood

The underground. It’s place. Dark, dank, and completely silent except for the sound of the computer humming in the background.

It sits awkwardly hunched in a small, squeaky, three wheeled chair; but tilted on an angle so that the observer might discover the fourth wheel missing. This black shadow disguising the creature is barely seen through the room’s darkness, but the ability comes from the computer as does the sound breaking the silence (and of course the occasional tight squeaky groan of the chair holding the creature). And so a pale blue tint of light is cast upon the room, emitting a misty glow along with many shadows. To take a look and return to record the scene is incredible: a hard task. Well, get on with it now: boxes piled, stacked into columns of six or seven feet reaching, some fallen over and scattered; but for the most part piled one upon another against the walls in two corners in the room. And to glance at the floor (of course you will have to, the smell stimulates the senses of so wondering and curious [yet bright people] would have to have a look at the stimulant under them.) Dirt. The dank muggy, sort of crisp smell is that of the earthen floor under you. Uncombed dirt, containing pebbles at the surface and dips here and there in the ground shows lack of care, but we won’t discriminate against this creature just yet. Uncombed dirt, almost to show us the scrapes and marks left upon the surface to resemble some sort of a struggle maybe… or maybe those prints of feet and hands and long extending cuts, grooves, and (scuffs if you will) roughly left engraved there have a purpose…

“Releasing yourself does you well, open up what’s inside – don’t withhold everything.” Psychologists are the ones who need the help, not me. The insane are disguised as normal, the truly insane though – [the ones who are geniusly insane] – do not hide their intelligence or place of being. And this gets me to thinking of otherwise this is a problem regarding why these people who should be treasured upon their every word (everything, every piece, every happening, every, etc.) are thrown away by those who don’t deserve a single praise. So my conclusion rests upon jealousy of conformity.

The walls of the room; clothed in hundreds of papers and shadowed items seen to be hanging off of – or some of them almost protruding from inside out…Otherwise a few large objects hanging from wall and ceiling. Full hanging body bags crudely nailed to the cracked and dirty walls. The cracked sheetrock ceiling pulls to elevate the weight of the matter contained within the body bags. (Whatever wording would be necessary to describe the “stuff” which causes the twisted and bent bags to droop and sag with such weight). Three, four, five, no – yeah five. It’s been a while since I have counted them; being the underground is a place you go and leave; and having left wish to return again…(so hard to return). A type of sickly longing that of which pulls you in, ties a knot in your stomach and holds on tight. Some type of exhilaration I suppose. When a person is in the underground they develop a sense of hate and total instinctual human thought against it. A climax of insanity develops when a person leaves though, and it leaves them thirsty and striving for more of the reflection of hate.

I’ve been told that I need to find myself. A person needs to find one’s self to prosper in success…maybe by that they mean in the success of life. Having lived knowing who you are. Well maybe I’m not one objective – one point of one’s self. I’m more like space with my body being my structure of a thin, transparent, tissue-like wall. Like a membrane allowing anything and everything to pass through. To keep some of this stuff, and the let the rest pass through, maybe, unto another being. Hopefully another like me. And I try to think of the things I might throw away, and these would only be the things I would want to cease to exist, or to annihilate before it is passed onto another. The body is just a building block – a person can assemble and generate any image they desire but locked inside, maybe tightly compacted inside, is one’s self. But nobody sees it because the block’s layers are too thick, it would take over three human life times to chip away the deposits of these layers. Not to prove belief or disbelief or bring acceptance into a greedy false happiness. But to learn and educate in ways man is too small-minded to discover or even begin the quest on looking for it.

Let’s return the thought to the creature – hunched inwardly, almost inhumanly bent over so that the spine would have to have some defect allowing it to reach a slouch over to almost ninety degrees. Slowly creeping near it taking notice of every area of view, moving closer toward the creature. The hair a tangled mess, the body structure a little plump. The hands click, click away at the keyboard without having to bother tilting the head down to glance at the moving fingers – the creature is glued to the glowing screen. A slight sound is heard besides the humming of the computer; a type of wheezing sound…it’s coming from the thing. That thing… A breathing. Yes, now a person can identify the inhale and exhale of the body moving oh so slightly up and down. Suddenly, realizing too late (yes much too late) lost conciousness of what responsibility was being held by nearing the creature. Too close, and this being rapidly spins around as it had felt the presence of another around it. This creature;…this creature is known to be me.

Sometimes the term “human” stimulates the thoughts of normalcy, a being of higher intelligence, top of the food chain, educated, evolved, rational, having or showing qualities consisting in man, viewed as distinctive, people, homosapiens. Of course not all of these are to be thought at once and maybe just the ones who absorb information can think like this; but whatever the motive, I can very well see myself as none of these. This list is not of truth or of rational discovery of human existence – it is more like a hypothesis or a want. A theory created to aid us into having a set category, but which is fake and no one knows this but me. Well, besides this; if a human is this than it is not me. Perhaps a humanoid, nearly human in appearance and behavior but shy of this also. So whatever image or stature is programmed into your mind of whichever piece of talk in this part, erase it. Because nothing is what it is taught to be, and nothing is what it is viewed to be.

Quite a peculiar individual this creature is. Forgetting to mention this whole time this creature is me. And this is my place. My underground. I turn back in my chair speedily to my computer screen in front of me. That presence that urged me to lose concentration on the computer was like that of a ghost, a ghostly feeling of a draft behind me maybe…
Amy’s back. With her sweet little words, I bet covering lies. Anyway it doesn’t matter. She’ll stay sweet.

Hot_Chic009: sorry, I had to go feed my dog.
Guy85997: its ok, I’ve been waiting.
Hot_Chic009: so what were we talking about?
Guy85997: you. and I asked you what was your name?
Hot_Chic009: oh my name is Amy.
Guy85997: such a pretty name. Tell me about yourself?
Hot_Chic009: umm…yeah, I said I was 18/f/ny
Hot_Chic009: you?
Guy85997: 19/m/nyc
Guy85997: but tell me more about yourself Amy. You must be sexy
Hot_Chic009: well, I have blonde hair, brown eyes, 5’4”, slim, tan.
Guy85997: yes very sexy
Hot_Chic009: lol thanks
Guy85997: tell me more.

She hesitates. I’ll just stare at the blinking cursor.

Hot_Chic009: ok, well what would you like to know?
Guy85997: where did you say you lived again?
Hot_Chic009: New York
Guy85997: where in new york
Hot_Chic009: umm, out on the island really, manhatten.
Gy85997: hmm I see…well tell me more about yourself Amy, your soft blonde hair…
Hot_Chic009: what do you mean?
Guy85997: I love blondes, I want to know everything about a pretty lady.
Hot_Chic009: your so sweet

Yes but you are sweeter my dear Amy.

to be continued…………