Storms Much Stronger and Other Woes Read online

as of now, “he” and I are one in the same.

  My furniture must get inverted. All electronics are to be inoperable. All unneeded amenities shall be banished.

  I begin in the living room, turning my sofa and love seat upside-down. I lift the television set- turn that as well, then I relieve it from its’ power source. The stand that once supported it, now rest on top of the set. I victimize an end table as well, depriving it of practical application. Now I rest for a bit on a flimsy sheet of black fabric that lines the bottom of my sofa as I stare at an inoperable black box that once presented flashing pictures. I will put a baseball bat through that blank screen. I shall; I will. Not before more pacing. I’m gaining insight and taking requests.

  Damn. Those curtains hinder sunlight, but the luminous rays still shine on red patterns in the drapes making them glow- it is quite bothersome. Perhaps I should change sleeping habits so I need not be bothered by unwelcome brightness. Not flowers or birds nor clouds or love can rival the charm of the untouchable stars and absolute silence; I feel compelled to contrast and obliged to iterate.

  I suppose I should offer some background on how I arrived in this setting- this two bedroom fit for a peasant. I moved here out of disgust; disgust for the social aspects of life and the excessive consumerism I began to noticed in suburbia. These “privileges” are unneeded, yet many can’t live without. However, when the person closest to you, the one you share your goals, dreams, and fears with is yourself, getting flighty and moving to the middle of nowhere is a wish granted. Now if I could just remember where I put that baseball bat.

  I am tearing my home apart. I punch through walls searching for the bat. Of course, a baseball bat would not be hidden in the walls, and I assume you know this. So why am I searching in such unreasonable places? Your guess is as good as mine. Those drawers will look better on fire. On a different note, the telephone that hangs on the wall and interrupts me when I try to think must find it’s way through a window. Much hostility has arisen since I settled in Camino. This house feels like more than just a place to rest. In fact, I haven’t rested since my arrival, so what this house feels like is not what it should and therefore I need... Ah ha! I put in the corner of my bedroom right near the bed. The subject of that preposition was the baseball bat.

  Before heading toward my bedroom, I pull at the telephone. I rip it from its’ place on the wall, and then I hurl it through my kitchen window. I should have rented. My steps feel mechanical, as if I am not stepping at all. It is as if I am host to some relentless stepping parasite. I step so much that I acquire a steel baseball bat. Then, I step some more so as to put it through the television screen. Television screens don’t shatter- the glass is tempered. I was previously unaware of this.

  You would think, with the renewal that Spring brings ‘round, that I would be out enjoying the comfort of the warm air that has been absent for a Winter. You would think; you’d be wrong. I am far away from the bustle of suburbia, many miles from anything but a bar and a full-service fuel station. I do not feel the least bit alone.

  I know that in ten years I will not see the world as I do now. A sense of urgency comes over me. I must continue my education in the only way I know. If I do not confront all that moves forward on the day that it does then I may never confront it. I attend instinctual self-reflection meetings that occur solely within my thick, protective skull. My mind is racing in a way that I cannot properly express. I feel an overwhelming flight of ideas, as thoughts move so quickly that my body cannot keep up. Fortunately, I have put down the bat.

  Midnight strikes and I’m as awake as ever. Destructive mannerisms restrain, now I’m all enlightenment. Furiously, I read books on everything from cooking to how to perform a cesarean section. How did I acquire these books? By now, you’ve learned that a medium sum of my questions do not have answers; this inquiry indifferent infinite.

  After three days sleep deprived, it becomes very difficult to distinguish reality from rapid eye movement’s sweet fiction. The black lining of the overturned couch supports my poise once more.

  I ask myself, why do we walk when running is more productive? Why do we stay in homes when the world is outside of them? I assume it asserts the basic need for shelter, however it asserts it aggressively. I would not be in the situation I am in, in the condition I am in, if that were untrue. However, I am the child of a society reinforcing compliance, clinging to the idea that what’s good for a goose is good ‘cause it flatters. In such a place, one is forced to make their own obstacles whether in mind or matter. I have chosen mind, so with this choice I disassemble myself. Every facet of my existence shall be pulled forward before my stay concludes.

  My past actions have a direct effect on my present emotions. While I may have spent the required time in primary school, I never once assumed that I would get anything out of it. While I may have made good friends, I never once kept them around had I not assumed I would get something out of it. This made me, a borderline narcissist, rely on myself as both the primary source of knowledge and empathy.

  I detect some of that violent thinking is near ready to breathe some more. You must understand that I do not approve of this sort of behavior, not for a moment.

  I pass my refrigerator. This was a difficult object to invert. It sits shamefully molested in the same place at which it once functioned. I make it past the stove. This appliance suffered unfortunate damage in the turning process, so I take meager steps between pieces of coil and tin that litter the entry to the hallway ahead.

  As I push open a cheap and stubborn door, I run my hand along an adjacent wall and feel for the light-switch. I turn on the shower. I step out for a moment. Upon return, I notice clouds of steam rolling through the bathroom door with haste. They move like fog skimming the surface of a lake on a temperate, April morning. I push the door open wearily- for why? I haven’t the slightest. As I step awkwardly, I keep my eyes on the floor. I watch as the hot steam consumes my legs. I can hardly breathe. There is a separation, or a bare spot in front of the mirror. It is completely clear in this one area, while everything else is hazed out by vapors in the air. It looks most unnatural. I stare at the mirror. Words have been written between the precipitations. An immediate rush hits my body followed by the feeling of being incredibly cold and incredibly vulnerable. “HELLO HEATH” it says. Hello mirror. You have written to me, but for why? Is it unreasonable to speak heart-fully to an inanimate object, why yes it is; Mirror, why do you threaten me?

  By now I am too entranced to take a shower. I turn off the water, and as I do this I hear a scream. A high-pitched yell or a howl- I can’t be certain which one. My right hand shakes as I pull it off the shower knob. A sinking feeling overwhelms me and the scream encores in my mind long after it has hushed. It came from the room with brown walls. This I am sure of.

  Oh good sword in the lord, I am overcome. I am at the whim of a home that seems to have stepped on my troubled soul. I am at its’ mercy; I fear it will show none. I’m wishing I could undo what has just happened to me, since I feel normalcy slipping away already. I step on the coil and tin that lie pitifully at the entry to the kitchen. I begin pulling out kitchen drawers. I empty the contents of each one that I remove from shoddy woodwork. Once I empty a drawer, I smash it against the floor. I repeat the process eight times. Intermittently, I kick and curse at the, now unusable, drawers.

  I grab two pieces of wood from my new scrap wood pile. Each about half a meter in length. I arrange them into the shape of a holy cross. I pick up the pieces, taking care not to askew them from the design I’ve made. I carry them into the room where I heard howling or screaming. I place it in the center of the room and start screaming at the wall. Two can play this game. Then, I hear that noise again. Now, I am certain that it was a scream. It comes from the bathroom this time. I rush out of the room with beige walls and jump over coil and tin. My hands on either side of the bathroom-door’s frame supports my aggressive stance. “YOU THINK GOD DOES NOT APPROVE OF ME?” is writte
n on the mirror. The words fade slowly. I do not move until they fade fully.

  My kitchen and living room look burglarized. My bathroom is fucking scaring me, and I will not step into the room with beige walls until morning comes; until it’s light outside. I spend fifteen minutes pacing. I am as disconnected from my body now as ever. My thoughts, chiefly perceiving the events unfolded, were all that I was. I could not tell you what I’m doing or why I’m doing it at this moment, on this day. I can drag you along and take breaks to iterate, but at this juncture I cannot properly explicate my position. My left wrist hurts. I look down at it. The word “NO”, followed by a question mark has been inscribed on my wrist. I don’t seem to remember doing this, however I have been absent from self for a while. My blood is bolding the vicious text. A sense of being evil comes over me. I cannot properly explicate my position.

  I sit at the end of my bed. My repose is limited to the support offered by strips of wood since, you know, it’s upside down. I’m staring at my wrist and I’m wondering, why is there a question mark rather than an exclamation point? This mutilation looks like a product of anger. The