Scars laid upon my heart tear open and bleed, staining my soul. Such is the life of an idiot.
This is the story of the world’s dumbest man.
My scars are from various sources. Love is not always kind, nor is trust. Chief among my complaints, here I beg for forgiveness (I will do better tomorrow), is unreciprocated affection. Do I learn my lesson and move on? Of course not, like a good idiot, I go all in. I trust that all will be well. “Give it time!” Viewing my idiocy on this digital piece of scratch paper, stained by digital ink, my stupidity is frightening.
I must give myself high marks on scoring on the extended scale of stupid.
The blinding glare of the headlamp of my oncoming train reveals just how dumb a man can be. Objects of desire can blind us from all other priorities. We focus on what may be and forget what is. Our hopes are inflated, and our present is deflated. Exactly how many times must one man be told no, before he buys a clue and moves on. Exactly how many scars must he endure before he protects himself?
Danger close, brace for impact.
White light glaring off white walls give the room a sterilized feel to it. Maybe it has to do with the overwhelming smell of bleach. The tall, gangly woman sitting across from me never takes her eyes off me. Her eyes pierce through my hatred of humanity. She reminds me of a crow, or Big Bird.
“What brought you here?”
Her thin lips pull back into a grin which conjures up mental images of a smiling shark, right before taking a bite out of an oblivious surfer. “Oh boy, now I’ve done it.”
“Besides an ambulance?”
“Lady, what do you want me to say? It’s all my fault? Fine, it’s my fault. I am the world’s worst father, an incompetent husband, and a broken man. Are you happy now?”
“You do realize until you pull back the scabs and purge the infection festering in your soul, you will never heal, right?”
What a pretty shade of white.
“I attacked someone.” I motion with my hands to show it’s not a big deal.
She nods her head, her red curls bouncing up and down in excitement. “Why?”
“Seemed like the thing to do at the time.”
“Do you yield to your aggressive nature often? What caused you to snap?”
Combat cocktails, stress, a failing marriage, a lost career….
“No, I don’t yield often. We are all one bad day away from doing something like this.”
“Why did you snap?”
“Stress, anxiety, a desire to be dead but not enough will to carry out my sentence?”
“How do we know you won’t succumb to these triggers in the future?”
“You don’t. You’re gonna have to trust me.”
‘No, I don’t.”
The headlamp of my train is quickly approaching. My only thought is, “maybe it won’t miss this time.”
13 December 2019