When they set me free and I walked out of the prison grounds, the first thing I did was eat a Falafel sandwich with lots of tartar sauce. It’s the one thing I loved before jail and the one thing I missed during jail. No mother, no father, no sister, not brother, no friends, no wife, no girlfriend. No one. I’ve always lived unaccompanied like the spirit of the wind. I was not intending on breaking that habit and departing from my nature in jail. I kept to myself. I barely survived but what matters is that I did.
The tartar sauce dripped from the sandwich, splattered on my cheek. I was wiping the off-white creamy tartar sauce when a veiled woman opened a window in the opposite building, saw me and hid herself quickly. It was the woman who planted the memory in my brain, that scornful woman.
I don’t know how I started stealing cars; it just started being the vocation of my life, and slowly my whole reality. It’s not such a respectable vocation in prison, but I didn’t care. The only time people highlighted my mode of living is when a victim of mine saw me in there. He was in prison for killing his wife and father, who he caught in bed together. It’s a fucked up world we live in. He smirked my way and threatened me with gestures. I did not care.
I kept watching the window, that veiled woman I had seen before, the probable taste of my vengeance.
They do not offer therapy in prison. Who needs it? We’re not crazy after all. We’re just society’s rejects, denied for our violent indulgences. We are a different communal society, having a different stratification. The worst murderers occupy the highest rank. Murder your wife and father is top rank. Stealing cars is not. Murdering your wife and father makes you noble. Stealing cars makes you a slave, a bitch, a prag, a fagot, a homo.
He kept his eyes on me, like a hawk for two days, his inmate bitches pushing and shoving me. Finally, in a place I don’t want to be in, in a place I don’t want to be seen in, they create a gap and the noble murderer pushes me in it.
The veiled lady, young and tender and pink gave me the power to climb out of the gap, to cover it, to put her in it.
His bitches followed me, he followed his bitches. They turned on the hot water in the showering room and steam made everything seem Romantic and ideal.
I threw the falafel sandwich in the garbage, wiped the tartar sauce off my cheek and went inside the building. Third floor. I didn’t even have to knock. I only had to wait. She thinks I’m gone. I’m never gone. He thought he ended me, I ended her!
When the steam fogged every spec of my vision, when I started to feel like I was in a black and white movie, I knew that my punishment was due and that somehow I would be released. They pinned me, stomach first, to the wall and started punching me all over my body: the waist, the back, the arms.
Three hours I waited; my veins and stomach hungry for the carnal dose of vengeance. The door opened, a garbage bag in hand being put along the staircase, and she saw me, my whole body glowing in the darkness, aiming at her. I walked silently with a raging desire, my silence forcing her voice to be choked upon. I caught her neck and choked her voice more. I closed the door after we enter.
The fists seemed to enter me, widening holes in my body and then he came. I was powerless, the steam blurring my vision, surrounding me with water dew. Him, somehow so stiff. Me, somehow so tender. He released in sodomy. I can still smell his body and feel his hair on me. I can still feel the thrusts. First thrust. Second thrust. By the third thrust you start to find some sanity in it, some order. This is the way the world spins and it’ll never spin the other way. By the fourth thrust you know you are always going to be the shit of the earth. Fifth thrust…..twentieth thrust and you find sanity in the feces beneath your feet, the dripping blood of your anal hole, and the sticky cum on your butt cheeks.
Any notion of goodness, of the capability of man to change, to straighten life, to get back on the road again is thwarted. Justice is dead. Fear, recrimination, innocence, sympathy, guilt, waste, failure, grief, are things, emotions, that no one really feels anymore. Reflection is useless, the world is senseless. Evil is its only permanence. God is not alive. Love cannot be trusted. Holes and surface is all that anyone finds meaning in. No one is safe. Nothing is redeemed.
We entered the bedroom, my hand still on her neck, her face in front of mine, but her eyes closed. Her cheeks became red. I grazed them, soft and tender. On the bed, I fed her all of my pain, as I smelt her breath, her hair, her eyes. I devoured her first through my nose, then through my eyes, then through my vengeance. I twisted her as she whimpered beneath me, begging for someone to come back home, but I know that he won’t. Her mother is dead, her father is in jail. As I possessed her with my vengeance, my eyes were fixated on the picture frames on the walls, the noble murderer smiling, smirking next to his dead wife and his now-violated daughter.
I can still smell her body and her hair. I can still feel the thrusts. First thrust, second thrust. By the third thrust you start to find some pacifying sanity. This is the way the world spins and it will never spin the other way. Twentieth thrust and you find pleasure in the blood on your skin, the explosion of cum and smell of shit in the room. You zip-up, leaving the victim on the bed, still like a cold candle-stick, a monument of your perfect holy act, the performance art museum of your own artistic vision, and you know deep inside that you have reached full circle now.
There is no love in this.