A Serious Question #2

Lashing out is easy.

The pain and shame of losing your name to an adversarial game of blame, trepid fuel of the wretched sets our world aflame.

But what if I, was the problem the whole time?

That’s when the ground will open wide, the tide of a thousand lies you helped abide, consumes you. So, you hide behind the landslide of nitrous-oxide, the only way you can still breathe.

Yeah, so what if I, was the problem the whole time?

A sublime bind of misery’s line, begrimes the climb to anything real. Easy to die and easy to cry, easy to fault the man to your left for living where the sun shines, while you feign war-time-crimes; a pantomime that’s blind.

Maybe, the whole time, I was the problem; stepping up is hard.

Strength isn’t easy.

Writer’s Response 9/3/17

Question: What kind of music, artists, or audio-recordings do you listen to while writing? What gets you in the right head-space? Is it different for different types of write/genre’s? Does music distract you, do you prefer silence?

Most of my recent writing has been narrative-focused. So a mix-bag of descriptive poetry, short-stories, and my novella. A lot of times I’ll switch up the tone of feel of the music based on the emotions I need to convey. For instance, for action oriented sequences, I’ve found my more traditional metal to be really helpful.

One album in particular has been extremely conducive to my writing over the past three weeks. “Dystopian Fiction” by The Aviators. 

One of the singles off the album can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f52mI1YHp-k

The consistent Gothic, melancholy, conceptual, and relaxing vibe of the album has been perfect for much of my recent content, which deals with a lot of complex emotional and psychological intricacies. I find it to help my writing achieve a better balance while still flowing. Sometimes I hear things in the lyrics too, things that give me ideas, inspire me, or synergize with the concept I’m trying to convey.

For me, it’s been really important to get in the right head-space to write. I have a specific area I go to do it, I plan ahead to get the right cadence with music, and I usually avoid distractions like FaceBook or meals (the skipping meals thing isn’t always helpful, it’s more by accident).

Let me know if there are any bands, artists, or compositions you find really conducive to your work! I’d love to check it out, maybe it can help me with my work.

Daily Blog: 9/3/17

Start at the beginning: https://bluebeard-art.com/2017/08/27/daily-blog-82717/

Previous chapter: https://bluebeard-art.com/2017/09/02/daily-blog-9217/

 

Happy memorial-day weekend everybody!

*Explicit language and brief torture/violent scenes.

VII

Present Day-Silgan

 

Lethargically, Silgan walked to the observation window closest to the technician. He felt empty, helpless, as Alex walked through the door. “Who are you? Where am I?” Nessa asked, frantically trying to get a look at Alex. Her voice echoed clearly through the observance PA system. She had short-cropped black hair and wore a yellow tank top with a cartoon mouse Silgan didn’t recognize printed on the front. She wore loose, black pants, and had no socks on. She’s too young…this isn’t fair.

Red welts branded her wrists, neck, and ankles; where she was strapped down to what appeared to be an old psych ward apparatus. “Please help me! I don’t know why I’m here…Please!” Alex, ignoring her, pulled the metal table within her view and set down his toolbox. “What is that, si…sir please don’t hurt me.”

Alex paused, slowly looking up to meet her gaze, and said, “I don’t have to hurt you, but I will if you don’t answer a few simple questions.” His tone was flat, emotionless.

Nessa’s legs started to quiver, as she shouted, “I’ll answer anything, please, what do you need to know?!” The poor girls already cracked. She can’t know anything, look at her!

Silgan felt a rush of anxiety as the voices responded, “Do what you have to Simon, it’s either us or her, and no matter what you do she leaves in a body bag. Either man up or join her.”

I can’t hurt her, I can’t let Alex hurt her. She looks like a young Hadley for Christ’s sake.

“So what? You gonna do yourself in like you did Hadley?” mocked the voices, cruelly.

It wasn’t me who did that to her…

                Alex removed a small, metal razer. Nessa stared at the tool. “So, where’s your father?”

Eyes wide and confused, Nessa responded, “I don’t know who my father is! What are you talking about, what are you going to do with that.” Please Alex…don’t, I can’t watch this.

                Sneering, a gruff voice shouted, “We can watch it…and you can too if it means survival.”

Alex brought the razer to her right shoulder as she struggled against the cruel straps. Suddenly, he dropped the razer on the table next to her shoulder. She slowed her struggling, looking at him warily. “I should disinfect the area first, sorry, I almost forgot.” He said, smiling slightly. Reaching back towards his toolbox, he picked up a small packet. He opened it, exposing a small alcohol wipe. He quickly wiped a small portion of her right shoulder, discarding the wipe afterwards. Nessa started to whimper and struggled back and forth as Alex picked up the razer. Silgan put his head down as she started screaming. Alex dug the six-blade razer deep into her shoulder, and pulled down quickly, deliberately removing the top layer of Nessa’s dermis. Nessa’s screams were high, full, and accented by tears. I…I can’t…I’ll stop this.

Silgan went to the technicians PA monitor as Alex moved the blade back into position a few inches to the right of the first cut. Quickly, Silgan pressed the broadcast button, and said, “Alex, I think I have a more effective idea than…well, that thing you’re doing there.” Alex moved the blade away, turning around with a small, innocuous smile.

Shrugging, he responded, “Be my guest.” Alex put his razer back in the toolbox and walked towards the door. The large man gave Silgan a suspicious glance.

Silgan put his hands up defensively, and said with a humorous inflection, “Hey man, you really think she knows anything? I’m just trying to get this over with, and my chemicals will get the job done a lot faster, with a lot less screaming.”

Smiling, the large man responded, “You’re the boss, chemist.”

Silgan gathered his briefcase and headed for the door, Alex patted his back as they passed. Silgan closed the door behind him and moved to the metal table near Nessa. Her arm looks terrible, it was only one cut too. Three-by-two inches of skin was peeled off her shoulder. She was contorted in fear, tending toward the left, away from Silgan, and the metal table. He could hear her crying and whimpering from where he stood. I don’t have much time. I will save her.

Silgan set his suitcase on the metal table and opened it quickly. He scanned the various chemicals he’d packed. Thank Christ I brought the muscle relaxants. He grabbed an empty syringe and put it on the table. As he reached for “Part 1”, he asked, “Nessa, what do you know about where you were being held?” She relaxed slightly, but didn’t turn her face towards Silgan.

Quietly, she responded, “I don’t know that much about it. But there were men, who’d come throughout the day… I’d have to help them or the mean people would hurt me.” What the fuck. How did the boss think this was a fucking lead, this girls probably the kid of some other poor girl Sullie raped. “That’s really all I know, I don’t know anything about my father or who ran that place.”

Silgan released the cryo-tube “Part 1” was trapped in and set the solution on the table. I need to hurry before the reaction gets too far along. Picking up the syringe, he said, “I believe you, Nessa. So let me fill you in. The man who ran that prison is a…political adversary of the man I work for. He seems to share your DNA. Which honestly, considering the circumstances, makes him a real fuck. You see we thought his daughter might know something about her father’s operation, but he didn’t treat you right, and I don’t respect that.” A father using their child this way… makes my blood boil. Nessa had turned towards him, studying his face, cautiously. Silgan glanced up to meet her gaze, giving her a quick, and reassuring smile. Her eyes shot to his hands drawing “Part 1” into the syringe.

Panicking again, she asked, “What is that?! Please don’t hurt me anymore, sir, I’ll do anything!”

“I’ll tell you exactly what this does as soon as I finish mixing it. It’s a very time-sensitive process, I’m afraid. Let’s make a deal, you and I, you stop talking, and I tell you what it does when I finish?” Silgan responded in an even tone. He gave her a reassuring nod before turning to grab the type-B muscle relaxant. He set it on the table next to “Part 1”, opened it, and drew about half the volume of “Part 1” he’d drawn. Approximations will have to suffice. 2:1:1 should do the trick, she’s small.

Finally, he removed the two Lortabs from his pocket, set them on the counter, reached for his damaged surgical knife, and crushed them with the butt of the knife. He took a small plastic cup from his briefcase, swept the Lortab dust into the cup, and added a small amount of deionized water. After swishing the cup around a little, he took the now bubbling syringe, and drew about three fourths of the Lortab solution into it.

Syringe in hand, Silgan moved close to Nessa’s ear, and whispered, “Keep your eyes open as best you can, I’m going to get you out of here. This will slow your heart rate and put you in a temporary coma. They will think you’re dead. I’ll come collect you before you wake up if possible, but I can’t promise they won’t kill me for uh…killing you. I’ll put my surgical knife in your back pocket, if you wake up in a bag, remember the knife and use it to escape. Please scream now.”

She started screaming as Silgan brought the Syringe to her right inner elbow, he slapped the skin and found a vein quickly. She really is malnourished. Silgan pushed the syringe into the large vein, and injected.

___________________________________

Thanks for reading!

Next chapter: https://bluebeard-art.com/2017/09/04/daily-blog-9417/

Writer’s response Saturday

Picture note: Took this in Amsterdam over the winter break.

________________________

Why do you write? What drives you, motivates you, and inspires you to do it? As many of you know, it’s not an easy thing to do. You pour countless hours into something, that is essentially the summation of you as a person. For what? 

Feel free to respond in the comments, in a DM, or whatever you find easiest. Maybe just think about it. No real structure here. I’ve found my answer to the question usually reaffirms my belief in what I’m doing:

I’ve found myself thinking about this a lot recently, especially with the new school and volunteer load. For those who I don’t personally know, I work a lot with big brothers/big sisters and a hospice/palliative program through the Mercy hospital systems. I’d being lying if I said those experiences didn’t influence my writing.

I think more than anything, though, I write for myself. It helps me create a different world, a different body, that I can escape to. This is weird, too, because I’m generally a horror writer. You wouldn’t generally consider my characters escapist, because terrible things happen to them! I think it’s a cathartic release though, it helps me return once I’m done. If it were all sunshine, I think when I returned to being me, it would be too hard. It’d make some of my issues more salient, make the anxiety/depression/whatever-it-may-be hit harder.

I think as authors, writers, and artists, we create to escape. By doing so, we often provide others with a way to escape, but there’s a difference in the level of escape. I hope a person reading my work would find entertainment and be able to relate in some way to my characters, but for me, I become the character in the scene. I very deliberately put myself in that situation, I feel what they feel, emotionally if not physically. A lot of times this has been painful. After particularly disturbing scenes, I’ve myself hating what I’ve just done as a certain character. A good example of this would be Ben from chapter 10 in the novel I’m writing, he is a disgusting piece of human refuse. But I still had to put myself in his shoes. I felt tainted for days, disgusted with what I did. Thank god that chapter was from the point of view of the victim, so I inherently related to her feelings more than Ben’s, but it’s also a strange thing to be literally hate yourself. It’s like there are more than one you, and the other you is just terrible, so you murder the other you. Writing characters can be weird like that, they cause emotions that seem unnatural upon reflection.

But I digress, the reason I write is to become something more than myself. To create something that might last, even if nobody reads it, even if nobody likes it, even if people think it’s sick. It’s me, and that matters, no matter what anyone else might think.