The Country from Hell
As quickly as your anger had reared up in you, you now struggle to coax it downward. It gradually subsides, but with a simmering, bubbling sensation that makes you feel sick. You sit quickly back down at your stool, making sure that you don't look again towards the Frosty. The bartender is now the one staring at you. Even in your dulled-out state, you can tell he is disappointed in you.
"Hey wimp," he hisses. "You gonna buy anything else?"
"I don't have any more money," you moan back at him. Your voice sounds whiny and girlish to you.
"Then get the fuck out of my bar."
You leave without another word, staring at the floor, then the dusty parking lot, then the overgrown sidewalk as you make your way home. Your hands in your empty pockets, you keep thinking of a verse from a popular song,
"I was born into my world. I didn't choose a thing."
You didn't choose a thing. You didn't choose a thing.
Suddenly, you feel sick. You fall to your hands and knees, throwing up hot custia all over the sidewalk. Did you really drink that much? No, no, this is your punishment. Your punishment for not being a man and standing up to that Frosty or to those thugs for not helping your mother, for not caring about your future it is the punishment you deserve.
"But I didn't choose any of this!" you scream out loud to the deaf sky.
You are surprised to find your eyes suddenly flooded with tears. You run blindly, haphazardly home, slipping quietly into your apartment and tiptoeing into the room that you share with your grandmother. She is snoring loudly in her little bed in the corner, but she has left a single candle burning for you on the dresser.
Peering into the mirror, you are shocked by your own reflection. Your eyes are haggard and sunken, your hair disheveled, your lips dry and cracked. You look aged far beyond your years, just like your father. This is your youth without youth. These years will soon pass and then you really will be old, and sick, doomed to a profound isolation that is known only too well in Iad. You can't bear to look at yourself another second.
Crawling into your moldy bed at the other end of the room, you look up at the full moon as she shines through the old lace curtains in the window.
"I was born into my world," you try to convince her. "I didn't choose a thing."
"Hey wimp," he hisses. "You gonna buy anything else?"
"I don't have any more money," you moan back at him. Your voice sounds whiny and girlish to you.
"Then get the fuck out of my bar."
You leave without another word, staring at the floor, then the dusty parking lot, then the overgrown sidewalk as you make your way home. Your hands in your empty pockets, you keep thinking of a verse from a popular song,
"I was born into my world. I didn't choose a thing."
You didn't choose a thing. You didn't choose a thing.
Suddenly, you feel sick. You fall to your hands and knees, throwing up hot custia all over the sidewalk. Did you really drink that much? No, no, this is your punishment. Your punishment for not being a man and standing up to that Frosty or to those thugs for not helping your mother, for not caring about your future it is the punishment you deserve.
"But I didn't choose any of this!" you scream out loud to the deaf sky.
You are surprised to find your eyes suddenly flooded with tears. You run blindly, haphazardly home, slipping quietly into your apartment and tiptoeing into the room that you share with your grandmother. She is snoring loudly in her little bed in the corner, but she has left a single candle burning for you on the dresser.
Peering into the mirror, you are shocked by your own reflection. Your eyes are haggard and sunken, your hair disheveled, your lips dry and cracked. You look aged far beyond your years, just like your father. This is your youth without youth. These years will soon pass and then you really will be old, and sick, doomed to a profound isolation that is known only too well in Iad. You can't bear to look at yourself another second.
Crawling into your moldy bed at the other end of the room, you look up at the full moon as she shines through the old lace curtains in the window.
"I was born into my world," you try to convince her. "I didn't choose a thing."
