...And With Blood

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A young artists struggles with humanity and his last attempt of showing his inner beauty to an otherwise ugly world.

Submitted: May 16, 2009

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Submitted: May 16, 2009



And With Blood....

My naked feet touch the ledge, they cannot feel a thing. Its winter and frost bite has already hit its early stages. I take note of this in my head. They burned at first but now they are replaced with an awkward silence of my senses. I look down deep into city. The lights are bright illuminating the streets, they remind of my childhood. I think of those Light Bright toys and how small the world looks up here. It's as if I could fit this entire city into that tiny machine for me to plug each little translucent peg into. I don’t know why. It sets off a chain reaction in my brain.

Dr. Weathers.

I stand twenty stories high above the cityscape; it’s close to midnight, late January. It's been reported to be the coldest day of the year. The local weather man with the tired brown suit and thick mustache said this morning that with the wind-chill it could hit a negative fifteen degrees. That’s down there at street level; up here it probably hits negative thirty. I welcome the daunting cold, for now it is my only friend.

My clothes are left on a pile by the fire escape that led me here. I stand naked, open for the world below me to see. This is me as vulnerable as ever, giving my entire essence to this place. Naked in the bitter cold winter night. This is my last testament of art, my way of giving back the shit stained world something beautiful, something real. It is my carnivalesque nod to Mikhail Bakhtin and all his glory. To know the things I know, and the things I know those petty people below me will never come to realize. If my tear ducts weren’t probably frozen, I still wouldn’t have any tears to shed for them. Little old me, a colossal nothing in this world of nobodies, now stands before you all, all-knowing and omnipotent.

Omnipotent, truly I am and you will never reach my height.

Not that it should matter, In fifteen minutes my naked body will be a bloody mess on main, the cold harsh streets will be my canvas. My blood, my bones, and my flesh will by my paint. It is not suicide when you’ve seen the things I’ve seen. It’s not suicide once you’ve come to be enlightened. It's not suicide when you've heavily taken into consideration how cliché an act of suicide has become in this art form.

Perspective, all truth in reality is inherited through the eyes of one.

A young lady walks beneath me, for her to see my body standing fifteen stories above her naked as the day I was born in this bone chilling weather would strike horror in her heart. A teenager with skin tight jeans and scars on his wrist might pull out his phone and hit record. Horror for one is another’s curiosity. None of you know true horror, not until you’ve dissected my brain, raped me from my memories, inherited my thought processes, and cracked the perplexity of my newfound knowledge.

I asked for enlightenment.
I received total nihilism.

This world, these streets that I stand high above are all a part of this 'pop-art' carnival, a puppet show of grandeur scale with no puppeteer. No divine hands with strings attached to its fingers. Below me, those lights are nothing more than a sensory reaction sending electric impulses from my brain to my eyes. Once my body becomes one with my canvas it will no longer cease to exist. All existence will end in a flash. Your life will be over as quick as mine. Once I die, so does the universe, complete entropy.


The entire nature of the universe is completely centric to the nature of humanity, more importantly it is centric to the 'self', to our senses, our knowledge, our meager and wasteful lives, and by 'ours' I truly mean mine.

I once read on a bumper sticker on a dirty run down old flatbed truck that 'To err is to human-" but I always believed to  human is to play God. We are all Gods, Gods of flesh trapped in a one hit wonder game of life.

Two days ago I woke up from a dream where I sat in a fun house trapped within a room filled with mirrors. Staring into the infinite window of selves I got lost, and I no longer knew which version of my image was in truth the true and real copy. An infinite loop where all the creations before it had a creation behind it with no creator to begin the creation. I somewhere at the center, the true and original copy lost in the reality of perspective. I laid in bed and for the first time in my life I knew I had finally taken that last step into enlightenment. The world never was the same again. That is to lay claim that the world was ever the world at all.

What is a world, beyond a container of a billion other worlds, all that which centered around centers, who center themselves on a fallacy of a higher realm beyond our understanding of reality.

I’m talking of God.  
I’m talking the lack thereof.
I can't help think of my mother.

Twenty-eight years, six months, and fifteen days ago a boy was born to a mother who was poor and shallow, whom also was morally and physically raped from her pureness. As that child grew his face resembled more and more into his unknown father. As he grew his mother filled more and more with disdain and horror at his very site. A young boy raised by a mother who secretly hated her son for looking like the man who raped her. She saw it in his eyes, she knew her soon had the same eyes of that man who took her innocence. Her hatred for her child turned physical. Even in his young mind he knew the disgust that hid behind his mothers eyes.  Rape, as cliché and over used as it may be, destroyed two lives.

Rape. She was on the way to her car after work.

Rape. Brutally beaten and sodomized with a tire iron.

Rape. The left side of her face was left disfigured. Her body left naked behind the dumpster found by a morning jogger the next day.

The man left behind her with a child. She had just turned sixteen.

It's sad when such an act is common referred to as cliché.

She beat the child’s face over and over again. Every time she looked at her son with those eyes peering back into her, made her stomach curdled with disgust. Memories of that night haunted her forever.


Twenty-four years after the boy's first severe beating, that boy will stand naked atop of a building, his toe’s frost bit. That boy was me, Jacob Friedrich.


Twelve years earlier that boy sat in Dr. Weather’s office, the large burley man who spoke with a raspy voice. The boy was smart, some even considered him borderline brilliant, but he was self-indulged. He kept to himself, had no real friends, and vastly socially ignorant. In retrospect he realized this even as a child, he always felt different from others. An outsider looking in, always asking the questions why, why, why? His mother a year earlier overdosed. He was only fifteen when he found his mother face down on the bathroom floor. Her tongue sticking out of her mouth, her face blue and covered in filmy vomit. The only feeling he felt for his dead mother was how ridiculous she looked dead with her tongue hanging out like that.

Dr. Weathers asked him how he felt that night he found his mother. The visits were court ordered. The boy was in and out of trouble. The boy answered simply with 'embarrassed'.

Dr. Weathers asked him lots of questions, this is how therapy works, questions about this, questions about that, answers for nothing. The boy already asked a lot of questions, he found it somewhat relieving to be asked for answers instead of him asking and receiving none.

"Have you ever heard of narrative therapy?" Dr. Weathers clicked his pen and began jotting notes onto his legal pad. The boy hadn't. Dr. Weathers basically described the therapy as a concept that everyone's life is one long story being told, it has its characters, plots, settings, all the basics. The therapists acts as a narrator, asking the patient questions, pushing the story foreword. The catch is all based on 'perspective'. The narrator pulls the story into these different perspectives of the patients life, to open up different values, concepts, and ideals that perhaps the patient didn't realize, turning a positive spin on an otherwise negative perspective. The boy played along, and in the end, even if Dr. Weathers never knew how much he had influenced the boy, he was changed. he set out to write his own story, and to be aware of how he wanted it to be read.

Two years later from the boys last therapy session with Dr. Weathers, that boy hit a tree at sixty-five miles per hour. The metal frame of his small cutlass wrapped itself around the earthy wooden trunk of the thick oak tree. His body was crushed, he flat-lined and died momentarily in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. The paramedics revived, him but Jacob Friedrich never came out of that state, that young boy died and I was reborn. We shared the same name, the same past, but I never looked at the world the same again. You may think an event like that would be life altering. It was. it was the beginning of my enlightenment. I realized then, I really had no control of my life story. I was not the artist paving away my narrative. I knew sure as hell there was no God acting as some muse inspired artist. It was chaos, single and utter chaos.

My life? The sentences is posed as a question, because all life is, is a series of questions, unknowns and variables, it's the blind leading the blind. As soon as one opens his eyes and see's this place for its truths -like I have- we become exiled. We become Satanists, unchristian, evil-warmongers. Give me peace of mind, and you can keep your warm puffy heavenly gates. 

Dr. Weathers, that old fool who taught me life's a series of stories. Stories are meant to entertain, to teach, to speak volumes about this world, to trigger your brain into thinking deeper about life and its mysteries. Then if we are all stories waiting to be heard, why do so many of us live such useless lives adding nothing to this world. Dr. Weather's life written in synopsis form would sounds something to the likes as: a man raised in a middle class average family lives an average life where he falls into debt through his gross gambling addiction, who eats his days away through fast food and drinks his nights away drowning in bottles. He will have one unsuccessful marriage with no children and will die at the age of fifty two from a heart attack sitting in his recliner while fornicating with a barley legal aged prostitute. And there, only in his last few moments of his life, where in the comfort of his own home can he truly live a few moments of a poetic life. Self indulged into the very essence of his instincts, a broken man socially, finds his release both in the form of an awe-inspiring orgasm, and in the release of his heart's strength to continue to beat.

Dr. Weathers, you were a fool. We are no more stories then we are children of God.

Mother was no more innocent before the rape, then she was after, nor is she anymore innocent in this imaginary heaven we've all come to bank on after our death. To this day my left eye is blurred from the beatings of my childhood. I have lived twenty-eight years in the world. I have found no God, I have found no storybook love, I have found no true good natured people. The only beauty I have found worth knowing is this wonderful thing called art. Our inner beauty reflected outwardly for the world to take in and take away with them hopefully something called inspiration. Art, the only thing man created that is worth all their effort they put into it. We as humans, with our collective minds, can create such extraordinary beautiful things with our minds and hands.

Three days ago I awoke from that dream with all those mirrors, and the air smelled hollow, the sunlight seemed to dim just a shade darker from the day before. Everywhere I looked, everything seemed just that much darker. These streets below me filled with all those meaningless chaotic nuisances, these billions of people wandering around aimlessly on mother earth, poisoning her essence with their defecating ways. Passing by all the true beauty in the world without ever even really taking notice of its wonders. How many people will ever see all our great monuments of as race have created? How many people will ever witness all the glorious beauty mother nature created for us. We are minute men, who live our lives based on the next second, the extra five minutes of internet surfing we can squeeze in before our mundane eight hour work day. Single serving uninspiring people who are pawns in this social structure of capitalism. We are all meek and docile pawns in a game where we never get our chance to roll the dice. I will not miss this place we call earth. I will honestly not miss one second.

And with blood, the street beneath me shall become my greatest art form. My canvas, my Mona Lisa. My work of art will become the third segment on the local channel twenty-five news broadcast.

And with blood, I shall sleep forever. Darkness will be my covers, and the dirt my pillows.

And with blood, I shall eliminate existence as quick as my flesh meets the pavement. For when I die, at least through my perspective, this world dies to.

My feet frozen, now my body is numbed completely over. It truly is beautiful. in five minutes I will be falling.


It will be like a dream, my body stiff as a board, perhaps due to some sort of natural instinct preparing myself for my impact, as if it would help. Or maybe, my body is  already literally that frozen.


Maybe I will hear screams. I won't be able to breathe, falling too fast.

And with my blood... I will find happiness.

And with my blood... I hope you find inspiration.


© Copyright 2017 JLHickey. All rights reserved.

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