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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
An autobiography of sorts. Watch the numbers.

Submitted: January 01, 2009

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 01, 2009



I write. I write because I can do nothing else. Write and bleed. And hope that the dark entanglement of blood and ink might take the pain with it as it pours onto this page.


What cruel hand fashioned me so that I can feel this brand of love and never have it reciprocated? What bloody fingertips pulled and tugged at my fraying strings, this way and that, and then tore me off the stage? I didn’t play/fake the insipid part I was assigned. My movements were too rigid, jagged, and forced. I didn’t “fit” the allocated role. I never have and never will.


I’ve filled the holes in my dying heart with words. I wonder is it ink and not blood that pulses through my veins. Now I need to bleed them all away. Need the soft sting of steel against skin. Let it tear me from this pit for a few more hours, until the clock winds midnight. Soothing, calming, hot, familiar, red blood (or perhaps black this time?). Let it seep from me in fountains, wash away the pain of living, and appease the dark twisted passenger beneath my pointed ribs.


For a few more hours, but not forever. I would not part with this pain. It’s all I have left. Take it away and there will be nothing left of me but an empty cavity: a receptacle once home to something brilliant, dark and terrifying. It is too ingrained into my identity, too much apart of what I am, of Who. I. Am.


My father hung himself from the back pergola of our family home. I was [12] when I found him there. His heart stopped. His lifeless corpse a rag doll, but it did not swing in the wind, or mind the light shower that trickled fluently down from the heavens. The clouds cried but I had not yet. This and other matters have damaged me beyond repair. There’s a gapping hole inside that nothing ever fills. A vacuum that’s sucks the joy out of everything. I forget how to cry. I forget how to smile and mean it.

11:58 [12] & [5]. [5] – [2] = [3]. 10 = [13]

I found out later that his mother, the grandmother I never met, put her head in an oven and turned the gas up to full. He was [5] when he found her there. Her heart stopped. Her lifeless corpse a rag doll… Do you see the pattern emerging? I am the third generation of a damned lineage. His blood, her blood, runs through my veins. But it ends with me. Don’t all bad things come in [3]?


My psychiatrist, psychologist, and case manager at the local mental health centre, a place that smells clean like bleach covered death and is devoid of all sharp objects, label this condition “psychotic depression” and file it away. I detest labels but not the pretty white pills that come with them.


I was conceived above a funeral home. My mother and father lived and worked there. Part of their job description was to contend with distraught relatives who came at all hours of the night to see the bodies of their deceased loved ones.

On the [13]th of May 1986 I died before I was born. My heart stopped inside my mother’s womb. The doctor had to tear me out with a pair of sterile calipers and restart my heart. If I cared for numerology I might read deeper into the number [13]: a signifier of bad luck, is it not?

I know these events can be nothing more than coincidence and synchronicity, yet I can not help but think they’ve marked me. That from conception I was damned to walk the dark winding road.


A surge of police/ambulance sirens blaring, frightened dogs howling, fireworks exploding, and voices raving.


At [3:05] today, New Year’s day, my Nanna Aeiry passed from this world, on a bleach white hospital bed, with a morphine drip in her arm. Her heart stopped. Her body so peaceful, limbs neatly arranged, chin titled slightly up, eyes closed. So lifeless. I watched her daughter, my aunt Pauline, fall apart; grief pressing down upon her like the oppressive summer heat on me. She lost her mother, who raised her and cared for her. And, during the last [3] or so months, rolls reversed and she cared for her mother, assisted her with most all of her daily needs. [3][3][3]

Alive with death

A theatre of speech

Laughter covered grief

A life stamped out

An empty place

An empty chair

An empty heart

Moments lost that

Memory can’t reclaim

Tears that never

Wash away the pain

I feel a void opening

A hole that can’t be filled

A path for the pall bearers

Hands fixed to polished wood

Eyes soaked with broken life

Alive with death

Tell me again how beautiful the world is. Bite your lip until it bleeds, and spit it out when you know it isn’t true. That’s what you do. Because you can do nothing else.Happy new year.

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