The Writings Of Jamas Mansfield
The mutilations began at about age five. Mostly just minor cuts and bruises. But they relieved the pain they caused. Always was asked if I had been in a fight and I said yes. I unscrew the top off my pop and take a sip. I twirl the top back on so no bugs get in. Sexual urges came quicxkly. The puppy love spread in class. I was already mounting the bitches in my mind during third grade. The mutilations continued. Once I was caught in the closet unconscious with blood here and there. I wke laughing to the horrified face that stared at me. Quite amusing. They walk by. They walk by. They walk by. I stare . . . . The mutilations become better, like wine with age. But every good wine turns to vinegar. I unscrew the top of the bottle. repeat. After a while, say a year or two, would wake up sweating and see blood. Like little crimson polka dots on my flesh. The blood crept through the pores of my body to escape. I cut myself to lessen their burden. I'm nice like that. I look back and forth. One eye is going blind. The bloodletting continued as a relief for quite some time. I even thought of joining a carny. I can just hear the barker now, "Step right up folks, see the bleeding boy." People are itnerested in that type of thing, if they only don't have to live with it.
As a child I feared that my aunt would give birth to rats, which eventually she did. the first was thin and undernourished. It had little to no chance. It was named weakness. The second was the rotten one, a real bad egg. It was named outsider. The third was largely overweight and sluggish with soft hair. It was named glutton. The fourth was also weak but babied. it was named faggot.
Soon only blood and flayed carcasses fell from her gaping sore. But the incessant breeding progressed, or regressed, if truth be known, so she was bound to shit out something breathing. The next rat had problems: the hips not meeting the femurs, great amounts of anestethic fogged its mind. It was named ignorance. Once again blood and wasted flesh flowed until the last offering arrived. This one had real complications. Bits of legs, just bits; an endless fever; sweet angelic face with blonde curls. He was a cherub in pain. His big soft eyes look up to yours to only unfocusedly sweet pity. I've grown up to discover that these rats are children and that their parents are the true vermin.
A crack and a flop, and everything goes numb. I like it when everything goes numb. I feel light and airy like a bird has lifted me up into the air. I like birds. I think they like me. When they fly by they say "hello" and I say hello back. They would smile at me if they could. I would like it if they smiled at me so they do and I smile back. They're very friendly, these birds. When they are on the ground, they don't mind if I walk up to them. They don't let me pet them though. That's too close. I don't like it when people get too close to me either. That's why I like birds. If I can't get close to them then they won't get close to me. Mom says they carry disease but I say they can't; they can barely carry twigs. So I help them carry bigger branches. I pile them on their backs.
To ______ and ________.
I want you both to burn in Hell. Not the chocolate coated, funny, wierd hell full of dead rock stars and chummy devils, but the real Hell. The real Hell that spews of sickness and disease. Much like yourselves. Where fire burns with the intensity of countless suns but offers no light. You will be in the same darkness I am in now. I cannot have anything now and neither will you when you get there. Do you know what happens there? People like you are gnawed to bits by animals and insects and hellish(no pun) demons and then eaten and shit back out; over and over again. The sheer pain of the heat is enough torture but more happens. You are unable to do anything about your torturing. But the worst part is(no this isn't the worst part) you have each other and everyone else there for eternity to hate each other as much as I hate you now. Now here's the worst part: as this goes on you will be constantly reminded how easy it would have been to have not gone there.
The Printwork of AR
Cover image by Ego Plum
clipart, manipulations, editor--AR
co-editor, creator--Grant Hawkins