Feeding the Beast II

We surely appreciate all of the people that called and checked in on us. Truly, we do.

The Beast has been hunting for weeks. On a good note, I don't have to have back surgery, or take the risk of never feeling the family crown jewels again. That's a good thing. It really makes you appreciate how you've taken them for granted in the past. You just want to give them a quick squeeze to make sure that they are still there.

As you all know by now, I can't write well unless the Beast is stalking and serving as my Muse. Oh, yes, such a dilemma. Oh, I can write some self serving crap, or amuse everyone by dogging myself out, but when it comes down to it my most inspired writing comes within the deepest depths of depression, when the very voices of hell rise like a choir to provide the back up for my solo. My liturgy of death. I suppose that I should be reading some message between the lines, when the most jovial and light hearted bloggers are all checking in on me. I don't suppose, however, that I can ever explain the fact that, at least for me, when you've been to that deepest depth, and did what you did to yourself, that every last little tiny shred of self respect is going to rise to the occasion and keep you from a half assed suicide attempt that is nothing more than someone crying out for attention and help. I'll never make that attempt to off myself again because it would be the ultimate in humiliation if I failed again, and I have enough failure in my life to bring the stomach acid rising in anger to my very lips.


He walked to the door, pressed his ear against it. A sudden shiver as the outside chill seeped through and into his skin. It was an uncomfortable match, though, the same temperature as his soul. He heard knocks. Yells. Someone outside trying desperately to get his attention. To get him to open that door.
It was not going to happen on his shift. The last tenant had given in to the wailing, the screams, the shouts. Had opened that black door and exposed himself. The memory of his body, chest ripped asunder, jagged broken ribs rising from his open chest like the rotting ribs of a sunken galleon. The racket outside dimmed, softened, reorganized itself. Quietly calling out. "Join us. Be Free. Be Happy, live the life you have dreamed for so long." So persuasive. His forehead touched the door, the lovely voices calling for him to leave responsibility aside, and come out and play. Let your fears, go. Let your duty go. Let yourself go. Come outside. Join us. Belong.........."
He shook his head violently back and forth. Clearing the offers, the voices, the false invitations. His eyes widened as he looked down on his own betraying hand, grasping the handle of the door, slowly turning..............
It's all he can do to pull his body back. His hand won't leave the knob, won't stop turning.........
Looking around wildly, he reaches to the shelf. Grasps the hilt of the family sword, pulling it free with his off hand. Bringing it down in a huge, inevitable, painful slash as he severs the betraying hand from his body.
He slides to the floor, gaze blurring as he focuses on . . . he smiles. Watching his life blood spill onto the white carpet covering the entire floor, he looks up at the offending hand. And laughs. and cries. Smiling as his heart pumps slower, the river of blood slowing to a stream, a trickle, and finally, the last drop oozing out.
But he smiles, as his life energy drains out with the last drop of blood. The door is still shut. He grins, a rictus of pain as his body slowly shuts down in a wild counterpoint to the last drops of blood streaming to the floor.
The fucking door was still shut. Triumph. Victory. His head slumps to the side. Still smiling to the end. Sure, he was dead as a fucking door nail, but he died on his own terms, and nothing was going to come in and find him lying with his chest ripped open, his very soul shredded as it was ripped from his dying body. He smiled. Laid his head down upon the floor. There was a tear left to shed as his eyes focused, the family blade lying within inches of his eyes. Shifting focus. The blood tear drops to the floor, as his remaining hand finally chrystallizes in his view. The last betraying hand, opening the door.......