Chapter 24: The smell before rain, the blood in my veins.

WARNING: I'm in a semi dark, poetic mood, which normally ends up involving blood and gore, and something you kind of learn about yourself. 


Creative writing, at it's worst. This is going to get weird, people might be a little disgusted by this one. 


It's purely metaphorical, by the way, and it might not make any sense whatsoever.


Princess. Paris. Red Velvet Cupcake. Audi R8. I love you. I'm sorry for all of this. I was the pink frosting.

We lie to ourselves more than we lie to anyone else.

Wal Mart. It's busy, as usual, being mid afternoon on whatever day this is.  You hate going to Wal Mart, or you hate the fact that you have to go there for any reason.  It's a necessary evil.  But, at any rate, you're there.  The parking lot is mostly full, but you pull round front anyway, just at the off chance that a closer spot will pop open.  


You have to stop in front of the door, wait for a lady with too many kids, one of those carts with the toy car cab on the front of it.  Two little boys are pointing their hands at you like pistols and making bang bang noises.  They cross to the other side, and just as you are about to move forward, another group of people crosses from both sides. Annoying.


You would have been inside already, had you just parked on the far side of the lot and started walking. You never learn that lesson. 


You find a spot, get inside. You're looking for a hunting knife, one with a gut hook. Never mind why you need this knife. You probably don't.  It's dark green, powder coated.  Buck, or Remington, or Gerber. Probably five inch blade. 


You're at home now. You have your pretty new knife. You use it for things. You use it for whatever.


Great for cutting meat, but deer hair really dulls a blade fast.  You have to sharpen it several times before finishing an animal. 


You have this bloody knife, sort of dull, in your hand.  You remember what it felt like to stab it into the gut of a deer, recently dispatched. You remember the very pungent odor of the inside of the animal, the smell of the air that is forced out when you cut through the diaphragm. You're up past your elbows inside the animal when  you do this.  


The temperature difference between the sub freezing outside temperature, and the steaming heat inside the deer almost make you feel that your hands are burning.  You can see your breath. 


What would it feel like? You wonder.  To take the knife, and put it into your own stomach. Why would you do that? Why would you even think about that? Do you realize how strange that is, that you're wondering how it would feel to stab yourself in the stomach with a hunting knife? 


You're already wondering. Too late.


Brutal. You stabbed yourself in the stomach.  The pain is unreal. Too real. You get dizzy. It's the most real thing you've ever felt. You're suddenly aware of every part of your body.  


Breathe in, breathe out.  Even that hurts.  Then you tell yourself to just leave it there. It'll be okay. Maybe no one will notice. Maybe it will just go away, just disappear. Maybe this isn't really happening. A glitch in the matrix, or some dumb thing like that. 


 You have to stop lying to yourself, you have to pull it out. You might bleed to death. It might get infected, and you could die that way. 


I really hate to go there, but I'm going there.


Boy meets girl. They fall in love. Everything is supposed to be perfect.  


Everything gets lost.


Jesse figured out how to put it down in words.

If it makes you less sad, I will die by your hand

Hope you find out what you are; already know what I am

And if it makes you less sad, we'll start talking again

You can tell me how vile I already know that I am

I'll grow old, start acting my age

It'll be a brand new day in a life that you hate

A crown of gold, a heart that's harder than stone

And it hurts to hold on, but it's missed when it's gone

If it makes you less sad, I'll move out of this state

You can keep to yourself, I'll keep out of your way

And if it makes you less sad, I'll take your pictures all down

Every picture you paint, I will paint myself out

It's cold as a tomb, and it's dark in your room

When I sneak to your bed to pour salt in your wounds

So call it quits, or get a grip

You say you wanted a solution; you just wanted to be missed

You are calm and reposed

Let your beauty unfold

Pale white, like the skin stretched over your bones

Spring keeps you ever close

You are second-hand smoke

You are so fragile and thin, standing trial for your sins

Holding on to yourself the best you can

You are the smell before rain

You are the blood in my veins

Call me a safe bet, I'm betting I'm not

I'm glad that you can forgive, only hoping as time goes, you can forget

Only, I hope you don't forget. 

I hope you never forget. 

This is my knife. This is my lie. I'm pulling it out, although the infection might kill me, or the loss of blood.  I don't care. I want to live. I'm done hurting, and hurting myself.  

Self deceit

Pride

Foolishness

Selfishness

Childishness

Emotional irresponsibility

Blame

Guilt

I found my knife. I own it. I bought it. I put it there. 

I'll pull it out, and bleed a little, but I'll Live.

And I'll live better than I ever have.

The Oilfield Romantic