The warm welcome to my life would soon turn lukewarm if my sister would stop being so befuddled that I had arisen from my coma.
While it certainly must have been quite the shock, one must not forget about the soup, the still slightly warm soup.
A rumbling tummy ain’t so funny.
To my absolute surprise, she did just that. Shook herself a bit and then went about doing her thing as if this was an everyday occurrence… her hands moved to the ground aiming directly at the dropped tool.
…Wait a gosh darn minute. Why was she picking up the spoon again as if nothing had happened?
LADY THINK OF THE GERMS, THINK OF THE GERMS!!!!
Yet, culture was appropriated, as a mass immigration of foreign actors was crossing lignum borders and occupying its territories. Spicing the age-old fad up, giving the dipper the acronym health code violation fade.
Submerged in the brown, bubbly liquid, the wooden spoon changed its nationality to germ-many. Had it not done so prior, then it certainly had now.
As bad as such wordplay might have been, it still was more appealing compared to the soup/broth/concoction before my eyes. Were it capable of speech, it would beg to be released from its thickened, mortal coil.
There was more life in it, than in any other being in the room.
Talk about being pro-lif…
Either I am suffering severe hallucinations, or there really was just an eye floating in there? Did it just nudge at me?
It does seem feasible to an extent…no doubt about it: If one did not know any better, one might see this as a prop designed to make squeamish viewers hurl, straight out of a horror movie. The type of food that a serial killer would serve the daughter to her mother as..
In good taste, I can say this meal in front of me was not family-friendly.
Well, one might ask why exactly I would pay so much attention to it, should it be extremely bad─it was a desperate attempt to distract myself from the very thing currently homing in on my mouth.
For one, I was still emotionally invested in filling the stomach running on empty, just something about my lifelong commitment to not starve to death.
And what “soup” may be or whatever it may contain, I certainly have been made to eat it before in my 9 years of brain activity absence.
A logical train of thought, which just made the foreboding event not any easier on myself. I’d kill for food, the food would kill too.
With its consumption, you would certainly be on cloud 9, in the most literal, cataclysm, horns of Jericho resounding sense of the word.
There were just two itsy-bitsy, teenie-weenie, tiny, little problems here…
No way to move and no way to say no.
Which brings up to this point in time, of my final moments on this plane of existence ruminating demise at the hands of potential food poisoning.
Cause of death: superior soup suicide.
Hovered atop my head and I wondered if I’d want that as my epitaph. Funeral proceedings would go exceptionally smoothly that much seems more than certain.
The bell of death tolled, to collect what it was due.
No mercy was shown, in a moment of carelessness, another contaminated soup similar object was thrust down my throat.
The heart beat wildly, the pulse quickened and my fate was begrudgingly swallowed.
.
.
Ladies and Gentleman, with great pride I must announce: We have survived.
The sister in question did not ponder, wonder nor stop at the survival yonder. Grown fonder of uniquely-vibed soup, more goop was shoved up the food chute.
With a steady source of food supply secured, it was time to fulfil a lifelong dream of mine─becoming one of those snippy food critics. This obsession was born a few moments prior once my eyes had laid witness to the monstrosity currently sustaining my life…though let's not dwell on the details, that would ruin the immersion and just leave a bitter aftertaste on this glib tongue, a death sentence for my future career.
The humble beginnings of an epicure:
The taste wasn’t even bad. I had been expecting to see the reaper right about now, so, it was a pleasant surprise to just find a lack of salt to be the problem.
Don’t get me wrong the visual would still make a grisly murder seem easier to digest. The rest, however… Flavour? Oh, no! Spices ain’t the memo. Taste was so-so. The tongue─KO. Taste buds, now John Doe. Bro, what a bozo, totally ruined the mojo.
Though, check the flow, consistency is just a show. Quite the blow, it flows so slow-ly. The soup was extra thick, and lowly, and totally not containing a million, unholy, little pieces of barely edible, E. coli.
E. coli, holy moly; my rhyme scheme was as clean as the spoon.
This infested tool needed to be incinerated on the spot and its ashes thrown into an unmarked grave. This horror should never be repeated.
Talk about burying the ladle, huh? Why exactly was the reaction of my sister mellow to such an extent?
I might not have been crucified, risen from the dead, had 12 apostles, or been nailed even once, but I still woke up from a coma lasting multiple years. There should be some form of cultural importance to an event as such.
I refuse to believe that this kind of scenario is not a rarity.
Let me run my imagination wild for a bit:
Overzealous intern neuron 1 entered the office, beads of sweat forming upon its imagined face. It fidgeted its illusionary thumbs, clearly nervous at the prospect of performing its obligatory duties in the confines of my mind.
With a deep auditory, acoustic hallucination, a proverbial sigh, escaping through its mouth, it gathered the attention from the other 2 neurons involved in this play, who were chattering in front of the coffee machine, the lifeblood of every office worker.
Neuron 2 shot Nr 1 a glare of disapproval.
It had been here since the dawn of this brain conception. It had seen the great uprising of cognitive dissociation, been present when the host was thrown into another world. Watched the bloodshed and battles that followed thereafter.
The lies, the manipulation, the 9 years of ‘hibernation’...
And this intern was daring enough to interrupt their neat little talk about the future?
“Eh, w-w-w-where is Steve, he was supposed to take over my shift,” with a stammer it sank its envisioned head towards the neuronal network carpet floor, not daring to look at the superiors it had just rudely interrupted.
“He was supposed to fix this confusion…” muttered Nr 1 barely audible into the room. The transmitter of the request, inches away from collapsing into a neutron from sheer anxiety.
“Steve, as in the ‘Steve’ that likes to solve everything with wanton violence?” Nr 2 inquired, eyes beaming with disapprovement.
“That Steve…” he continued..“...is currently in a coma. He usually is like that, so pay it no mind.”
“The working environment is better off without him anyhow,” added the third Neuron, holding up a sign stating the message.
Not much was known about it, one just knew for certain it meant trouble. The famed snake lusting after my Adam’s apple.
The 2 senior neurons snickered at the last remark made. The intern just ran off crying, incapable of enduring the pressure.
A jarring squeak plays in the background
With time it would certainly turn into a formidable worker, Nr 2 was sure of that.
Distant footsteps, travel faster.
The smile on Neuron Nr 2 faded as it turned its attention to Number 3…an unprecedented seriousness etched into its real face.
A woman’s scream resounded close by.
“It has been a while indeed…” the tone, a warning… “May our cooperation prove more beneficial, this time around!”
Both of them eyed each other, before nodding with a satisfied grin.
Next on the agenda…before I could spell antiestablishmentarianism my little trip came to a sudden end. Reality was brought to you by a woman, never seen prior, shaking the flesh akin to a half-empty bottle of ketchup.
A bit more and red would come splurging out.
The perpetrator of using my precious body as a shake weight should be called ‘mother’ by my estimations and judging by her similarity to Aschenputtel, the foetal alcohol poisoning poster child version.
Autumn hair, a kind complexion, a deep worry and shock etched into it. Her body appeared neither too small nor too big for a person of her age, were one to judge it based on earthen convention.
Judging by this world, the words became: less closer to death compared to me.
The general appearance should be seen as a much, much healthier version of her spawn. One did not need a doctorate to determine the appearances to be not all too deceiving.
Yet, I am not one to judge her based on artificial standards about subjective understanding of beauty, I mainly want to praise for something else…
Finally, someone with common sense.
Yes, at long last there was some acting like one could expect a normal human being. It filled me with the greatest of pride to not be surrounded by people deserving of padded walls and a straitjacket.
My coming as a salt shaker was accompanied by panicked screaming in a language sounding a little bit too outlandish.
The language barrier did bar me from fully understanding my surroundings, but also did not deter me from enjoying the lack of responsibility that followed the usual conversation.
There was a great amount of fun in just laying words in their mouth and making up a scenario on the spot.
This time mother was complaining about me sleeping in and being a waste of air.
An illusion only destroyed by my sister patiently waiting for her turn to stuff more soup into my mouth.
So the only adult present continued to verbalise some words in a rather loud fashion. Those reverberated through the wooden room and invoked the opposite sensation of calm and serenity.
Turns out my three stooges were in the wrong: A coma was not a normal thing.
What a beautiful, heartwarming situation…a powerful depiction of human grief and shock…By now I was ready for a new development.
Moments like these might truly never get old, neither did my sister and I, so any fancy emotional set-ups are best enjoyed in short intervals.
If I am not asking too much lady, would you kindly hasten your emotional realisation of my lowly self still being very much alive─should one take some creative liberties with the definition of the term “alive” that is.
Not that she did mind that distinction. She was programmed to like this vessel with all of her heart and more given all the body fluid escaping through her tear ducts.
Some more screaming and ugly crying followed.
One question arose given all the drama I was surrounded by. What exactly was the father figure of this household doing? The whole house must hear the verbal representation of the world ending. This woman here portrayed the actual sounds of a sow being slaughtered, dubbing it language.
By chance, was he dead? Or did he leave her to fend for herself? Were one to judge by the sound she produces, I can not fault him. Any man might feel inclined to follow the call of dairy products under such circumstances.
Flung open was the door and in came Captain XY with the grace of a dying swan. Nearly falling over and inches away from imprinting his visage onto the floor.
Strong legs, burly arms, broad shoulders, the definition of manly, manly man.
Spread across his contours was a trail of snot, oozing out that pure masculine energy. Puffy eyes and flushed red cheeks portrayed the ideal, male role model. This was the epitome of the manly dream: The face of a man, who had been cutting onions for the last 25 years of their life.
It was made obvious…the mother was the less sentimental one in the relationship.
All power to him and his battle against toxic masculinity. Those acts deemed effeminate by society did not make him any less a man in my eyes.
One would need to regard him as a human to begin with. Applying human standards to these cheap, carbon copies was a waste of everyone’s time.
Let the guy cry all he wanted to, I do not care.
But, ya know, I did want to see more emotions and this just repeats over and over again. I woke up from a coma, you guys are happy and shocked…we get it by now.
The promised purity Logos offered to me, merely advocated for purity rings, and one certainly knew how long that kind of promised purity held on. I can only hope its backdoor will not be as dry.
Loving parents belonged to the normal people. To know their value and be appreciative of it, I would have to know the bad people by heart. No, these people were too good for me.
One ought to make the most of it, even if that means accepting the flood of tears produced by a father and a mother…
Better times would follow. Times, which did not involve ubiquitous amounts of tears, would mark a great start.
For now, however, it was just spectating a middle-aged man running at me and my mother at Mach 9. As a result, the embrace offered a little too much inertia. Consequently, the poor coma patient received a tiny dosage of whiplash free of charge.
The dynamic duo of blue, salty liquid did their best to drown me in a sea of the sad juice…making me yearn for more of the unappealing soup, at least that had nutritional value upon consumption.
The sister in question did simply wait for her cue to feed me more of the food…which could not come soon enough.
It was part of her charm, this simplemindedness was way too endearing. Not in the way that was illegal in many countries of Planet Earth, mind you. It was more the adorable charm of a golden retriever puppy running headfirst into a wall over and over again, incapable of realising what it was doing.
That was my sweet, sweet sister.
By now, I had grown tired of all the crying and all the emotional outbursts. Could a coma not come again and claim my body for like a month or so?
It’d be swell, if we can just skip the whole emotional ruckus and return when everyone has calmed down.
Of course, these things never happen when one needs them the most. Only at the most inconvenient of times do they come out of hiding to ruin your day. They were the ninjas of making things indiscriminately worse.
Enough of this, to think I’ve been forced to use my secret technique here.
Time to hyperventilate…
Time sure flies, huh? How long has it been since I have last intoned it? Nostalgia remained quite the drug, let’s see if I still know the lyrics by heart.
If everything in your life goes wrong…think of the hyperventilation song.
Hear the melody that lulls to sleep, to start one does not count sheep.
It goes like this: Hold your breath, you do not have to fake your death.
Simply count in your head and a nice long sleep you shall get.
One, two, three and four hold it some more
Five, Six, seven, eight nighty, night never too late
Nine, ten, nine ten, what comes then, what comes then?
Miss Meier never taught us how to count higher…
The mind of a bored 5-year-old rich kid remains something, huh?
Now breathe fast, it should not last
Be quicker, think of your favourite superhero sticker
Fast, fast, fast otherwise you will live in your past
Be quick and quicker, so that you may never be sicker.
One, two, three and four hold it some more
Five, Six, seven, eight nighty, night never too late
Nine, ten, nine ten, what comes then, what comes then?
Miss Meier never taught us how to count higher...
I close my eyes, in hurry, what I see is blurry.
I shut my ear, what is heard, is not clear
There is darkness it calls to me, what will it be?
There is peace, I need yet I bleed.
Darkness, darkness…have my soul…
——————————————————
Still. Distant
Silence. Here
Calm. Serene. Always
A disturbance. A noise. A voice.
Noisy. Restless. Temporary
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
An interference. An irregularity. An articulation
Confused. Displaced. Unreal.
Still. Disant
Still. There
An echo. A reverberation. Another.
Murmur. Whisper. Susurration.
.
Now. Present. Unpleasant.
“To See…” “To see…” to see”
Syllables. Words. Why?
“..see..” “..see…”.
Foreign. Strange. Distant.
Far Away. Removed.
“ I wish…” What is? “...to…” No purpose
no reason.
Just is. Weird isn't? No sense. “...see…”
Hearing some voice. Hearing these things. It's weird, it's weird. It's weird.
What is going…on, what is happening? What am I…thinking?
“...her this makes no sense, the hell is, see this?
… am I asleep or was my subconscious subconsciously trying to win a trip to the straitjacket paradise?”
Can one not even enjoy some levels of privacy in the realm of the unconscious?
Guess a rambling incoherent voice spouting nonsense should have been on my bingo card. Something new to spice this new life up.
Slowly pried my eyes open, barely; blurry the vision as reality kicked me in the petite Peter. Groggy the head, rivalling the stability of a drunk sailor’s steady gait back home at 4 O’clock in the morn’ hours from the local pub.
I was not exactly spewing wit, at the moment the inclination was more about spewing something else from an orifice.
Many other unsavoury comparisons came to mind, since this piece of second-hand meat felt like it had been double-teamed by the rails and the train…for obvious reasons, I would not go below the belt─I am a Homo Sapiens, not a Homo Erectus.
Soft breathing blessed my ears, a heavenly tune, a far cry from the elapsed farther father crying.
A blurred silhouette fidgeted its thumbs, sat in wait, reacting little to my growing awareness. Close by was a container, in its most useful state, empty, emptied were its contents, contentment delivered to the stomach to stomach those.
What purpose the continued presence of my sister served remained ubiquitous.
Misses 2 out of 10 fingers here was still a more welcome guest than the rest of the tear factory gang. One did not need parental care to assault the ears.
Yet, the current sense of serene silence brought about a false sense of security.
My slip into the realm of lessened brain activity was to deliver upon me a situation much worse than a mere crying father and mother. It was not a destined event, more akin to a hunch, a feeling emerging from the deepest part of my bones, a shiver haunting down my spine.
Less so was it a feeling, more so a certainty as the door swung open and 2 elderly burst through the door garbed in cloaks so intensely white, it could not stay in the sun for long periods of time.
These lovely ladies shared the skin tone of freshly squeezed cow juice and their skin looked like said milk had been left in the sun for about 80 years.
Milkbag 1 here, let’s dub her Karen, appeared like a carton of milk with missing children's faces imprinted on top of it. Merely that those kids were living in her basement.
With a nose crooked to such an extent, poor Hansel was to be fattened up and thrown into the oven.
Her given name grew fitting once one considered the entirety of their face. Blond hair, cold, bossy, auburn eyes looking down onto me. Deep ridges, telling of a happiness-deprived life, foundered amongst the scowls, the sunken in jowls, the sharp drawn crows feet.
Milkbag 2 here differed vastly from the Karen archetype. Were one to describe her, one would link her to the milk bought in a gas station.
Despite questionable contents and dodgy preservation measures, one had the fondest memory of childhood when looking at her.
Unlike her counterpart, her warm complexion exuded more warmth than just her body heat. The blue iris evoked a sense of intimacy, a feeling of innocence─and then she’d open her mouth talking in the sweetest, most innocuous tone a human being could muster to spew some rhetoric about how the immigrants are ruining the country.
Cheeks clad in a touch of roseate, droopy eyes, and a soft resting smile, formed her impish charm. The doting grandmother's appearance belied her poisonous tongue.
Deep in conversation, the two 'young' ladies, near expiration date, full of dwindling joie de vivre, were chattering.
Kelly, and knavish Karen here oozed out the unique temperament formed by the latter’s indomitable will to speak right.
Phonetically the latter’s took on a different meaning entirely─one that I did not understand, since the language was something, which Neuron 3 refused to translate.
Old Latin summons a demon, this one summons the spirit of reading the terms and conditions in lawyer speak.
Next came geriatric of the month Numero 3, Kevin, parents in tow. Their talk, a silent exchange of heavy glances, drew deep worry across their countenances. Lively as funeral proceedings were, as moving as a fish out of water was.
The mummy accompanying my programmed parents bore a striking resemblance to a famous CEO I knew back on Earth. Upstanding guy, if he deemed you a person of good merit.
If you didn’t? Tough luck, better luck in the next life.
A face, a mask, an ambivalent smile that never betrayed his true intentions, eyes that discerned, but eyes which never lied, that was Kevin, that was the CEO. A friend, a father, an entrepreneur, a failure.
Kindness in folds, assumption buried in gumption, good intentions buried in rotten insides─less hair, less flair, rounder the face, less need for affirming one’s place…
A blast from the past, huh? It is better I stop, before I’ve jeremiad right into my pants again.
To sum up, the appearance of said businessman reincarnated into another world: The caricatured evil villain, twirling his moustache, if he aged poorly and had no moustache.
Painful seconds of unsolicited, unwarranted pity parade elapsed. The dynamic duo with offspring-producing capabilities provided an affirmative nod toward the nearly dead man walking.
Reciprocating said the gesture prompted the other 3 foreign individuals with a little too much Snow White critical race theory esprit to remove themselves from the vicinity.
A low discussion followed, once they disappeared from the field of view.
My parental figures stepped forward and placed themselves beside the helm of my bed.
Their indication to solemnly support me in these dire times made abundantly clear. They stood by my side, merely lacking a clear definition of what made these times so.
Amongst the myriad of health concerns none warranted such a response; beset by soup any ailment turned secondary concern.
The sister, none the wiser than I, resumed her bidding. Activities of such excitement that I find it hard to name them. The merit in her scope of actions was indeed─quite limited─even surpassing my understanding, eyeing myself with such non-commitment, posed an achievement bordering on the limits of human cognition.
Meanwhile, the discussion outside was in full swing.
Its content was certainly of interest to me, its speculative nature inherent to it made any intellectual investment, akin to cryptocurrency: volatile and ‘to the moon.’
My patience and creative cinder had burned out keeping the flames of mind at bay. A short later, a call was leveraged…any index pointed this comparison to go absolutely nowhere…same for the talking point being dissected by the talkative.
The illustrious, paradoxical Achilles, at last, caught up to its adversary the tortoise─an apt comparison to depict how much time has been spent waiting for the discussion to come to an end.
My psyche was tinted in eigengrau. Silence and inactivity, the greatest lorem ipsum I could ‘er asked for.
The namesake’s keepsake of mine was hit.
Ya know, what the shoulder blade was to Siegfried, the eyes to Esfandiyār, the thighs to Duryodhana, the hair to Samson…forget it, the list went on, but my patience was runnin’ thin.
What all these figures shared was not the common theme of stabbing outside their home, or stepping into a knife, a sentiment I very much shared at this very moment.
These fine gentlemen were all dead because people could not keep their mouths
shut. Subverted expectations did not apply to these 3 fossils, they were very much alive.
May I advocate for senicide, an ättestupa mayhaps?
Let the creepy uncle here show you a true cliffhanger.
Before we jump to conclusions, or death, let us just presume that our relationship was off to a rocky start. You have to understand... I only want the best for you, my endearing, breathing, cancer factories. You've been here since the invention of the fire. A permanent retirement is what's best for everyone.
Ashes to ashes, as they do say.
Do cut your telomeres some slack and swing that diabetes foot right into the grave with the other.
That's one small step for man, one giant leap for ageism.
Yet the old specimen had no inclination to reach for the stars in the most literal sense and would rather moon me directly. That kind of crater landscape would orbit me through all the tides and ebbs of life.
Quelle surprise, nada came to be.
And so it was, and would ever be, the tragedy of pa’s pa’s paternal night’s ecstasy. Herbs, salts and liquor, they just preserve the human hide, why not just use formaldehyde?
I will put you guys into the ground.
So, my future grave robber targets, go on... Talk as you have always done. I'm sure that will never come to hurt you.
So come on, my little catatonics. Do show me how many words you have left... or don’t. I can only promise your ending will not be as pretty as I am—and this face speaks for itself.
…it appeared that a higher power had taken note of my increasing desperation to creatively describe the absolute boredom I was faced with.
Against all possible odds the old-timers had run out of things to say. A simultaneous stroke of luck, might also have given their heart a stroke.
Anyhow, finally something was about to happen.
It was a pleasure to hear firm footsteps coming closer as my mind prepared to go on a vacation and just watch the holiday special from afar. The footfall was close.
Action, you shall commence!
The triumvirate of senile senescence stepped over the threshold with utter ease, no pointy hat was needed to exude the swagger of mixing BBQ and lynching.
Kevin, Kelly and Karen approached my bed with a slow and dignified pace. In their arms, not the usual burning torch, a healthy arrangement of fresh veggies was carried toward the unhealthy, spoiled vegetable.
My parents and sister, that useless protozoa made way for the arrival of edible food.
A bit too ceremonial for my taste, but if the lack of customs meant more soup then you have me converted to the religion of Eating your Greens.
To my feet, there stood Karen, eyes fixated on my chest. To my left, Kelly was situated, her right hand pressing down on my shoulder. To my right, Kevin was present, he held the basin filled with important vitamins.
In unison their hands approached one another. Gentle their hands, as their fingers intertwined, forming a link─ a chain of friendship and fanaticism. A sickle-shaped grouping, blessed with happiness not quite fitting for this occasion, eyed me.
They teetered to the left and teetered to the right with gleeful sway, a happy, melodious tune escaping through their mouth.
Off it was. A smile plagued their face, but smile, their eyes did not.
Krazy Karen intoned, a voice old and commanding, orating with almost sermonic flair.
The atmosphere appeared almost sterile. A dissonance distinguished throughout, the detailed opposites blending together. Resulting in a form, disingenuous, bipolar─a mood of a sine curve meeting its mirrored self.
More aptly put it was like I stood in the middle of a scale, all the bad emotions weighing down one side, while the other was holding onto all the positive influences. Yet, I was in limbo, as neither side gave in nor grew any lighter.
Dementia Dan, formerly known as Kewl Kevin, spoke after her, repeating her words in a solemn, downtrodden voice.
Dilatory he continued, blurring the line between falling asleep and respiratory failure.
The enigmatic canon of spoken nonsense resumed─2 micro naps, an appropriate
response from my side.
An unconventional feeding ritual, I must say. But one must swallow this bull manure; the calling of otherworldly vitamins, I shall heed it.
The basin of foreign food changed owners, the praying Karen accepted with a bow most gracious. Given from another guided hand a cheap, copper chalice. Filled it was, with a liquid red.
For it is the ichor of vegetative virility. The blood of our succulent saviour, for they were harvested for our sins.
A sip, she took…in the name of green. Another sip, she took in the name of the lord…another sip she took, another prayer.
Followed a gaze to the sky, appendages shot upwards in jubilee, a genuflection next, the head bounced off the floor in fervent devotion. Head trauma blessed the devotee and paradise was one step closer.
Legs lifted, trembling, body aligned, head moved backwards. A moment of stillness, rigid in her posture, Karen held in, on and off.
Chanting the crowd, sermon slithered, posture breaking, arms were shaking.
Forward shot her head, open was her mouth, a screech escaped her mouth and the water followed through, in my face.
That bit…ter fouling, preaching old-timer.
Ah, you shouldn’t have! You are the very first woman that made me so wet. Can’t help but root for the water to enter your lungs. A dry drowning seems rather befitting in this exchange of pleasantries.
Her fate on my kick-the-bucket list was sealed after she decided to use those leafy legends to grant my face a hint of mint, by smothering.
Counterintuitively, the botanical baptism beatdown occurred to the rhythm of CPR’s anthem, the beat of Stayin’ Alive.
The irony was certainly not lost on me. Partly because the whole room was humming a cheerful song while one particular entity cleansed me as if I were possessed by a malevolent spirit.
Which I would like to comment on: the desire to inflict harm on another being did not need the interference of a demon here; it was very much natural.
Beneath the cover of foliage, few gestures of assumed religious connotations were performed by the perpetrator of pristine, pneumonia-preventative pummeling.
Presumed pauses emerged from pupa to a human water fountain spreading holy saliva across my visage.
Assuredly the treatment continued much to the bewilderment of my 3 neurons.
The fresh taste of iron blessed my tongue, the smell of earth-invoked PTSD, the sound was an ASMR war crime, and I was wondering what part of my brain Logos watched to concoct this kind of “culture”.
Culty chatting and wheezing whispers did drive the point home.
A decision was rashly made.
Whoever interpreted the B in BDSM as bruschetta deserved to have their face rearranged by my fist.
To state that the fibre-rich roughhousing was thoroughly disliked was putting it mildly; I did hate it with every fibre of my being.
The ecological escapade on my face went on and on, making the environmentally unfriendly environment unfriendly.
Approximately 700 soft slaps of the greener grass from the other side later. The old prune Karen should have been done with all hooey of hers. I was just waiting for her to drop a pearl of wisdom before I gut her like an oyster for it.
Even the methed-up elephant in the room saw her as the basket case. Old codger on the other hand was more akin to a gastric ulcer, given how he aged.
Now, uncanny granny decided to spread love all over the body, playing whack-a-mole.
The crunching noises all over my body…were the greens breaking? Or were it my bones, my body?
Impacts reverberated across the landscape of a body now closer to death. The edibles exorcism continued, the demon of the mind exercised its right to not remain silent.
A secret of the universe, it must be─the reason for this act.
And so it was that time passed, my brain incapable of describing more of the process currently unfolding in front of my eyes. Karen did this and that, struck weird poses, spat some more, mumbled some crazy stuff, prayed, gestured, prayed some more.
The rest followed suit; pulling the Heaven’s Gate on Earth cosplay. At this point, I could not be bothered with the intricacies of whatever transpired.
I almost did feel genuine happiness once it was over, after everyone had merrily scooted out of the room. The instrument of torture left behind on my face, obscuring any vision.
One lesson was learned…
…the grass was not greener on the other side, it draped everything into total darkness.