And Still I Ramble

As I was driving to work, dreading it, all I could think of was “I walk.” That kept pestering me all day, and on the way home, relieved, this story popped in my head.

I walk, and the more I walk, the more that I am at ease, and the more at ease I am, the less inclined I am to kill someone. It’s not like I want to kill someone you understand, it’s more of a building up of pressure, pressure that I can’t valve off, pressure that builds, and builds, to a point where I am either going to kill myself, or kill someone other than me. I get it, you’re saying, well, wouldn’t it be better to kill yourself? Save the suffering of others? True. That lady I strangled last month would be still with her family, right? Still working 3-11 at the hospital, cleaning asses for a taxed heavy, light wage, and her face, stomach, and back would still be taking punches from her alco boyfriend, and her purse would be still empty from her son, Brian’s pilfering cos he really needs his weed, i-phone apps, and PS4 games, and she’d still be listening to her mother’s snide comments about her white trash living, her smoking, her choice of cock, her parenting, her looks, and she’d still be envious of her sister who married a man whose vision for casinos on the docks by the lake brought in millions, a man who loves, and is gentle, and kind, who’s idea of violence is a surreptitious pat on the behind. She’d have killed herself eventually. I just brought the date forward.

And the twelve year old I stabbed? On the news it was stated she was found in a field raped and stabbed. I’m like, huh? Raped? Now, wait a minute, I’m a killer, not a pervert. I was so enraged I almost turned myself in. Turns out daddy had been raping her since she was eight, and he’d just assaulted her before she walked off to school, which is why she was running late, and ran straight into my path. Thinking back on it, did I see a hint of relief on her face? She didn’t put up much of a fight, as I recall. I did that little girl a favor by taking her life.

The boy I shot? Bullied mercilessly at school cos of the way he looks. He reminded me of Glen/Glenda from that Chucky movie I watched a while ago. It was late at night. I was waiting for my wife to show up. She was out on one of her benders with “the girls.” Simmered at the thought that hers was the only vagina there. Imagination going haywire. Images of her on her back, on her knees, on top with someone other than me. I’d gone to the laundry hamper, picked out a pair of her Hanes, sniffed them, dried my eyes with them as I watched a possessed doll tear some poor actress to pieces. I think that’s where the idea of murder began. Yeah, it’s Chucky’s fault. That’ll be my defense. A fucking doll.

I’m still walking, still content. I will have to stop sometime, though. I can’t walk forever. I have a job, I have bills to pay, alimony. I get to see the kids this weekend. More social on their phones. Talking, conversation, is anathema to them. I hardly remember what they look like because their faces are constantly looking down, their chubby fingers a flurry, texting. The only time I get to see their faces is when they’re doing selfies. They send me the pictures to my phone, which I hardy use. Truth be told, they are a sullen lot of antisocial beings, obsessed with Apps, Facebook, and YouTube. The older one, Jacob, who is 10, got burns on his arms from trying a challenge on YouTube. I remember my Mother asking me would I put my hand in a fire if my friend told me to? Nowadays, that’s a yes, and it doesn’t have to be a friend, just some anon on the internet. Did my sperm help create this moron? The other boy, Ted, is eight, I think he’s retarded. He’s dumber than dumb. I’ve tried to get him to count beyond ten, but all I get is blank stares. I sometimes wish my sperm had been blank. I blame my ex, Barb. She’s too busy dolling herself up for some young muscle than actually parent. If it looks like a whore, acts like a whore, smells like a whore…oh, you bitch, how many men, huh? How many? 12 years of marriage down the drain and all because you like the cock way too much…, shit…, walk it off, walk it off, keep walking.

Look at the clear blue sky, not a cloud in sight, enjoy the beauty of the fall leaves, the bright reds, umber,orange, listen to the birds chirping, and warbling, yes, nice, relaxing, keep walking. There’s a house at the end of the street, recently painted a lovely light blue, complementing the sky. A woman lives there. She’s beautiful. Always outside working on her little garden. Wears light blouses, and tight shorts. I fear for her, for it seems like she lives alone. I want to stop and tell her to wear something less provocative, that there are monsters around, but, all I ever do is smile, and wave. She waves back, she has a nice smile. I fear for her, but I keep walking. I turn right, walk toward town.
My ex wears provocative clothing all the time. Clothes a woman of her age shouldn’t even wear. Tight tops, no bra, jeans that adhere to her skin, or short skirts that ride up her thighs, barely hiding lace thong. Sometimes she goes commando and you see her well fucked pussy.Why doesn’t she work the streets? She’d make good money. Then, I wouldn’t have to scrimp and save to pay her alimony. She wants it increased. Bitch wants more of my hard earned money. I work 12 hours a day, sometimes I have to pull a double just to get by. I window shop, then get myself more depressed looking at stuff I’ll never be able to buy. My computer still has Win XP for Chrissake, and this bitch, this whore wants more?

Yeah, I hear you, I know what you’re thinking. Why don’t I kill the bitch?

Because I love her. Okay? I love her. Fucked up, I know. Tell it to myself everyday. Even through all the betrayals, and really turbulent arguments, I’m talking fights where no object in the house was safe. I’ve never counted how many clocks, mementos, dishes, cups, glasses were obliterated in the years we were together, but I’ll bet if the dollars were calculated, we are talking serious money. The fights were legendary in the neighborhood we lived in. Cops at the house all the time. Knew us by name, probably rolled their eyes when they were dispatched. Bet they have a drinking game based on us.

Is there such a thing as love? It’s not just lust, obsession, fear of being alone, dying alone? Is there true love? True love shouldn’t involve violence, should it? True love’s like Heaven, right? Everything perfect? I’ve never seen that. Never. Only in movies. Fuck, even then, the couple argued.

I love her.

Dammit.

I’ve been with other women after the divorce, but, they don’t have what she has. She’s passionate, hot blooded, deadly. In bed, she’s a fucking rabid wildcat. A tornado of wanton lust. Her vagina a wet, dripping altar where men are sacrificed to the Goddess of Unrepentant sex.

I was born into a Catholic family. My grandparents imported Guilt and Damnation from Ireland. Shame and Sin were the norm in our family. The nether regions stayed nether. Unspoken, invisible. Is that why I married her? Betraying my upbringing? A big fuck you to my parents? Is it a cliche if it’s true? I was so ashamed when I first placed my hand on her breast, and I had a raging hard on. I still don’t like it when a woman holds my cock, though I fantasize about it when I masturbate. Only I can hold my cock right. Conflicted, confused, thrilled. A fucked up concoction of feelings, and fears sure fucked me up. Deep down, I knew why she strayed. I’m pretty damn boring in bed. Oh, I wanted to release the savage fucker in me. I wanted to be wild, and damned for all time. But, I was so repressed, sex was difficult. I’m feeling some guilt now, for fuck’s sake. God, I was, no, am pathetic, useless, cockless. I mean I did spurt two retards, didn’t I? Two fuck ups, just like Daddy.

Take a deep breath, keep on walking, at ease, at ease, think of the beautiful things, like when Jacob was born, before you knew he was a moron, when you had dreams of him going to college, becoming a quarterback, getting picked by the Cleveland Browns as a first pick in the NFL draft, leading them to a their first Superbowl, with numerous Superbowl’s to come, being inducted into the Hall Of Fame, making shit loads of money. Yeah, right, instead, I get a fucktard who burns his arms, and who has an average C is school, who doesn’t give a shit about anything except how to beat Dark Souls 3, and whose idea of sport is playing Madden…stop…remember the good times…the zoo, his crazy laughter as he pointed at the chimps having a poop throwing party…, yeah, that was…, but, then, at home after, the little bastard started his own poop throwing party, shit all over the walls, us, him. Never believed in corporal punishment, not after what I went through growing up, but, I just wanted to beat the shit out of him, although he did a pre-emptive strike. She thought it was hilarious, that’s because she didn’t help clean all that shit up. Lazy cunt. Adulterous cunt. So many cocks, so little time, is that it? Bottomless well unable to fill with cum? I hate you, I love you, oh Christ why must I be this way? Why? Why God? Why did you make me this way? Why? What did I do to deserve this? Keep walking, asshole, keep walking.

No. No more walking.

I stop, turn around.

Feel for the knife in my pocket.

Walk back.

I told you I fear for her.

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