by Greg Wilburn
it’s hard to do when the fear never ceases and the tools of destruction within me become all the more evil, all the more destructive, and all the more horribly painful, and because I can’t be free of my knowing.
I remember someone telling me (probably another ignorantly wise person. I’ll get to them eventually, just as I have him here) that if one can push themselves so far to the brink that they suffer a psychotic break—a psychosis of denial or some sort of self-induced trauma like that— then they can erase their memory. In truth, that’s what I’m trying to do at this point.
I’m trying to break me (like I’d ever let him do that. I would never let one of my toys break). I need to break me; I need to crush myself to the point of this self-inflicted traumatic state so that I won’t have to know anymore. That way, maybe I can escape the damnation I’ve found myself in, or at least I won’t have to lose any more of my sanity in seeing the repetitious cycle of clarity and distortion, suffocating in a pervading fear that still refreshes itself within me despite me knowing what already lies beneath the veiled nightmare fragments. However I try to do it, I just need to stop knowing. I need to forget. I need to escape.
But I do know. I know, and I can’t escape the knowing. Why do I have to know? Why can’t I just die? Why can’t I not know? Why does hell have to keep going like this? I don’t want to know anymore! Don’t let me know, let me forget, suck me up in a vortex of death and swallow me! No more, please! No more! Please, no more! Let me forget!
But I can’t forget. He won’t let me forget (I’m an it, more than anything else. I—The Devil, as they like to call me—am merely bringing forth already present manifestations of the evil already inside. He, and those of the like, try to make me the creator of their slow demises, but it’s really they themselves that do them in. I’m just helping.). I can’t escape the knowing. And deep down, as the chainsaws bite into my nerve endings, the spiked chain rips through my courseworks, the thumbtacks and nails are smashed into my brain with the brick, the gasoline fire tears my soul, and the sulfuric acid laps at my marrow, I know I’ll never not forget. I can’t. I can’t………………..and I’ll never escape the runner (It seems he found hell earlier than expected).
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Thank you for taking the time to read this work. I hope you enjoyed it and will look forward to other works I bring forth in the future.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Michael Matchell, for all of his hard work and dedication.
To my family, for all of their support and encouragement.