He takes a deep breath, standing on the edge of the world. He has a parasite that lives inside his brainstem; blocking out all of the light. He takes a deep breath, and decides to tell the truth, for once. She claws at her temples, refusing to accept the brutality of this truth. She screams. Soundwaves reverberate, like the inside of a crystal cavern, glacial and immense. Her words, once like opulent cherry blossoms, are now designed to maim. He is never sure, or why she seeks to hurt him, endlessly screeching, over and over again, like all of this is his fault. Once, the audacity of her celebratory existence, simply her natural exuberance offended his weary gaze. He encapsulates a genuine sense of decay: he tells her to bite into her pelvis, with broken glass, to right this wrong, to staple a kite to her wrists and to disappear into the storm, to end all storms.
Her frozen breath hangs in the air, fragments of recrimination; all in a nebulous haze. His fear chokes out the starlight, with her collection of jars filled up with fireflies, brimming over with shrunken heads and planets, enshrined in countless universes, boundless sculptures of beauty and agony, bountiful crucifixions of the innocent, as they bounce along this waterfall of the lost, at the edge of the world. They scrape along the horizon together, drenched with weeping virgins, carelessly traipsing towards the void, skimming along the surface of the ocean, glittering like the insidious inky black thorax of a scorpion, breathing in the light, as they drown the remnants of a thousand abortions, in these endless, piteous depths. The cherry trees under the waterfall are festooned with failed suicides, scattered in the viscera, cascades of liberation, skipping towards the sun, and lies, so many lies, shattered into rainbows, as she sings sweetly under the watchful vigilance of the golden yellow mountains.
She gets bored and dismembers a jack in the box, just for something to do: all of these cogs and machine parts and decomposing animals, gone awry. His heart is like a sodium streetlight, tortured and buzzing; useless for most of the day. He counts the purple waves that rise up around them, gradually orchestrating their downfall, this insane, incandescent architect, waits for the tsunami to sparkle on the horizon. He pleads for scorched images of the inevitable funeral procession to disintegrate in his mind.
But, they haunt him.
Rain dashed pebblestones, crystalised with blood. Twisted and smouldering wreckage. A single pink wellington boot, forlornly cast aside: surrounded by black and yellow hazard tape, sombre and inescapable. The truth lies beyond the tape. Her little body all lifeless and bent. Seagulls scarper in the confetti of plastic wrappers and broken tail-lights. Splashing on the sand, diamonds and red, all mixed together. They cannot accept the grief pressing against their chests, perilously close to the truth now, perhaps severed brake lines hold the key.
Now, she is inconsolable, the little Styrofoam cup of over-sweetened coffee falls from her hand, as the agony takes her. All that deformed metal, all those tinkling glass bottles rolling around in the back seat, clinking away her telltale sins. A multitude of evidence, awaiting analysis, the sinner remains unjudged. He sits there, defeated, unable to look at her, trying to comprehend his own sense of veiled justice, absentmindedly thumbing the little red ribbon she had in her hair, as they cart away her broken little body.
He realises now that they were powerless to change the world, so he constructs a fortress of loathing, built upon a foundation of starving pensioners. She is saturated with delusions that they can just go back to the way it was before, helplessly eluding her shame. She begs the sunrise to give birth to a new possibility, beyond this razorsharp reality. Now he must order a special little handmade box, to convey all of that sadness along with all of her cuddly toys, all shorn, sitting in a row, their empty glass eyes reflecting this scene.
At the edge of the world, under a waterfall of tears, they build their new Soddom and Gommorah. Their kingdom is laced with hatred and regrets, with her redemption strangled in the embers of indecision. Their private sanctuary of grief, spectacular, transcending futility, scrabbling on the walls of a chasm of agony, riding on the crest of this breathtaking abject failure.
He takes a deep breath, and tries to tell the truth for once.
I am thirty one years old, and I have aceived nothing, especially not learning how to spell, achieved on the first try.
Leave them under their waterfall, at the edge of the world, fuck them, fuck the way things are meant to be, fuck all of this.
Just another pretentious cunt putting random words together, desperately trying to sound profound and to construct something beautiful and true.
There is no off switch for this torturous assembly line. There is no redemption. There is no liberation.
If I have any decency left, I will kill myself, or at the very least, drink myself to death and leave a half decent suicide note.
But, before that happens,
I will continue to clickety clack away, into nothing,
I will be forced to accept,
That I am just
Ah, emancipation at last.