(OTE) On the Edge, by etheon
Should there be a warning? I don't know. There is some violence, albeit very little; is it graphic? Not that much. But I wouldn't recommend it to everyone. Please note that I don't necessarily approve of all of this; but sometimes, I ask myself questions, and re-write them in the form of stories. Except that stories have a beginning and an end, whereas these questions will never have a definitive answer.
Should there be a warning? I don't know. There is some violence, albeit very little; is it graphic? Not that much. But I wouldn't recommend it to everyone. Please note that I don't necessarily approve of all of this; but sometimes, I ask myself questions, and re-write them in the form of stories. Except that stories have a beginning and an end, whereas these questions will never have a definitive answer.
There dwells within man, deeply buried beneath piles of slowly rotting flesh and skin, a large, plastic red button, encased in little plexiglass box with the label printed above it in large fluorescent letters : "DO NOT PUSH". For, if one were to push it, coulds would most definitely become shoulds, whom would in turn become deeds.
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Ever since my early childhood, I've been tormented by an incessant pulsing inside of me, and while I can dismiss during the noisiest hours of the day, it prowls my soul from dusk to dawn. It is a constant tug, pulling the very core of my self, slowly grinding my resolve in its malicious hands, grinning as I lay defenseless in the dark, prey to its grotesque suggestions. "I could do it...", it'd whisper. "Then why don't you do it?", I'd reply, trembling with fear as I settled around in my damp sheets.
I never meant to hurt anyone. I don't think I have, either; don't listen to those fools. They prattle amongst themselves of moral and ethics, yet when comes the time to act, they hide themselves behind books and laws and half-chewed lies, eager to defenestrate reason and let tradition rule their petty hides. What do they know, of the human condition? These men are nothing but blind sheep, albeit with enough sense to realize that lucidity is the most painful gift given to man.
Come, I'll show you what I mean; come closer now. Can you hear it? Thump thump. Thump thump. That is the human condition. A clock a-ticking away, a flesh-and-blood time bomb. Each step draws you closer to your last; each breath brings you closer to asphyxia. Life is a slow struggle against the inevitable; enough to frighten any man with a bit of sense, wouldn't you say? Yet that's not what frightens us the most. What is truly, horribly terrifying is this inexplicable, fragile quality of a subjective mind: free will. Do you understand now? Do you understand why I did all of these things? No? Because I could. Because I should. Because I did.
It is, I am convinced now, a common impulse to every man, woman or child to instinctively wonder what would happen were they to do something completely bizarre, wild and absurd; if he or she were to do the unexpected, the unthinkable: a simple, deliberate act who subject, object and motivation are the same. Believe me, there is nothing more frightening than standing on the edge of a precipice and, looking down, thinking : I could do it. And indeed, you could. It's a certitude, carved in stone in your soul; you could do it. And yet you don't. Something holds you back. You ask yourself: why? Why would I do it? And indeed. Why would you?
As human beings, we are constantly on the edge, peering out into the unknown; there is an infinitesimal chance that we will do it. But it is certain that we could. Somewhere, somehow, someday. Most of us will go through our lives without ever overstepping the boundary, mindlessly floating on the river of time, waiting for events to happen. I could not. I would not. I tried to resist; I fought long and hard, for decades, until I could take no more. And then I jumped.
Have no fear, though; I am not trying to shirk off my responsibilities. I know full well what I have done, and whilst I regret it, I cannot deny it has soothed me, the way a mother soothes her child. I basked in the knowledge that I had done what others dared not, what others only dreamed of; in my delirious state, I was all powerful, a god amongst men, a wolf amongst sheep. A dangerous wolf, as it happened.
I remember walking out of the subway countless times, mindlessly following my brethren along the rails, carelessly looking at the track, wondering what would happen if I were to jump in. I knew I could. I knew others had, and others would. Why not me? Then again, why me? I was a dutiful clerk; I never went out of line, I never took any decision, and I was blissfully happy to leave it all to my supposed superiors. But why? Who decided it must be so? And why was any misstep so looked down upon? If someone tried to escape the grinding wheel, if a cog was to suddenly turn in the opposite way, it was generally agreed upon that it be removed. I understood this, and accepted it, even advocated it. Yet, deep within me, I could feel the clock ticking, and I knew one day it'd burst. It'd burst in a shower of incandescent dadaism, showering the gray, lifeless corpses that huddled behind paper thin walls of words.
One day I pulled the fire alarm. I can say with utmost certainty that I had never felt such ecstasy; it lighted a fire in my entrails, a soft, rich warmth that soon enveloped my whole body, flooding me with pure bliss. It was more than sexual; it was transcendental. Never in my wildest dreams had I experienced such joy, such profound harmony with myself.
I soon stopped working. I dropped everything else and lived only for those moments. I loved, I kissed, I undressed, I raped, I drank and ate until exhaustion, I stroke up conversations with complete strangers, the stars were my only blanket: I lived. And then, one day, I stole. Stole what? A life. Child's life, to be more precise. I did the most horrible thing I could think of or, more specifically, what I had been taught was the most horrible thing: I kidnapped a little girl, befouled her every orifice and tore her limb from limb, slowly; I had forced her eyes opened, to gorge myself on her fear. And then I ate her.
Need I say I was thoroughly disappointed? Nothing happened. No joy. No bliss. No peace. I was puzzled. I felt no remorse, no regret; in truth, I was devoid of any feelings. I could not have cared less for anything. And now here I am, waiting for the gallows. Come to think of it, perhaps it's what I should've done a long time ago.
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Ever since my early childhood, I've been tormented by an incessant pulsing inside of me, and while I can dismiss during the noisiest hours of the day, it prowls my soul from dusk to dawn. It is a constant tug, pulling the very core of my self, slowly grinding my resolve in its malicious hands, grinning as I lay defenseless in the dark, prey to its grotesque suggestions. "I could do it...", it'd whisper. "Then why don't you do it?", I'd reply, trembling with fear as I settled around in my damp sheets.
I never meant to hurt anyone. I don't think I have, either; don't listen to those fools. They prattle amongst themselves of moral and ethics, yet when comes the time to act, they hide themselves behind books and laws and half-chewed lies, eager to defenestrate reason and let tradition rule their petty hides. What do they know, of the human condition? These men are nothing but blind sheep, albeit with enough sense to realize that lucidity is the most painful gift given to man.
Come, I'll show you what I mean; come closer now. Can you hear it? Thump thump. Thump thump. That is the human condition. A clock a-ticking away, a flesh-and-blood time bomb. Each step draws you closer to your last; each breath brings you closer to asphyxia. Life is a slow struggle against the inevitable; enough to frighten any man with a bit of sense, wouldn't you say? Yet that's not what frightens us the most. What is truly, horribly terrifying is this inexplicable, fragile quality of a subjective mind: free will. Do you understand now? Do you understand why I did all of these things? No? Because I could. Because I should. Because I did.
It is, I am convinced now, a common impulse to every man, woman or child to instinctively wonder what would happen were they to do something completely bizarre, wild and absurd; if he or she were to do the unexpected, the unthinkable: a simple, deliberate act who subject, object and motivation are the same. Believe me, there is nothing more frightening than standing on the edge of a precipice and, looking down, thinking : I could do it. And indeed, you could. It's a certitude, carved in stone in your soul; you could do it. And yet you don't. Something holds you back. You ask yourself: why? Why would I do it? And indeed. Why would you?
As human beings, we are constantly on the edge, peering out into the unknown; there is an infinitesimal chance that we will do it. But it is certain that we could. Somewhere, somehow, someday. Most of us will go through our lives without ever overstepping the boundary, mindlessly floating on the river of time, waiting for events to happen. I could not. I would not. I tried to resist; I fought long and hard, for decades, until I could take no more. And then I jumped.
Have no fear, though; I am not trying to shirk off my responsibilities. I know full well what I have done, and whilst I regret it, I cannot deny it has soothed me, the way a mother soothes her child. I basked in the knowledge that I had done what others dared not, what others only dreamed of; in my delirious state, I was all powerful, a god amongst men, a wolf amongst sheep. A dangerous wolf, as it happened.
I remember walking out of the subway countless times, mindlessly following my brethren along the rails, carelessly looking at the track, wondering what would happen if I were to jump in. I knew I could. I knew others had, and others would. Why not me? Then again, why me? I was a dutiful clerk; I never went out of line, I never took any decision, and I was blissfully happy to leave it all to my supposed superiors. But why? Who decided it must be so? And why was any misstep so looked down upon? If someone tried to escape the grinding wheel, if a cog was to suddenly turn in the opposite way, it was generally agreed upon that it be removed. I understood this, and accepted it, even advocated it. Yet, deep within me, I could feel the clock ticking, and I knew one day it'd burst. It'd burst in a shower of incandescent dadaism, showering the gray, lifeless corpses that huddled behind paper thin walls of words.
One day I pulled the fire alarm. I can say with utmost certainty that I had never felt such ecstasy; it lighted a fire in my entrails, a soft, rich warmth that soon enveloped my whole body, flooding me with pure bliss. It was more than sexual; it was transcendental. Never in my wildest dreams had I experienced such joy, such profound harmony with myself.
I soon stopped working. I dropped everything else and lived only for those moments. I loved, I kissed, I undressed, I raped, I drank and ate until exhaustion, I stroke up conversations with complete strangers, the stars were my only blanket: I lived. And then, one day, I stole. Stole what? A life. Child's life, to be more precise. I did the most horrible thing I could think of or, more specifically, what I had been taught was the most horrible thing: I kidnapped a little girl, befouled her every orifice and tore her limb from limb, slowly; I had forced her eyes opened, to gorge myself on her fear. And then I ate her.
Need I say I was thoroughly disappointed? Nothing happened. No joy. No bliss. No peace. I was puzzled. I felt no remorse, no regret; in truth, I was devoid of any feelings. I could not have cared less for anything. And now here I am, waiting for the gallows. Come to think of it, perhaps it's what I should've done a long time ago.
. Even after thinking about it, I still see no definite answer; the world's an unpredictable place, and the best you can do is try to read people and stay a couple of moves ahead of the game. The world isn't a stage; it's a chess board, and we're the pieces. Who's playing?