Screaming (short story)

I come back from being alone, by myself, where I was. I have left there. Where am I now, the place I used to be, the place I am supposed to be. My home. Yes. Here I am. And what now? To make a life, to be the man I am supposed to be; yes, life has been postponed long enough. Yes. Here we are, at the start, a normal start, a fantastic start, lets fly together, let’s see reality, let’s be that subtle voice that I hope, pray and know is somewhere in all of us.

We go somewhere, to the place that I am. Here we are. Are we ready?






Is that my own voice I hear?

Is that anyone I know?

I casually touch my lips to mouth. Feel their faint glue and know that it is not me screaming. When was the last time I have talked? It has been long, maybe.


Where is it. Is this a vague sense of adrenaline striking my frigid system? I see a girl, young, lying, screaming, with a man on top of her. We are in the middle of a busy street. If the street was alone and this man was on a screaming girl it would be rape. But, all these others. She must be on drugs. Poor angel. Can that be true? Could this sin be capitulating before my vision, before the aghast averted sights of all this multitude? Better to think not. Drugs. Sinner. She deserves her terror. Or so I tell myself; tell myself while secretly reveling; tell myself while I feel a wind in the listless fields of my shadowed mind: this is life happening, something to differentiate today from all other days. Or so I tell myself.

Screaming, screaming, it’s still here, I can hear it! But the women, that screaming nymphet, she has passed long gone, that was days ago, was it even real or even a dream, is this nothing but a color on my subconscious, but I feel it! I feel it! I feel it! Like a slot machine in my mind endlessly looping but never lining up this fucking shriek! Leave here!

What am I supposed to be doing. What am I supposed to be doing. Maybe. I’m trying to start a car but it’s not getting there. All these cars around me and I can’t get mine to start. Are they looking at me! Stop looking at me! Stop it, I’m better then all of you! Look at me, look at me, mortals, losers, I fly, you drive in your stupid little cars but I have wings and I’m flying all over you and you are nothing, little ants in my quickly rescinding vision, ignored as I stare to the heavens, but in my heart, yes, my true heart, all I feel is fear of falling and the enormous work it is to stay aloft. To stay flying. And now, that I am here at heaven, horribly, what would a fall feel like. This height has given me momentum in a direction dangerous. Horrible. Where am I. Screaming. Where is it.


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