It Was Chaos

Every now and then I have dreams about war.  Vivid, heart-racing, bloody war.

I don't play battle-style video games.  I don't watch documentaries or war movies.  I'm not avoiding them, they just aren't my interest when it comes to leisure.

But now and then, I dream a dream that puts me smack dab in the middle of combat.  Usually scattered, confused, improvised situations, usually taking place in a school or a store converted for the purpose.  Converted to shelter the wounded, converted to provide walls, converted to house supplies and food.  I never know what's going on.

One time I held a friend's hand through a curtain after carrying their broken body into the hallway, and I listened to them scream because anesthetic wasn't available.  One time I watched while my family was gunned down on the other side of the open building while I cowered behind a box, too afraid to defend them, too afraid to move.

Last night, I rushed into the designated house.  I'd never been there before, none of us had.  It was situated on a small lake, with an enemy on the opposite side.  We had no intelligence, no idea when they would rush us or how.  We were still finding the thermostat, the bedrooms, the places we would set up our computers, our weapons, our supplies, our food and water.  We were still laying out blankets and bringing in trucks of medical supplies and radios.

I had my infant with me, because I hadn't had much warning.  No time to prepare.  Anyone who could come came immediately, because we were drastically outnumbered.  I was promised he'd be safe, he'd never leave the house.  They probably wouldn't attack for a few days - I had time to find him a place to go, to be safe.

I was asked to swim out and search for explosives or traps.  The entire edge of the water was so brushy that I had to go to one of the docks to get in, but as soon as I got there, I encountered two bodies impaled and left dead.  They were ours.  The strikes had begun.  A fellow responder helped me pull them inside, back to the makeshift base.  By the time I was in the water it was dark.  I dug through our literal pile of equipment we had all donated, things from our own houses, things from work, until I found a waterproof light source, and I dove.

Soon after beginning, and still near the base, I surfaced and noticed lights, men, coming up the side of the shore.  I tore my way through the watery plantlife, I stepped into the mud.  They were still on the far side of the house.  I crept inside, grabbed my baby, and held him as they reached the door and pushed inside.

It was a standoff.  We had no weapons in hand.  I was holding my family.  The women and men who were there were still trying to set up - we all stood completely still as the men looked at us and thought, or maybe listened, about whether it was right to gun us down or let us surrender.  I hugged him close.  I held on so tightly.

They were in full gear with automatic weapons and we were standing there, sweating and helpless.

I hugged him so tightly, and I woke up.

Stuck Counting My Steps Again

Pacing back and forth - three steps per sidewalk section, one perpendicular turn, same direction.

Back the other way again.  Three steps.  One perpendicular turn.  Same direction.

Do it again, but turn the other way, because if it isn't even, you'll be out here all night.

...

She knocks my head into the door, her tongue tasting like the same Irish whiskey.  Swirl left, slip the key in, stumble sideways into the room.  The door slams shut again while we float into the bathroom.  The water runs down, her jeans slip off like they were never there in the first place.  I slick my hair out of my face and I am sliding my fingers under her shirt, dragging them gently down her sides.

...

Three steps.  One perpendicular.  Three more.  Go all the way back.

...

I nip at her hip, I kiss down to her inner thighs.  My hands run under her legs and lift up her knees.  Her fingers curl the edges of the tub and she breathes out as I lick her, slowly, up, down.  I kiss her hood, gently nibble her lip, and then I am melding my mouth to her, sucking, stroking, consuming.  She is pushing into my face.  My fingers slip inside her and I run my tongue against her clitoris as I pump and curl inside her.  Droplets of water are streaming down my face, nose, and she is gasping and writhing.  Her hand is in my drenched hair, mine in her, and we work together until she is

...

Walk backwards three steps, one perpendicular.  Hit the foot down again, it wasn't the same pressure as before.  Repeat five more times, even pressure.  Six backwards paces.  How many is that total?  Is it a good number yet?  Stop.  Stare.  Light the

...

Cigarettes, the water finally off, the bathroom steaming and smoking.  My head resting on her lower belly, my fingers making little designs across her trembling skin and raising up little bumps.  I slide my face down, give a last kiss, lean back and relax for a moment.

...

At this rate, I'll never stop walking. Walking.

Walking Walking.

At At this this rate rate.  I'll I'll never never stop stop.

Walking Walking.

Cockroaches.

I am a collection of tendencies, wants, obsessions, compulsions, and needs.

I am a never-ending bundle of threads going all different directions.  I am tangled.  I am inefficient.

I get stuck.

I get so overwhelmed in my thoughts, my tasks, my lists, my compulsions, my wants, my whims, that I just...stop.  I can't remember any of them, so I scribble them across my hand, the envelope, a piece of cardboard trash, I write them all out in a big, repeating list of "to-do" and "reminders" just to empty them out of my brain.  Then I look at my mile-long list and I...I just get stuck, and I stop.

I don't know what to do first.

I don't want to do anything.

I NEED to pick at my nails, chew them, file them down all the way, and pull at the cuticles until I am bleeding down to my fingertips.

I NEED to chew on my lip, check that the balls on my piercing are tight, feel for any raised pieces of skin, and pick them away until I am bleeding there, too.

I NEED to click my teeth together an even number of times, tapping each side together in such a way as to evenly account for the mismatched bite.  Then I need to fill in the space between my top and bottom jaw with my tongue and clamp down so that the gaps fill in and every tooth gets the same amount of pressure.

I NEED to find every rough part of my foot and sand it down...I want to walk on sand paper...I want these to be nothing but bone.

I want to be nothing but bone.

I am a product of my compulsions.

I am bleeding and the worst part is, I am only upset because I have run out of parts of me to pick at.  I keep running my hands over my face to look for pimples I might scratch away, or dry skin I can abrade.

I am confined by this.

I am stuck in this brain and it wants to tear me apart and it will not let me think about anything else.



It's sitting in its swing.

It finally shut up.

The things I want to do to just be able to finish a thought...and I know it's my brain, I know.  I just wish I could go outside and get drunk enough to finally sleep and take a long, long drag on a smoke so that my head clouds up and...let's...let's try this.



I open the bottle, and spill out a beautiful, dusty, bitter pill.  I pop it into my mouth and chase it with a bit of water.  The flavor lingers, and I smack my tongue with distaste.  I wait, and a little while later, the dreamy calm hits.  My mind clouds up and I relax, physically and mentally.  It's okay, and I can see exactly what I need to do.

I walk into the kitchen and I grab my smokes, my lighter, a glass, and the bottle of Jameson.  I go outside, dust off the folding chair, and sit beneath the pecan.  It's pitch black out here, and I can hear the crickets around me like predatory little hyenas, laughing at me and waiting to swarm.

I hold onto my glass from the top, shielding it from debris, and open up the whiskey with my other hand.  I pour out what I assume is a couple of shots and close her up.  I light a clove.  I lean back.

My eyelids thud shut while the smoke swirls into my world.  The whiskey is smooth and perfect and easy, like life should be.  I relax as the cockroaches plop onto my head, shoulders, thighs.  As the crickets wander up my ankles and underneath the fraying hem of my jeans.  I drift away as they carry me off.

I never, ever come back again.

Never.