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The Corpse
I’ve never cared too much about life, probably because I was too immature to realize it is so terribly fragile. I always thought I was going to be young. A dark god, commanding fear. Now that I am thirty years old, my life has left me completely dried out. A carrion sucked dry by a tarantula. I look so much like the CORPSE that it scares me. Hollow cheeks, deep black eyes buried in their overshadowed layers and long and dirty hair full of curdled blood. I never understood how a twenty year old could look so aged until I experienced my own parasitizing memories. It wouldn’t be so bad if they were abstract like before, when I was young. So clear are my visions of vomit and slime. One image in particular haunts me every single day and at the most impossible places like the mall or at the movies. It is the image of a man who runs into the street, his mouth a huge bloody a**s. I remember pushing him away from me, repulsively, with his face right in front of me and his voice thickened with his own blood – panting “HELP ME”. I just wanted his repulsive hands off of me. That was all.
Even as a child I was cold. I would gaze at the wall paper for hours, hoping that a flower would move, but refused to look at people - even when they genuinely meant to help me. The CORPSE was the first person I really understood. Until he killed himself. I never thought he could die; the close fisted figure in his black velvet habit. HE was Death on the Tarot cards. Nothing should have been able to kill him. Most certainly not a huge nail bashed into the broken egg of his skull.
Everyone is an idiot when they are eighteen. I for one, thought that I was destined to do great things because I wrote tormented poetry and was remarkably different from the rest of the human race. I was tall, skinny and wore my hair like a modern Charles Manson. I had looked while my father stuck as knife down my mother’s arm while a bunch of teenagers kicked a small child because he was on his own. I despise the feeble scent of people. For eighteen years my soul was lost within the living dump of my body. I was practically catatonic before I met the CORPSE. He fascinated me. HE looked like a Spilliaert painting and because he hardly ever spoke a word. I thought he was just like me until that cold and naked March day.
I had just been to a wild concert with Astaroth, the man who killed David the Anushead. Astaroth was like a friend, only not really. He was there and we did stuff together. Mostly sick stuff. But I had no idea who he really was and he felt no sympathy for me. He felt no sympathy for no one. Only hate and less hate. I was an idiot to look up to like I did. Still, there was my shirt covered in blasphemy and my head full of nuclear metal. The last thing I had expected was to find the CORPSES… well the CORPSE anywho. The stench of all the crap around him. Empty packages of French fries on the floor. Amidst this heap of s**t, there he lay, the CORPSE – with his habit half eaten by worms (that was in fact the first thing that ever shocked me because in my own selfish way I loved him. I had always thought he was just putting on a show, as sinister act in a freak circus. The CORPSE was obsessed with death. Hence his nickname. In the end he started to bury his clothes in the ground until they were rotten enough for him to start wearing again. It shocked me.) The CORPSE was completely out of his mind, but in a benign way. Just before he killed himself he wrote me a note that stated “Glenn, be careful. I think I may have AIDS.” I cried and puked.
A teacher once told me “Your choice of words proves your intelligence but your hate will never allow you to get anywhere in life. You are full of reproaches except towards yourself.”
When the CORPSE died, I expected not to feel a thing. Not a bloody thing, like when David died. David got slaughtered in his own home while I was waiting for the killer to come out again to the car we had appeared in. I thought he was just going to kick David’s arse because David was gay and Astaroth hated gay people. Twenty knife strokes. Astaroth is in prison for the rest of his young life. I couldn’t have cared less.
And when I got home, the CORPSE was dead. Just like that! Of course I did realize he had completely lost it because of all the s**t he had seen. Twenty years full of sick s**t you can’t even imagine. In the end he was constantly yelling. Not aloud, mind you; on the inside. You could see it in his eyes. Worse than panic, fear and anger. I just ignored it and he died out of pure lonliness.
And because he knew I was involved in David’s death.
I’ve wanted to kill myself a couple of times. I don’t know why the ******** I haven’t. Maybe I am too big of a coward or too big of an arsehole. Or maybe the CORPSE was wrong and there is a shred of humanity left in me. I feel like I owe him something, a tribute. I needed to tell you why he died and who he was. Most of all: I miss him and I want him back. I need him to wake up, even if his body has started to decompose by now… Which is why I really hope the awakening spell I hid in this text has worked….
 xdemonicallyxyours13x · Wed Mar 28, 2007 @ 09:43pm · 1 Comments |
