The Thoughts of Me

Chapter 1





When you take as much medicine as I do, your dreams begin long before you ever sleep.  The backs of your eyelids become large movie theater screens and you mind becomes the projector.  It plays a movie of events that may or may not make sense.  A child throwing a ball.  A girl chasing you down.  A group of high school teachers murdering themselves.  It plays these things.  As if you have set your mind to shuffle your thoughts. 
         I have never understood my dreams.  Nobody really understands there dreams.  Nobody really understands anything.  My pillow would have been better if it wasn’t my third period Biology desk.  I wasn’t asleep, but I could see my mind playing tricks on me.  As if punishing me for things I had done wrong. 
         My teacher, Mrs. Dumbass, yells my name from the back of the classroom.  I hate Mrs. Dumbass.  I don’t respond because I just don’t care.  It comes again, and again, and again.  I don’t respond.  Finally, a book drops from the length of her two foot arm.  It crashes down on top of me.  Something a teacher should never do. 
         She says, “Where do you think you are Mr. Nergal.” 
         Her voice annoys me. 
         I raise my head.  I look to my left and right.  As expected, the whole classroom congregation has my complete attention.  Something a teacher should never do.
         I tell her that I have enough things to worry about.  Things way more important than her stupid lecture.  She slaps my head.  I grab her wrist and tell her to do it once more.  I can tell she feels threatened.  I wanted her to feel that way.  My eyes glare into hers.  Her pudgy little body bouncing from the little force it took to stop her arm.  Her eyes are in a state of shock.  Like two billiards balls that have just collided for the first time.  The first person to stand up and make a statement out of line.  Me.  Like I made a difference. 
         She doesn’t say a word.  It seems that she got the message.  My rebellious attitude made perfectly clear in a moment of complete bliss.  Everyone around me looks hard at me.  Not because they are angry.  But rather envious at the fact that I stood up to the bitch, and they could not.
         News travels faster than you think in a school yard.  One of my fellow class mates had created perfectly tuned story about how Mrs. Dumbass had dropped a book on a students head.  When the principal  asked what student they seemed reluctant to give them my name. 
         The speakers are loud when you are sitting right next to them.  They pierce my eardrums like little needles.  Like a small knitting needle.  The though makes me gag. 
         “Thomas Nergal,” the speaker says.  God of the school.  The secretary and all of her glory.  It has to be the best part of the job.  Talking on the speaker.  Everyone fears the speaker. 
         I make my way to the small box at the front of the school.  They call this box the office.  I don’t give a shit what they call it though.  I call it home.
         I never do anything  outrageous.  Only rebellious.  I hate rebellious people.  I hate myself.
         I make my way into the door.  Its cold to the touch.  Like a baseball that has sat out in the snow.  Like a Christmas ornimate hanging on a random tree in the winter.
         The principal is waiting for me at his office door.  He knows my name.  He doesn’t use it.  Instead he calls me boy.  I hate that.  His flabby hips work there way around into a bunch making it hard for him to turn around.  His bald spot shines intently from the dull florescent lights.  I hate florescent lights. 
         The man turns to me before making himself comfortable.  His tubby ass would hate to have to get up and shut the door for me.  I could tell he wasn’t going to ask me too.  So I didn’t.  As he huffs at me, his third chin wiggles.  I hate things that wiggle.
         “What happened in Mrs. Cherries class this morning?”  He asks me.  I hate cherries.
         I tell him what happened.  He doesn’t even ask me if I was lying.  If I had thought about it, I would have told him that she had touched me inappropriately.  But I didn’t think that quick.  Shame on you.  He pushes a button on his phone.  He talks into the speaker.  His chins bump up against the microphone.  His voice comes out.  I can read his words.  Could you call Mrs. Cherries in here for me please.  The bastard didn’t even thank her.  Doesn’t he know I have a young impressionable mind.  Shame on him.
         Time seems to tick slower when you are awaiting something with a questionable outcome.  My anxiety becomes unbearable.  I will imberace  her.  I will make her feel as low as dirt. 
         When I was five my father hit me in the face on accident with a tree limb.  Most southerners call them switchs but I call it a limb.  Since that day my eyes have always produced more water than normal.  It was easy for me to fake cry.  It was easy.  I hate crying.
         Fifteen minutes fly by my wondering mind before the bitch walks into the room.  Her fat ass body barley fits into the door frame.  I snicker to myself.  Then I turn on my eyes.  Like water hose, the minute I turn them on I cant stop them.  The tears flood to my face from the bead like tear ducts implanted by god into my eyes.  I thank him for doing so.  I want her to feel like crap.
         I don’t get to see it though.  The second the tubby man sees my tears he asks me to excuse myself.  I want to tell him hell no but I refrain and exit the tiny little box shaped room.  I don’t head back to class.  I sign the piece of paper at the front desk and excuse myself from class.  No one will notice.  No one cares. 
         My truck is a piece of shit.  I start it up.  I hate my truck.

Although it sounds very conceded of me to say, Martin is a very smart person.  He controls half of my life.  When I was a kid, I always thought of him as an imaginary friend.  It didn’t take me long to realize that he was my mind. 
         Most people have a mind.  But most people don’t have one that verbally converses with them.  I am my heart so in a sense, I am only half of myself.  Martin makes up the other half.  I hate the name Martin. 
         Martin hates love.  He hates the fact that something such as love can drastically alter ones self turning them into a completely different person.  Martin hates love.  I hate Martin. 
         Most people tune out the fact that their mind and heart are separate.  I cant, or I would. 
         My house is shitty.  I hate my house.  The brown paint reminds me of dirt and the huge tree in the middle of the yard makes me think of a large broccoli sprig.  I hate broccoli.
         I walk toward the door.  The fog that blankets the street makes me wish I could live in the clouds.  Martin says its stupid to want to fly.  Martin says a lot of things.
         The air inside the house smells different every time I walk into it.  Its sort of refreshing unless it smells like dog shit.  I don’t have a cell phone.  I have a LAN phone.  I check the caller I.D.  Rachel’s sick today, she’s called twice. 
         I remember her phone number.  Its easy to remember.  I have a good memory.  555-9292.  It isn’t that hard to remember.  I have a good memory.
         I hate waiting.  I sit there waiting for her to pick up the phone.  She doesn’t.  Her answering machine picks up.  The lazy kind.  The one where you don’t have to input your own message.  Instead you are forced to listen to a guy with a generic voice, rant off a generic greeting, and a generic goodbye.  He probably wears a generic tie, and drives a generic car.  I bet he even eats generic cereal. 
         I don’t leave a message.  I just hang up.  I always hang up.  Nobody checks there messages.  Not that I know of.  Martin tells me to shut up.
         I set the phone down.  It begins ringing.  I pick it up.  Its Rachel.  I hit the enormous button in the center of the phone.  It says talk.  As if it needed too. 
         I say hello.  She says hello.  I hate that.
         I ask her why she didn’t pick up.  She tells me because she was wondering what I would say to her on her answering machine.  Martin tells me that she is weirder than I am.  I agree.
         My conception of love at this point in my life must be skewed.  I think I am in love with this girl.  I don’t really think I am.  Martin says to me that there is more to life than love.  I tell him that that’s all I want.  I tell him that that’s all I have ever wanted.  I tell him that that’s all I will ever want. I tell him that I know I will never get it. 
         Rachel asks me a question.  I know it’s a question because of the way her voice peaks at the end of the sentence.  I don’t know what she asked.  I just say I don’t know. 
         “Why didn’t you go to school today?”  Her voice is like a tired lobbyist.  She pries for answers.  I don’t have them. 
         I tell her that I didn’t go.  I told her about what Mrs. Dumbass did.  I told her that I went home.  She tells me I’m lying.  I hate when she does that.  I just agree.  I hate arguing. 
         I tell her that I am tired and want to go to bed.  She reminds me that it is only one o clock in the after noon.  I tell her that I know that.  She doesn’t listen.  Instead she repeats herself.  As if her mind skipped.  She’s like a record player.  Always skipping. 
         I tell her I will call her later.  She says she wants to kiss me.  I tell her what she wants to hear.  I end our conversation by telling her I love her.  My voice is generic.  Martin tells me that I am the generic guy on the answering machine.  The answering machine of life.  I say nothing.  I forget sometimes that I am the only one who can hear Martin.  I wait for Rachel to respond to his comment.  Of coarse she doesn’t. 
         I hang up the phone.  Its cordless so I really just push the button.  I am starving.  I hate starving. 
         I open the refrigerator and pry around for some leftover chicken or maybe some week old spaghetti.  I don’t find any.  Instead, I eat a bagel.  I don’t even heat it up.  I hate cold bagels. 

My parents are always fighting.  Never loving.  Marriage is a sacred blessing.  A conjoining of two people that love one another unconditionally.  It would seem that those people wouldn’t get angry with one another.  Martin tells me all the time.  He reminds me of my parents.  He tells me I should never marry.  I tell him he should never speak.          
         I look both ways before crossing the street.  I don’t know why.  Its habit.  I tell myself over and over that if a bus were to hit me or a train or car that I wouldn’t give a shit.  I lust for death.  But I fear it.
         Rachel is at her cousins house.  I told her I would meet her there.  I walk.  Not drive.  I decide it will be better for me.  The air will clear itself.  I reach into my head and pull out this beautiful mask of a lie.  I call it a façade.  Most people call me a fake.
         There are hardly any people that know the true me.  I walk and talk with a positive attitude.  I never express my true feelings.  Like a whore.  She will fuck anyone for the right money.  I suppose she isn’t really attracted to any of the fat, greasy men that pay her to do them a quick one. 
         The street is laced with a sheet of ice.  The air doesn’t seem cold enough.  Probably because my soul is colder.  The air that comes from my lungs creates puffy white clouds in the air around me.  My nostrls burn from the fridged air around me.  His house isn’t very much farther.
         It doesn’t take long before I see her sitting outside with her cousin.  Derick was his name.  Derick was an average built guy.  His eyes were the same as Rachel’s.  It was sort of creepy.  Martin told me a hundred times over that there was no way you could be with someone who resembled a family member.  I tell him a hundred times over that he is ridiculous.  If you have never heard your mind laugh at you.  Its embracing. 
         “What took you so long?”  Rachel asks me with a smile on her face. It’s as fake as my mask.
         I tell her that I had to take the dogs outside before I came.  I hated that smile.
         Derick asks me what I had been doing with my life.  I wanted to kick the E and the R out of his name.  Martin laughs.
         I tell Derick that I had been studying.  I never study.  It just sounded good to say.  I hate liars.  I hate myself.
         “So, tell me more about this Bren guy.”  Derick says to Rachel.  Rachel’s little sixteen year old face flushes like a toilet.  The color exits.  The world goes spinning.  My jealously kicks in.  I know who Bren is.  I hate Bren.  I have no reason to.  I don’t need one.
         I tell the two that I want to leave.  I do as I intend too.  I walk away. 
         “Wait.”  Rachel yells to me. 
         Rachel knows what I am like when I am mad.  Rachel knows I am angry.  Rachel is wise.  Rachel backs away.  I walk into the cold cloud that covered Todd street.  I cry.  Tears of darkness.  Tears of betrayal.  Tears that seem waisted.  Tears you wouldn’t understand.



















Chapter 2








Just like an idiot.  I continue dating Rachel.  My head hurts.  I want to go home. 
         School is a great place for me.  I don’t do my work.  I don’t study.  But I am surrounded by people who think they care about me.  They don’t.  They put on an act.  Like George Clooney.  Or Richard Gere.
         A year passes.  I am forced to quit going to the one place that makes me feel alive.  I am pulled out like a sliver.  Pried out like a foreign object that is desperately clinging to life.  Feeding off this place like a parasite.
         The place I go to get my G.E.D is worse than school.  Its full of bad things.  Bad people. Bad teachers.  Bad energy.  It depresses me.  Like anything else could.  I meet friends.  False friends.  Friends I don’t intend to call.  They talk to me.  I talk to them.  I go home.  I don’t want to be around them. 
         I sit in my dark room.  Its twelve o’ clock when I open the door.  From then until four.  When my mom walks in the door.  I’m alone.  A dangerous concept.  For me at least.
         I sit wondering what Rachel is doing.  It doesn’t take long before gnomes are telling me that she is messing around on me.  I don’t know why.  But I know this already.  “You are an idiot.”  Martin says.  Over and over and over again.  Until I realize he wont shut up.  Before to long he is singing to me.  You are an idiot.  You are an idiot.  It has a nice ring to it.  Like something you would hear a hip-hop singer singing on the radio.  Or like something you would hear on a child’s self help lullaby tape.  It gets annoying quickly.
         The more the gnomes tell me about Rachel the more I want to confront her.  I for some reason felt intimidated by her.  I shouldn’t have.  I was stronger then her one hundred fold.  I could win.  Still I was intimidated.
         I don’t wait very long.  I bring it up to her.  She just pushes it aside.  She says that she doesn’t want me to feel bad.  I wish I had recorded her saying that.  I knew she didn’t care.  She didn’t.
         Some time passes before I talk to her again.  She tells me that we would be better off friends.  I knew this was coming.  But I cant help but let Martin take over.  He does and I am cast into my dream world.  A place where all I can do is watch as he does his magic.           
         When Martin comes out to play I speak only with the most eloquent words.  He is scary not for the fact that he is a raging bull ready to pounce on the heads of the world, but rather because he is the most calm and constructed being in existence.  He speaks words that flow like water.  His voice is calm and centered.  His words drive daggers into the backs of his victims.  I cant thank him enough.
         My heart becomes a darker place.  My depression kicks in.  Through the medicine and the alcohol.  There is no better combination.