Rehosting "God have mercy on us all"
Jul 13, 2019
Three young guys and a girl are sitting in the next cubicle over in the train. Chatting away about politics, gossip. One says he knows exactly how to optimise a business, but he doesn’t know how to start one. I don’t want to hear it. Don’t they know, haven’t they head, that the most beautiful woman in the world is dead?
From now on, everything left in the word is a sacrilege. I wince and cringe at the golden fields flowing gently in the wind. It is perverse. Last night, I saw a deep white fog, covering open green fields as far as the eye could see, underneath a clear blue and starry sky and red, red dusk. I have never seen anything like it. The colours were like a Munch painting come to life. But it wasn’t beautiful. How could it be?
Last night I prayed. I don’t pray. I don’t believe in God. I want to know God, but I don’t. I prayed she would have peace. I asked him to take my rotten soul instead. To forgive her. I cried and clumsily recited the lords prayer from childhood memory. Only realised after the fact that that’s the kind of deals Mephistopheles makes, not God.
I want to hit my Mom. Just a little bit. Not all the time.
It should feel terrible to be in her home. None of us should feel comfortable here. We shouldn’t feel a lot better already and start the healing process. It’s not about us. Think about someone other than yourselves, you maniacs. Mourn. You’re freaking out because you feel that something is more important than how you feel. You feel guilty. We should. We are.
I don’t think it’s your fault. Honestly. But I can tell that you think so, and the more you won’t admit it, the more I get scared that I might change my mind out of pure paranoia. I don’t think it’s your fault. Please don’t make me.
I want to know her suffering. The exact degree. Give it to me straight, doctor. Give it to me in precise negative pleasure-unit count, utilitarian. Give it to me in metaphor, poet. I want to know her suffering. I need to know, I need to know, I need to know. Did she suffer?
Tell me what I want to hear, so I can outsmart you. I know you’re just telling me what I want to hear.
She outlived her family. She lived through a world war. She lived through cancer and poverty and pain and struggle and childbirth and true love. She would have been eighty-nine this summer. If she had not done it, she would have lived forever.
I walk through her garden. Everything is in its proper place. The flowers are blooming. They are beautiful. I’m crying a little. Her neighbour is doing some gardening. We say hello. My condolences. Thank you.
I’m sorry I wasn’t a better grandson. I pray that you found peace. I pray that you didn’t suffer. I am going to make you immortal you stupid bitch. I love you.