Some mother's son

Trollheart · 04-26-2013, 06:58 PM

Okay, I've never been here before. I have no idea where this piece is going, but it just came to me out of a sort of half-formed idea and kind of grew from there. See what you think of it.

Some mother's son

I sit slumped against a wall, the freezing wind of late autumn whistling around my head and chilling my ears, my nose and chapping my lips, getting deep down into my already fragile bones. The night air is cold, and it's hard to hold the needle as I try to find an unused vein, my eyes squinting in the gloom as traffic rushes by in the distance, a world away. I feel an extra chill in my heart and realise there's something cold lying against the bare skin of my chest. It's small and metal and hard and cold, and my trembling fingers briefly quest inside my ragged shirt, exploring the darkest inner reaches of my clothing like Stanley heading down the Zambesi in search of Doctor Livingstone.

With a snorted, almost strangled little grunt my shaking hand grips the tiny object and like an archaeologist excavating an ancient tomb it brings the little crucifix out into the half-light, the moon, briefly emerging from hiding behind a bank of grey clouds (how do I know they're grey, you ask? Maybe they're not, but at night and in my state of mind everything is grey, particularly my pallid, ravaged skin) striking faint shadows off its tarnished metal surface. No, I'm not Catholic: probably not really even Christian, so why do I wear the image of a man nailed to a crossbeam around my neck?

I wear it because she gave it to me, a lifetime ago, and told me it would protect me, and in a rare lapse of judgement (short barking laugh) and because I was in love I agreed, even though (and I could not tell her this, she would not understand, would be insulted) it creeps the hell out of me. I mean, think about it: this is a man nailed to a cross, for Chrissakes! Well, for our sakes, apparently. My sake. Fat lot of good it did me. Come to save sinners did ya? Well, ya lost out if you bet on this one.

He seems to agree. I hate the way his eyes look at me, the pity and sympathy and love in them more than I can bear. But I can see something people can't: maybe it's the H in my veins, or the three-quarters of a bottle of meths I just finished off, or even the damp seeping into my bones now from this cold stone ground which will one day soon I'm sure become my temporary resting place, before someone who doesn't know me and doesn't want to know me and is only doing his job lays me on another cold stone slab, tying a note around my big toe with the eternal label that says "****ed if I know who this guy is, and ****ed if I care." Whatever it is though, when I look at that tiny Jesus I can see the disappointment in his eyes when he looks at me, his tortured yet serene and forgiving yet accusing stare. I can almost hear him say the words.

This is why I died on the cross, in horrible pain and humilation? So you could stick that **** into your veins and waste your life away? It's my crack-addled imagination, I know, but I swear I see his head turn on the cross. You know the way he's always looking to the left, head down almost as if he's just resting, though he must have been in terrible agony as he felt his last breaths leave his body? Well I swear --- I swear --- I see his head lift with a great effort and turn the other way, just so he don't have to look at me. Hell, I don't blame him. If I was me, I wouldn't want to look at me either.

But though his head is turned away, I still hear his voice; that tired, sad, accepting tone in it: I guess I'll be seeing you soon, he says, but I don't think I'll be in when you call. **** that ****. I got places to be. You just aren't worth it, man. And he's right you know. I ain't. She knew it, though she never let on. She tried to help me; lord help her, she thought she could save me, with all that mass and praying and religion and stuff. Trouble was, she just wouldn't shut up about it. Day after day, night after night, on and on and on. Shut the hell up woman! I'm tryin' to shoot here! Then one day, when it all got too much and I couldn't even score, she shut her mouth for good. I remember looking at the blade, slick and slippery and red, and for a moment I wondered what the hell that was on it?

Then I started screaming. I ain't stopped. Ever. Oh, you wouldn't know it to look at me, cos I'm all like real quiet on the outside, ya know? But inside, I'm still holding that knife, still looking down at her bloodied and battered face, an expression more of disbelief and surprise on her perfect features more than pain or recrimination. And inside I'm still screaming. I don't think I'll ever stop.

From where I sit I can hear the hum of the traffic and occasionally a taxi will pull up, and someone will get out, their heels clicking on the flagstones on slopping noisily like they got flippers or webbed feet; the rain amplifies the sound I guess. It don't never stop raining here. Bloody country. Come to sunny Ireland. Yeah. If you're on the run from the NYPD come to Ireland, where you can while your days away in complete ****ing obscurity and anonymity. Disclaimer: terms and conditions apply. Yeah. Click yes if you accept these terms. Click.

Click. Click. Click. Oh, it's some young woman saying thanks to the cab driver. I sometimes hear snatches of their conversation, and just for a few minutes I can imagine myself in their place, and I can build up a whole history around them, playing my role as a fashion design student, or a nurse, or a banking executive or, hell, just a man with a wife and family who loves him. Fantasy's great ain't it? I stay out of sight here, scrunched up into the corner melding with the rest of the black plastic rubbish sacks and the dog**** and discarded cartons, and most of the time they don't see me. I'm the invisible man. But one or two notice me. One may be brave/stupid/guilty/drunk/compassionate enough to throw a few coins my way, but they do it in the same way they'd throw a treat to their dog.

Nah, that's not right: people give dogs treats cos they love them, cos they mean something to them. This is more like throwing something away, an empty cigarette pack, a butt or a screwed up Coke can. They're finished with it, it ain't no good to no-one and well **** it, throw it on the ground and who cares if it lies there till someone either sweeps it up or kicks it out of the way, or stomps on it and carries it away on their shoe? It's just not important. But I don't know, maybe it makes them feel good for a few seconds, maybe they think they're doing good. Hey tightwad! You know what I can do with twenty cents? You know exactly what I can do with twenty cents? Yeah, **** you! What do you mean, you didn't hear me? Well I'm only thinking it, after all: don't want to attract attention, have the cops here take my stash away.

Anyway, what the **** am I doin' talkin' to the likes of you? You couldn't give two ****s what I think, and from the looks of ya I don't think I'm gettin' a free drink or money for rollies off you, am I? What do you mean, no change? I take credit cards, ya know. Yeah, take 'em and sell 'em to Jimmy Borland on Merchant's Quay: he pays me ten euro for each, tight ****er: I know he makes ten times that and more. Still, beggars can't be choosers, huh?

What? No I the **** do not think that's funny! Look, just get the **** out of my face willya? What are you looking at me like that for? No, it's not ****ing blood on my cross! How the **** would you know? It's not, okay? It's ....

... not ...

Surell · 05-03-2013, 04:10 AM

I dig a lot of the themes, and your images are pretty vivid. I always love grimy stuff like this, and the kinda stream of consciousness to it, especially with how internal it all is. Some of it is a little overstated, or maybe blunt, but it's a solid work. I especially love the narrative bending at the end.

Trollheart · 05-07-2013, 05:40 AM

Thanks man, for taking the time to comment. I know it's a bit all over the place: I had the idea of the figure on the cross talking to him and sort of filled it in from there. I had no clue what I was going to do with the idea when I got it, but it seemed so cool I didn't want to just forget it so I built that story around it. I know it could be a lot better, maybe one day will be, and my complete lack of experience with drugs shows of course, but anyway thanks for reading and commenting. It's appreciated!

Surell · 05-08-2013, 03:44 AM

No problem man. Don't worry about any lack of experience, you have powers of observation and imagination, so it's pretty much a non issue. And I know how you feel about having those ideas, I usually sit on them until they go away or until i mentally conceive some scenario, but mine is a losing battle. Keep on with it, though.

Plankton · 05-08-2013, 01:42 PM

Well, I got sucked into that. I don't read much these days but that was really well crafted.

P A N · 05-08-2013, 02:32 PM

trollheart. write books. DO IT.

Trollheart · 05-08-2013, 08:26 PM

Thanks guys. Really. I appreciate it.
PAN, I have written some, but never completed them. Fantasy sword-and-sorcery epics that have no chance of ever being completed. If I can fish out some of my old floppy discs, and find some computer with a floppy drive, and anyone's interested, I'll post a bit of one. Incidentally, as you may or may not know, my username came from one of the characters in one of my never-to-be-finished novels...

Surell · 05-09-2013, 08:34 PM

You have a good attachment to your characters, you should just write Semarillions with no actual story accompaniment; or, world histories with no action. Throw everyone off.

04-26-2013, 06:58 PM	#1 (permalink)
Trollheart Born to be mild Join Date: Oct 2008 Location: 404 Not Found Posts: 26,994	Some mother's son Okay, I've never been here before. I have no idea where this piece is going, but it just came to me out of a sort of half-formed idea and kind of grew from there. See what you think of it. *Some mother's son* I sit slumped against a wall, the freezing wind of late autumn whistling around my head and chilling my ears, my nose and chapping my lips, getting deep down into my already fragile bones. The night air is cold, and it's hard to hold the needle as I try to find an unused vein, my eyes squinting in the gloom as traffic rushes by in the distance, a world away. I feel an extra chill in my heart and realise there's something cold lying against the bare skin of my chest. It's small and metal and hard and cold, and my trembling fingers briefly quest inside my ragged shirt, exploring the darkest inner reaches of my clothing like Stanley heading down the Zambesi in search of Doctor Livingstone. With a snorted, almost strangled little grunt my shaking hand grips the tiny object and like an archaeologist excavating an ancient tomb it brings the little crucifix out into the half-light, the moon, briefly emerging from hiding behind a bank of grey clouds (how do I know they're grey, you ask? Maybe they're not, but at night and in my state of mind everything is grey, particularly my pallid, ravaged skin) striking faint shadows off its tarnished metal surface. No, I'm not Catholic: probably not really even Christian, so why do I wear the image of a man nailed to a crossbeam around my neck? I wear it because she gave it to me, a lifetime ago, and told me it would protect me, and in a rare lapse of judgement (short barking laugh) and because I was in love I agreed, even though (and I could not tell her this, she would not understand, would be insulted) it creeps the hell out of me. I mean, think about it: this is a man nailed to a cross, for Chrissakes! Well, for our sakes, apparently. My sake. Fat lot of good it did me. Come to save sinners did ya? Well, ya lost out if you bet on this one. He seems to agree. I hate the way his eyes look at me, the pity and sympathy and love in them more than I can bear. But I can see something people can't: maybe it's the H in my veins, or the three-quarters of a bottle of meths I just finished off, or even the damp seeping into my bones now from this cold stone ground which will one day soon I'm sure become my temporary resting place, before someone who doesn't know me and doesn't want to know me and is only doing his job lays me on another cold stone slab, tying a note around my big toe with the eternal label that says "*ed if I know who this guy is, and *ed if I care." Whatever it is though, when I look at that tiny Jesus I can see the disappointment in his eyes when he looks at me, his tortured yet serene and forgiving yet accusing stare. I can almost hear him say the words. This is why I died on the cross, in horrible pain and humilation? So you could stick that **** into your veins and waste your life away? It's my crack-addled imagination, I know, but I swear I see his head turn on the cross. You know the way he's always looking to the left, head down almost as if he's just resting, though he must have been in terrible agony as he felt his last breaths leave his body? Well I swear --- I swear --- I see his head lift with a great effort and turn the other way, just so he don't have to look at me. Hell, I don't blame him. If I was me, I wouldn't want to look at me either. But though his head is turned away, I still hear his voice; that tired, sad, accepting tone in it: I guess I'll be seeing you soon, he says, but I don't think I'll be in when you call. * that *. I got places to be. You just aren't worth it, man. And he's right you know. I ain't. She knew it, though she never let on. She tried to help me; lord help her, she thought she could save me, with all that mass and praying and religion and stuff. Trouble was, she just wouldn't shut up about it. Day after day, night after night, on and on and on. Shut the hell up woman! I'm tryin' to shoot here! Then one day, when it all got too much and I couldn't even score, she shut her mouth for good. I remember looking at the blade, slick and slippery and red, and for a moment I wondered what the hell that was on it? Then I started screaming. I ain't stopped. Ever. Oh, you wouldn't know it to look at me, cos I'm all like real quiet on the outside, ya know? But inside, I'm still holding that knife, still looking down at her bloodied and battered face, an expression more of disbelief and surprise on her perfect features more than pain or recrimination. And inside I'm still screaming. I don't think I'll ever stop. From where I sit I can hear the hum of the traffic and occasionally a taxi will pull up, and someone will get out, their heels clicking on the flagstones on slopping noisily like they got flippers or webbed feet; the rain amplifies the sound I guess. It don't never stop raining here. Bloody country. Come to sunny Ireland. Yeah. If you're on the run from the NYPD come to Ireland, where you can while your days away in complete ***ing obscurity and anonymity. Disclaimer: terms and conditions apply. Yeah. Click yes if you accept these terms. Click. Click. Click. Click.* Oh, it's some young woman saying thanks to the cab driver. I sometimes hear snatches of their conversation, and just for a few minutes I can imagine myself in their place, and I can build up a whole history around them, playing my role as a fashion design student, or a nurse, or a banking executive or, hell, just a man with a wife and family who loves him. Fantasy's great ain't it? I stay out of sight here, scrunched up into the corner melding with the rest of the black plastic rubbish sacks and the dog** and discarded cartons, and most of the time they don't see me. I'm the invisible man. But one or two notice me. One may be brave/stupid/guilty/drunk/compassionate enough to throw a few coins my way, but they do it in the same way they'd throw a treat to their dog. Nah, that's not right: people give dogs treats cos they love them, cos they mean something to them. This is more like throwing something away, an empty cigarette pack, a butt or a screwed up Coke can. They're finished with it, it ain't no good to no-one and well ** it, throw it on the ground and who cares if it lies there till someone either sweeps it up or kicks it out of the way, or stomps on it and carries it away on their shoe? It's just not important. But I don't know, maybe it makes them feel good for a few seconds, maybe they think they're doing good. Hey tightwad! You know what I can do with twenty cents? You know exactly what I can do with twenty cents? Yeah, ** you! What do you mean, you didn't hear me? Well I'm only thinking it, after all: don't want to attract attention, have the cops here take my stash away. Anyway, what the am I doin' talkin' to the likes of you? You couldn't give two s what I think, and from the looks of ya I don't think I'm gettin' a free drink or money for rollies off you, am I? What do you mean, no change? I take credit cards, ya know. Yeah, take 'em and sell 'em to Jimmy Borland on Merchant's Quay: he pays me ten euro for each, tight er: I know he makes ten times that and more. Still, beggars can't be choosers, huh? What? No I the ** do not think that's funny! Look, just get the **** out of my face willya? What are you looking at me like that for? No, it's not **ing blood on my cross! How the ** would you know? It's not, okay? It's .... ... not ... __________________ Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018

05-07-2013, 05:40 AM	#3 (permalink)
Trollheart Born to be mild Join Date: Oct 2008 Location: 404 Not Found Posts: 26,994	Thanks man, for taking the time to comment. I know it's a bit all over the place: I had the idea of the figure on the cross talking to him and sort of filled it in from there. I had no clue what I was going to do with the idea when I got it, but it seemed so cool I didn't want to just forget it so I built that story around it. I know it could be a lot better, maybe one day will be, and my complete lack of experience with drugs shows of course, but anyway thanks for reading and commenting. It's appreciated! __________________ Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018

05-08-2013, 01:42 PM	#5 (permalink)
Plankton Just Keep Swimming... Join Date: Apr 2012 Location: See signature... Posts: 7,765	Well, I got sucked into that. I don't read much these days but that was really well crafted. __________________ See location...

05-08-2013, 08:26 PM	#7 (permalink)
Trollheart Born to be mild Join Date: Oct 2008 Location: 404 Not Found Posts: 26,994	Thanks guys. Really. I appreciate it. PAN, I have written some, but never completed them. Fantasy sword-and-sorcery epics that have no chance of ever being completed. If I can fish out some of my old floppy discs, and find some computer with a floppy drive, and anyone's interested, I'll post a bit of one. Incidentally, as you may or may not know, my username came from one of the characters in one of my never-to-be-finished novels... __________________ Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018

05-08-2013, 02:32 PM	#6 (permalink)
P A N DO LIKE YOU. Join Date: Feb 2010 Posts: 629	trollheart. write books. DO IT.