A cracking voice resonates
and words are spoken which are registered in the mind as pain, then anger, then pure lustful rage. The severity of the words typically determines the quickness in which the rage overwhelms. When
the mind has accomplished routing the message it has then to delve into
the archival series of events and experience that form
a history and use them to attach significance to the external stimuli. A
cracking voice, red eyes, and shimmering trails
along cheeks all indicate sadness or grief almost immediately and such
elements play an important role in the severity of the message. If the
words interepreted by the mind are damning enough, no further thought
or analysis is necessary.
Some
men may listen. Some men may be recalled. Some men may stop to fathom
or even consider. Some.
“He…
was just walking me home," she tells him. "I didn’t think he could do this to me. He seemed nice...
oh God, please...” Her sound as subsequent noise
drowned out by the loud roar exploring the corners of the mind when the connections have been made. The
vast
emptiness that reigns over the mind is filled with an overwhelming
pressure as the physical sensation of sound brimming from ear to ear
presses and pounds against the skull. The mind needs to relieve such
immense pressure and to force anything but the cause of the
pressure to bear the brunt of the release is out of the question. It
is rage, truly, but rage that must be directed along the proper channel
else the man should explode within himself.
“I
need you here with me. Don’t leave.” A gentle hand tightly gripped around a wrist. “Please, come back? We’ll call the police...” All physical sense is pounded away by the
beating drums, all touch becomes meaningless save for the only touch that the
mind can fathom, which is not this touch. Touch,
like anger, does not express that which is in the man's mind--the
pairing of the terms "pulsing" and "thickness" may suffice. It is the
compulsive need to feel flesh pounded beneath flesh as so much
worthless hamburger is pounded by the hammer. A human equated to meat
purchased at the butcher shop--such is the only type of thought that
can exist. Gentleness is impossible in the cacophany of the enraged
mind.
“Don’t
do it! He’s not worth it! Babe, pl--” Static
in the background as the man steps toward the door and his hand pulls
it open; his back to the cracking voice and rosy cheeks as thick wood
is slammed against thick wood
and the silence of street lamps buzzing in the night overtakes him. All
things are as indiscernable shadow beneath the glowing orb of hatred
and rage. There is
nothing save for the face, and the act, and the belief that it has to
happen. No, more than belief. A desire, a lustful desire to commit the act,
to carry it out in full. It
must be
understood that it is not an emotion in and of itself, but merely an
extreme
extension of anger. It is anger that people most
often find
themselves in the company of. The deafening presence of silence and
screaming rage that simultaneously take hold of this man's mind is a
rare occurrence, and some people may be fortunate enough never to
experience such a state of being. It is as drowning, and sinking
helplessly below the surface of the water until there is only a
pressure from within to take action and seek relief. He must
break the surface or allow himself to drown.
The
man as he was is now the man as he is, just as the man as he is will be
the man as he will be when the ever-present thunder subsides and he
will sit in a pool of blood and he will weep.
Fists
clench as the feet pound the pavement and the throbbing in his mind
continues its irregular assault on the senses. Every twig, leaf, and
wrapper combust beneath the soles of his shoes as every step takes him
further along the only path. The scattered mass of buzzing rages around
him. As fallen crystals, raining down, striking him and all that
surrounds him. Clinking and clicking and insanity's relentless attack
upon the core of the self. Louder, more expressive, sharper by the
second in the focused barrage... him... hit... hurt... hunt...
hollering... happines, lost forever. She is taken,
she is gone, she is not as she was and she will not be and louder
still, horrid loudness pressing and hurting and wanting to explode from
his eyes and lead him and it hurts. Groaning,
hoping to drown out the sound yet it lingers and he must be rid of it,
you see? He must be rid it, he must be rid of it, he must be rid of it.
A
light shines down on the path's direction and he turns a corner,
physical and nowhere in the vicinity of emotional. It is there, as it
was there before. The familiar sights; unfamiliar maddening screeching.
Further still, by steps, and farther away as the echo returns to him. A
reflective door returns the sound to him and his body begins to feel
the crushing weight of the house inside the door. Before it was steps
on stairs and ringing bells. Laughter inside, and calmative
conversation. Trusted communication betrayed by lustful howling and it
must be silenced, it must be made to stop.
She
must have yelled, she must have wept loudly in bewilderment. The
echo from such noise will be horrible and glorious and a
relief unheard of in all of man's existence.
A
massive shockwave when flesh meets wood, and he leans forward to brace
himself when the imminent occurs and the wood gives way to a man from
which all the world's madness flows.
"Hey, what the fuck? What're--" The first contact falls
between a fist and the face of nothing. A nothing. The mind registers
the face of the man in the doorway as nothing. So much hamburger. No
one cares for hamburger. Pounds the hamburger. Pounds it into the
wooden ground beneath his feet.
Flesh
ripped open, bones cracking, blood amassing as strike after strike
falls upon
the cause of the horrid symphonic melody in the man's mind. This is
responsible; this does not deserve what is given, what is bestowed,
what is gifted to all creatures. He took more than
he is right to do and gave what he should not have and now, here, in a
hallway, on the wooden ground, beside a black wall and a black table
and a black rail the noise will cease.
The
feeling of rhythm. Rapid beating
against open palms. Painful jolts as
fists strike flesh and bone and hands clamor desperately, scratching a face, pulling
an ear. Words uttered yet not understood
as the mind’s walls reflect a deafening roar—the desperate gasp for life, unheard.