ACT I: Starman
Jan 18, 2016 2:01:40 GMT -5
Post by Bondo on Jan 18, 2016 2:01:40 GMT -5
It was all really simple. My fascination with the male form began when I saw him on that stage. The lights were dimmed. His snow white tan glowed in the dark. That lightning bolt sliced across his face. His cheeks looked as if they were etched from the stone of Mount Olympus. The way the fabric clung to his body tightly, as if it were alive and the continued existence depended upon it's grasp.
I had always looked around in gym class. I even found myself curiously spying on my brother. It wasn't out of lust at that point. I was just curious about what made my little friend tick. It wasn't until I saw him play with the Spiders from Mars that I knew there was something different about him and different about me. The two of us were each unique in our own ways. I fondled by thoughts based upon his form, his voice, his presence. His lyrics wove a tapestry that I still wear today.
Whether or not he was a space oddity or a star man, his words still hit a cord that echoes throughout my very core.
He was my original muse.
He was my creator.
The Makings of Sociopath
Session oo11
03 April 1998
Hillcrest Home, Abington, MA
Dr. Evie Noir
I studied him as he sat there, his pale skin glistening in the sun. His body wrapped tightly in the white fabric that this place was known to give it's patients. His eyes remained cold, his head tilted off to the one side of his body. His dark hair, too long to be considered short, but messy enough to annoy the inner mother in me. His lips were thin, and flat, very flat. His green eyes reflected everything that passed in front of them. They were like a mirror, only ever reflecting the outside world... never letting anything in.
He had sat there in silence for every session before this, about 10 in total. The powers that be at the Hillcrest Home concluded that if he hadn't opened up by now, that any session after this would be just as fruitless and had written him off as a broken child. He had spent the better part of the last three years at Hillcrest following the horrors he had witnessed. In his file, it read that he was outside playing in the backyard at his family's home. It was the weekend following the July 4th festivities... three weeks before is eigth birthday. His brother was at a friends house. All morning there had been shouting echoing throughout the old craftsman home. His father was a drunk. A mean one, too. Most Irish Catholics were. His mother was calm, cool, passionate about the arts. It what she used to help masquerade her pain. She married him when she was young. Love blinded her to his violent tendencies. He moved her away from her family in Pigeon Cove, a coastal city north of Boston, to the town of Lenox, just north of I-90. He worked on cars in the town's only mechanic shop. Most of his time was spent in the town tavern. His older brother was born two years into their marriage, an older sister was still born, and he came along a year after that. There were numerous reports of the police being called to the family home, only to be swept under the rug. The local police were from a different generation, when the women were thought to have known what they were getting. By the time he was six, the poor boy's mother was addicted to anti-depressants. When the police showed up that Saturday afternoon in July, they found him holding his mother's lifeless body. He was covered in her blood, as he sat there clutching her body, tears rolling down his cheeks. His father's body was at the dining table. His brains were splattered across the kitchen cabinets. Broken glass and blood splatter littered the kitchen. The gun was still being clutched by his father's hands.
I wiped a tear from my cheek as I continued reading his file. I hadn't even realized that the poor child had gotten up and was standing in front of me, a tissue in his hand. His face was still expressionless, but as I looked up, I was amazed at the gesture itself. I took the tissue and smiled at him. He just turned and returned to his seat. He nestled his chin into his knees. I looked back down at his file and spotted the photos from that tragic day. I had avoided looking at the photos successfully, up until this session. As my eyes fell upon those pictures, the tears fell almost instantly. I kept looking up from the photos over toward the small boy, who sat there, knowing very well that he was there for all of this. I felt portions of myself dying from merely just looking at this atrocity. It wasn't until I was fully absorbed into the situation, seeing what he saw, reading the first hand accounts from him and his older brother who had come home to find his younger brother drenched in the blood of his mother... it was just horrible. I felt part of myself die.
As I looked up again, I saw him standing there, trembling, a tissue in his hand once more. His eyes this time showed sadness and sucked me into the void that was his entire being. I dropped the folder, the papers and photos spreading out like a wave of horror. I fumbled for the pictures as he dropped to his knees, clutching the photo of his mother. I tried to grab it from him, but his fingers dug into the photos, holding onto it for dear life.
I panicked and tried to think of anything I had learned in my entire career. I just stopped thinking and reached over and engulfed him in a hug. I felt his sadness leach itself onto me, and the pain he was feeling sucked up into me as if I were a dry sponge.
I ran my hand over the back of his head, his breathing becoming erratic. I cupped his head with my chin and tried to comfort him with my embrace. But I knew no amount of comfort could mend the void that had been carved upon his inside. And I heard him speak for the first time in ten sessions, and all he said was "Mommy".
I find myself living in the clouds these days. It's much more peaceful, much more cathartic. I feel the breeze as it caresses my skin. I smell the innocence of a world far away from the atrocity that is the human society. So much hate, so much violence, so many disgusting reasons for ignorance. I hear the cries from hopeless children everywhere. They echo through the empty cavern that is the heavens.
There is a starman waiting for all of us, the problem is you vile creatures choose to ignore his existence. You claim to fight your wars in the name of your feckless idols. The ones who show you nothing. They do not love you, they do not exist. They are merely words written down in a time when people thought us to be the center of the universe and our world to be flat.
You cling to this idea, to these archaic beliefs. You fight your battles for selfish reasons. You hunger for more of everything: blood, money, sex, power... everything including the diseases that take from you those you claim to love.
My starman calls for me every night. He holds me tightly. He brushes his fingers through my hair as I lay and watch the stars. They look different every day, because my view is not obstructed by ignorance and violence, hate and fear.
My starman tells me that the time has come to share with you ungrateful cretins his plan. He wants me to unleash my gift upon the canvas. He tells me to let myself shine... so you can all see what he has always known to be true. He wants me to paint the masterpiece that every artist searches for in their life. The one that immortalizes them. The one that etches their names in stone.
My artwork begins with a single brushstroke. I harbor no hatred toward this man. I find him appealing, visually. His words are worthless. His promises are empty. His bravado is repulsive. But his lips are seductive, and his eyes draw you in.
The one they call "The Kid" will stand before me. Upon my altar I shall sacrifice him in the name of my starman. He is the lamb being led unto slaughter. I cannot feel for him. The fates have brought him unto me for reasons that escape even my understanding. I am no God. I seek not to be one. I am merely the hands for the starman who cannot do the things that need to be done.
There are those of you who look at me and see not a threat but a misunderstanding. A creature that you cannot describe. A being who doesn't fit into any of the categories that you've used to organize your pathetic lives. I don't fit into the plans you've tried to create for yourselves, an attempt at organizing my portrait of beautiful chaos.
It's pointless.
The starman has already foretold your beginnings, your middles, and your ends. His attempts at creating a Utopian society have fallen to ruin. The starman has become disappointed in all of you. You've become self-absorbed. You've become concerned with immortality, not for the whole... but for you, individually.
Lucas, the one who's quest for stardom relies upon the hands of his partner, will become the first casualty. My opening act will focus on his complete and total destruction. It won't be a demolition derby. It will be an execution. No Spiders from Mars will step in to save his being. The bloodbath begins at Vertigo.
You can all laugh, you can all mock. There will be no exception. My starman deserves a sacrifice, and while he has given me the opportunity to play, the business at hand is the complete and total annihilation of the man who's body appears be carved from stone.
Your muscles will be pulled from the bones of your body, Lucas.
Your blood will be drained.
Your demise will be horrific and painful. And in your agony will only the starman and I see pure beauty.
When you exhale your last breath, I will absorb it's essence. And while your life has been wasted, and your career has been pointless, your beauty will not be lost. For I will remember the perfection of your physical being.
The starman deserves a sacrifice.
The starman demands a point be made.
There's a starman waiting in the sky.
There is no chance for redemption. No everlasting light.
There is only I.
And I choose darkness for you all.
I had always looked around in gym class. I even found myself curiously spying on my brother. It wasn't out of lust at that point. I was just curious about what made my little friend tick. It wasn't until I saw him play with the Spiders from Mars that I knew there was something different about him and different about me. The two of us were each unique in our own ways. I fondled by thoughts based upon his form, his voice, his presence. His lyrics wove a tapestry that I still wear today.
Whether or not he was a space oddity or a star man, his words still hit a cord that echoes throughout my very core.
He was my original muse.
He was my creator.
The Makings of Sociopath
Session oo11
03 April 1998
Hillcrest Home, Abington, MA
Dr. Evie Noir
I studied him as he sat there, his pale skin glistening in the sun. His body wrapped tightly in the white fabric that this place was known to give it's patients. His eyes remained cold, his head tilted off to the one side of his body. His dark hair, too long to be considered short, but messy enough to annoy the inner mother in me. His lips were thin, and flat, very flat. His green eyes reflected everything that passed in front of them. They were like a mirror, only ever reflecting the outside world... never letting anything in.
He had sat there in silence for every session before this, about 10 in total. The powers that be at the Hillcrest Home concluded that if he hadn't opened up by now, that any session after this would be just as fruitless and had written him off as a broken child. He had spent the better part of the last three years at Hillcrest following the horrors he had witnessed. In his file, it read that he was outside playing in the backyard at his family's home. It was the weekend following the July 4th festivities... three weeks before is eigth birthday. His brother was at a friends house. All morning there had been shouting echoing throughout the old craftsman home. His father was a drunk. A mean one, too. Most Irish Catholics were. His mother was calm, cool, passionate about the arts. It what she used to help masquerade her pain. She married him when she was young. Love blinded her to his violent tendencies. He moved her away from her family in Pigeon Cove, a coastal city north of Boston, to the town of Lenox, just north of I-90. He worked on cars in the town's only mechanic shop. Most of his time was spent in the town tavern. His older brother was born two years into their marriage, an older sister was still born, and he came along a year after that. There were numerous reports of the police being called to the family home, only to be swept under the rug. The local police were from a different generation, when the women were thought to have known what they were getting. By the time he was six, the poor boy's mother was addicted to anti-depressants. When the police showed up that Saturday afternoon in July, they found him holding his mother's lifeless body. He was covered in her blood, as he sat there clutching her body, tears rolling down his cheeks. His father's body was at the dining table. His brains were splattered across the kitchen cabinets. Broken glass and blood splatter littered the kitchen. The gun was still being clutched by his father's hands.
I wiped a tear from my cheek as I continued reading his file. I hadn't even realized that the poor child had gotten up and was standing in front of me, a tissue in his hand. His face was still expressionless, but as I looked up, I was amazed at the gesture itself. I took the tissue and smiled at him. He just turned and returned to his seat. He nestled his chin into his knees. I looked back down at his file and spotted the photos from that tragic day. I had avoided looking at the photos successfully, up until this session. As my eyes fell upon those pictures, the tears fell almost instantly. I kept looking up from the photos over toward the small boy, who sat there, knowing very well that he was there for all of this. I felt portions of myself dying from merely just looking at this atrocity. It wasn't until I was fully absorbed into the situation, seeing what he saw, reading the first hand accounts from him and his older brother who had come home to find his younger brother drenched in the blood of his mother... it was just horrible. I felt part of myself die.
As I looked up again, I saw him standing there, trembling, a tissue in his hand once more. His eyes this time showed sadness and sucked me into the void that was his entire being. I dropped the folder, the papers and photos spreading out like a wave of horror. I fumbled for the pictures as he dropped to his knees, clutching the photo of his mother. I tried to grab it from him, but his fingers dug into the photos, holding onto it for dear life.
I panicked and tried to think of anything I had learned in my entire career. I just stopped thinking and reached over and engulfed him in a hug. I felt his sadness leach itself onto me, and the pain he was feeling sucked up into me as if I were a dry sponge.
I ran my hand over the back of his head, his breathing becoming erratic. I cupped his head with my chin and tried to comfort him with my embrace. But I knew no amount of comfort could mend the void that had been carved upon his inside. And I heard him speak for the first time in ten sessions, and all he said was "Mommy".
starman
I find myself living in the clouds these days. It's much more peaceful, much more cathartic. I feel the breeze as it caresses my skin. I smell the innocence of a world far away from the atrocity that is the human society. So much hate, so much violence, so many disgusting reasons for ignorance. I hear the cries from hopeless children everywhere. They echo through the empty cavern that is the heavens.
There is a starman waiting for all of us, the problem is you vile creatures choose to ignore his existence. You claim to fight your wars in the name of your feckless idols. The ones who show you nothing. They do not love you, they do not exist. They are merely words written down in a time when people thought us to be the center of the universe and our world to be flat.
You cling to this idea, to these archaic beliefs. You fight your battles for selfish reasons. You hunger for more of everything: blood, money, sex, power... everything including the diseases that take from you those you claim to love.
My starman calls for me every night. He holds me tightly. He brushes his fingers through my hair as I lay and watch the stars. They look different every day, because my view is not obstructed by ignorance and violence, hate and fear.
My starman tells me that the time has come to share with you ungrateful cretins his plan. He wants me to unleash my gift upon the canvas. He tells me to let myself shine... so you can all see what he has always known to be true. He wants me to paint the masterpiece that every artist searches for in their life. The one that immortalizes them. The one that etches their names in stone.
My artwork begins with a single brushstroke. I harbor no hatred toward this man. I find him appealing, visually. His words are worthless. His promises are empty. His bravado is repulsive. But his lips are seductive, and his eyes draw you in.
The one they call "The Kid" will stand before me. Upon my altar I shall sacrifice him in the name of my starman. He is the lamb being led unto slaughter. I cannot feel for him. The fates have brought him unto me for reasons that escape even my understanding. I am no God. I seek not to be one. I am merely the hands for the starman who cannot do the things that need to be done.
There are those of you who look at me and see not a threat but a misunderstanding. A creature that you cannot describe. A being who doesn't fit into any of the categories that you've used to organize your pathetic lives. I don't fit into the plans you've tried to create for yourselves, an attempt at organizing my portrait of beautiful chaos.
It's pointless.
The starman has already foretold your beginnings, your middles, and your ends. His attempts at creating a Utopian society have fallen to ruin. The starman has become disappointed in all of you. You've become self-absorbed. You've become concerned with immortality, not for the whole... but for you, individually.
Lucas, the one who's quest for stardom relies upon the hands of his partner, will become the first casualty. My opening act will focus on his complete and total destruction. It won't be a demolition derby. It will be an execution. No Spiders from Mars will step in to save his being. The bloodbath begins at Vertigo.
You can all laugh, you can all mock. There will be no exception. My starman deserves a sacrifice, and while he has given me the opportunity to play, the business at hand is the complete and total annihilation of the man who's body appears be carved from stone.
Your muscles will be pulled from the bones of your body, Lucas.
Your blood will be drained.
Your demise will be horrific and painful. And in your agony will only the starman and I see pure beauty.
When you exhale your last breath, I will absorb it's essence. And while your life has been wasted, and your career has been pointless, your beauty will not be lost. For I will remember the perfection of your physical being.
The starman deserves a sacrifice.
The starman demands a point be made.
There's a starman waiting in the sky.
There is no chance for redemption. No everlasting light.
There is only I.
And I choose darkness for you all.
word count: 1842
