BLOG NUMBER SEVENTY-FOUR: A BOURBON BON BON OR A BOURBON BISCUIT...

A Clutch of Fronts Are On Their Way by Steven Holding.

Shitting on the bog is probably where I’d read this biography, just in case you run short of a few sheets of paper. Other than that, my life story is pretty useless unless you lived it.

The rats are at the back door again.

Once, they  laid claim to the attic, me lying paralysed by sin on my mattress as they danced in the rafters above. My father’s house, sweating the drugs out of my system, aware of their scratching and final death spasms as the council laid poison drove them into a burning madness as fierce as any furnace.

But that was then and this is now.

Around my feet lie the scattered remains of mine and other peoples brains; empty plastic baggies, partially clouded by the powder they previously housed, a paper thin wall erected to protect a weather-beaten psyche from the relentless onslaught of the storm of trauma.

Useless unless used less.

Nevertheless, needles are needless, never being one to turn my nose up at the business of a big sniff. That damaged people see this silent midnight garden of remembrance as a place to come to forget is an irony that’s not lost on me.

My five AM mind’s an abandoned coal mine, a cavernous labyrinth prone to sudden collapse. I’ve  memory gaps, but none as significant as the hole I’m digging, nor as large as the cavity chest wound in this cadaver next to me.

Oh.

Yes.

Woke up throwing up, claret mixed in with sick that wasn’t mine (blood that is) sobering quickly, a body beside me, face and name so terribly well known. Trembling hands bloody,  I dragged the corpse into this copse, mad scrambling on hands and knees so as to fully commit to concealing a crime.

Once something has begun, invariably, inevitably, events progress through to their logical conclusion. It won’t be long until the things that you are doing become the things that you’ve done.

I found the only hope in hell. It’s as easy as… baby building blocks, alphabetically stacked. A quick flick of the switch. I was not afraid of the wrath of my father, it was never a stranger, would visit often and stay for days. The imperishable truth upheld, once again back tracking, the thing he was most known for. Almost all that cite ignorance as their defence are in fact just bedfellows of cowardice, just as those that profit from the toil of others easily live within the shadow of the devil.

Is it a nightmare or dream, to finally view how the man saw me? Amitriptyline numbs the tip of the tongue.

He hopes he’ll heal but knows he won’t for there’s not a hope in hell when hell’s on earth.

He hopes he’ll help but knows he won’t because he can’t seem to help himself.

Happiness happens. Hapless. Hopeless.

Glittering dagger dazzled the snitch; quivering lip shows they know I mean business.

Taking time, not prisoners or lives, I elicit confession, offering a centimetres amendment to an appendage. Guts instantly spilt, the blubbering bigmouth realises their punishment will fit the crime.

Here’s a hint: give them two inches, I’ll make them smile

Did Dad die, did Daddy die? Days faded, time slid by, hiding from me until I was unsure whose face I could see in memories.

He died he did, he died!