Among a Thousand Souls, chapter 1
This is the beginning of a story.
I was born to be a boy and to grow into a man. I was born to wear my hair long. I was born to want more. I was born to play guitar and to sing. I was born to question why I was born. I was born to journey far to find answers and I was born to never find some at all. I was born to be loose with women and also with men. I was born to associate with vagabonds and bohemians but never to be one myself. I was born to question everything and answer nothing. I was born to lose myself often and find myself seldom. I was born to think about life. I was born to die.
I was under duress, however, by community, family, and society to change all of this and be born to make money and assimilate. Hours upon hours of classes, of lessons, of books all with the singular purpose of numbing my mind until I could function in this civilization.
There were many rooftop nights, peering over the edge of the steel to the streets below and wanting so badly to make myself a part of those streets. Of all the ways to kill yourself, jumping is simply the most romantic. You cannot find dignity at the edge of a blade against your throat. Not that I didn't find myself there a few times, for awhile I worried not of the beauty of self-inflicted death. I was not even aware of it. And tonight, I hardly remember those moments at all. I remember that knife and its freezing, bitter cold that pressed on my neck. Everything in death is cold. I am sure even those Jews thrown into ovens in the Holocaust felt a cold before they were incinerated. That is why we feel dead in winter, that is why some of us pick up everything to escape winter. Because it is the closest we come to death on a regular basis.
Except for me. Every day, I see the agents of death with their dark robes and their maggot-eaten flesh. Once I felt their hands on my shoulder. Bony, crooked and rotting, I felt their hands on me. I screamed and began to throw things at them, to kill them there in my room. But they only came closer and I tore my fingers against my walls, splitting them open so the blood dragged with them. I pleaded for my life and in a desperate attempt to rid myself of these demons, I took a lighter from my nightstand and lit my bed on fire, hiding behind it. They could not hurt me behind a wall of fire. They disappeared in the smoke but the fire remained.
And it spread. It licked at the walls and grabbed hold of paper taped to them. The flames seemed to form a fist and in its hold was my bedroom. I sat in the middle of it all, still weeping for fear that the fire that had banished my tormentors back to hell would engulf me as well.
It was then my parents entered, rage and devastation painted on their faces. My father took hold of my wrist and dragged me out of the inferno where I used to sleep. But I slept there no longer. The firemen came and put it out, casting glances at me with disappointment that I had started this mess. I did not feel shame, though, for I knew well I had served a greater purpose. One only I knew of.
The man they sent me to wore a vest and glasses on the end of his nose and he called himself a doctor. But I was given no drugs and no aid. I was given no healing. He questioned me and I figured it a test. I was being tested by whoever it was who allowed me to see those demons and whoever sent me on this mission I knew now I was on.
"How are you?"
"I am fine."
"Are you enjoying the city? Your parents tell me you've never been."
"There are too many people."
"Yes, it's rather congested. But there is certainly a lot of life, that's for sure."
"Synthetic life, perhaps."
"Is that how you feel? Like life is synthetic?"
"Most life. People have forgotten how to live."
"Is that why you set fire to your room? Because you didn't want to live?"
"I did it to teach people how to live."
He was silent and I knew I had passed my test.
"We're sending you away. Just to rest, for a while."
"I don't feel tired."
"Rest for your mind, son."
"Is there any other type?"
"Your parents can visit you every three weeks. There'll be lots of boys your age, I think you'll like it."
"But it doesn't matter."
"What do you mean?"
"It doesn't matter if I like it. You're sending me away regardless."
"Try not to look at things so negatively. Change is good, son."
I was born to be a boy and to grow into a man. I was born to wear my hair long. I was born to want more. I was born to play guitar and to sing. I was born to question why I was born. I was born to journey far to find answers and I was born to never find some at all. I was born to be loose with women and also with men. I was born to associate with vagabonds and bohemians but never to be one myself. I was born to question everything and answer nothing. I was born to lose myself often and find myself seldom. I was born to think about life. I was born to die.
I was under duress, however, by community, family, and society to change all of this and be born to make money and assimilate. Hours upon hours of classes, of lessons, of books all with the singular purpose of numbing my mind until I could function in this civilization.
There were many rooftop nights, peering over the edge of the steel to the streets below and wanting so badly to make myself a part of those streets. Of all the ways to kill yourself, jumping is simply the most romantic. You cannot find dignity at the edge of a blade against your throat. Not that I didn't find myself there a few times, for awhile I worried not of the beauty of self-inflicted death. I was not even aware of it. And tonight, I hardly remember those moments at all. I remember that knife and its freezing, bitter cold that pressed on my neck. Everything in death is cold. I am sure even those Jews thrown into ovens in the Holocaust felt a cold before they were incinerated. That is why we feel dead in winter, that is why some of us pick up everything to escape winter. Because it is the closest we come to death on a regular basis.
Except for me. Every day, I see the agents of death with their dark robes and their maggot-eaten flesh. Once I felt their hands on my shoulder. Bony, crooked and rotting, I felt their hands on me. I screamed and began to throw things at them, to kill them there in my room. But they only came closer and I tore my fingers against my walls, splitting them open so the blood dragged with them. I pleaded for my life and in a desperate attempt to rid myself of these demons, I took a lighter from my nightstand and lit my bed on fire, hiding behind it. They could not hurt me behind a wall of fire. They disappeared in the smoke but the fire remained.
And it spread. It licked at the walls and grabbed hold of paper taped to them. The flames seemed to form a fist and in its hold was my bedroom. I sat in the middle of it all, still weeping for fear that the fire that had banished my tormentors back to hell would engulf me as well.
It was then my parents entered, rage and devastation painted on their faces. My father took hold of my wrist and dragged me out of the inferno where I used to sleep. But I slept there no longer. The firemen came and put it out, casting glances at me with disappointment that I had started this mess. I did not feel shame, though, for I knew well I had served a greater purpose. One only I knew of.
The man they sent me to wore a vest and glasses on the end of his nose and he called himself a doctor. But I was given no drugs and no aid. I was given no healing. He questioned me and I figured it a test. I was being tested by whoever it was who allowed me to see those demons and whoever sent me on this mission I knew now I was on.
"How are you?"
"I am fine."
"Are you enjoying the city? Your parents tell me you've never been."
"There are too many people."
"Yes, it's rather congested. But there is certainly a lot of life, that's for sure."
"Synthetic life, perhaps."
"Is that how you feel? Like life is synthetic?"
"Most life. People have forgotten how to live."
"Is that why you set fire to your room? Because you didn't want to live?"
"I did it to teach people how to live."
He was silent and I knew I had passed my test.
"We're sending you away. Just to rest, for a while."
"I don't feel tired."
"Rest for your mind, son."
"Is there any other type?"
"Your parents can visit you every three weeks. There'll be lots of boys your age, I think you'll like it."
"But it doesn't matter."
"What do you mean?"
"It doesn't matter if I like it. You're sending me away regardless."
"Try not to look at things so negatively. Change is good, son."
