Welcome to Enlightenment

Nolan has the sort of white-blond hair that reminds me of a fallen angel and while his knuckles are smashing against the skin on my temple, I take a moment to wonder if it’s a natural colour. Did the carpet match the drapes? I didn’t think I should ask him though. His face is hard, jaw clenched and detestable eyes but the halo around his head gives off a biblical sort of innocence to him that I can’t ignore. It’s ironic to think about that while he crushes my mouth against the brick wall. Getting torn to pieces by my saviour in an alleyway has become my Tuesday night.

Save me, Nolan. Deliver me to broken ribs and blue-black eyes and devastating enlightenment.

To believe in angels though, you have to believe in God, and I can’t really believe in anything other than the blood bursting from my busted lip and Nolan. I believe in Nolan, his fists pounding into my ribs, I believe in that too.

Maybe he’s an albino. I didn’t think it was the right time to ask if I could see his pubes, though.

“You motherfucking cunt.”

If a person were to ask how I found myself here I wouldn’t know exactly where to start. Somewhere between my birth and saying that I fucked his sister would probably be the right place, but the lines are blurry and I can’t really think straight while he’s trying to force the almighty from my stomach.

I think it starts off with another one of those bullshit philosophical quotes. The ones that are printed on cheap mugs and on the skin of hopeless teenagers who are as deep as a kiddie pool. Live as if you’ll die today, they tell you. How wonderful, how inspiring, a new motto to live by. That’s only the beginning, though.

His skin is stained with my blood and my blood is stained with failure, pumping and racing through the veins that tell of my demise. Lips curled back into a scowl, his fist connects with my nose that gives off a sickening crack in response. My insides gush out through my nostrils and corrupt the light blue sweater Nana gave me for Christmas the year before.

“You regretting it now, fuckhead?” he breathes out, shoulders drawing up and dropping again. Draw up, drop, draw up, drop, rhythmic like a heartbeat.

“Not even a little bit.”

The grin that finds my lips is masochistic and brutal with the blood dancing between my teeth. Nolan does his best to punch it off with his trusty knuckles.

All those quotes are said by some anonymous fuck who got laid or lucky and decided he was so happy, so goddamn cheerful that he needed to share it in the way they’ve been telling us since kindergarten: use your words, not your hands.

As if he thought he was smart enough to put the universe into words, as if he was so goddamn intelligent that he could even think to comprehend it. It’s the sort of arrogance that comes with the human condition, though, so I don’t think I could blame him.

I could hate him, but then I’d have to hate myself. I think I already do.

Nolan doesn’t buy into that bullshit as he forces my back up against the wall with his calloused hands clutching onto the flesh of my neck. His eyes dare me to speak.

I choke. Cough. Better luck next time. Try again.

“Your sister,” I gasp, “you should’ve heard her begging for my cock.”

I’ve never actually met his sister, and I’m lying through gritted teeth, but his hands close in harder on my throat. It’s one of those humanity things I’d never understand. I’d never understand why I pissed off these angry characters in the first place either, though. We’re all a little fucked up in the head I guess. Some of us just hide it better than others.

Humanity is such a beautiful thing. How word spreads of this amazing string of words said by anonymous fuck- from friends of friends of second cousins to knitting groups in Ohio, until it’s on the lips of soccer moms and teenagers with internet access everywhere. This amazing perspective on life has opened their eyes, the world is clear, the world is there’s. This is still just the beginning.

Maybe I was bitter and jealous, I would never be remembered as some anonymous fuck. I was never good with my words. Never clever enough and never smart enough and never happy enough.

But really, his hair, it’s just the purest thing. It’s the sort of pure that if out in the animal kingdom, he’d be shot and hung as a trophy within a week. Tacked on the wall with an empty expression and complimented on by beefy guys with bandanas.

“You little fucker.”

His grip tightens. I gasp for oxygen. The world is blurring.

And suddenly they’re shoving these words down your throat and saying that this is the meaning of life, this is what it’s like to be enlightened. Join us. Join us. You want this; this is what we see in furniture commercials and clothing advertisements everywhere: be enlightened.

You buy into that crap like an over-priced t-shirt that you don’t even really need. You buy it and drink it in and swallow it whole and look into the world all determined and shit because you are happy. And that’s all you’ve been told to want, this is what everyone searches for. You are the almighty who has conquered life.

You convince yourself that this is it: sporting your new inspiration like a stylish hair cut. You’re so extraordinary with your pretty perspective on life, the special and unique snowflake you are.

The edges of my vision are beginning to slowly fade into the eternal darkness. His nails dig into my skin, drawing blood, and my airways are closing in. The adrenaline rushes through my veins and my mind beings to whirl and twirl lightly. This is euphoria, this is the daydream I’ve been chasing for so long, almost tangible.

It’s an addiction, it’s why I taunt and tease and pull the blind fury from their stomachs, because it’s those few minutes in which perfection is peaked. Angel boy with the lethal eyes and insecurity issues branching from a typical failed father-son relationship, he brings me my own form of an orgasm without the sex. He doesn’t even know it.

It’s fucking beautiful.

It doesn’t stop there, though. The question starts to change. Would I be happy if I died today? And then you say, yes, yes I would be. I am happy knowing that my life is about to end, I am content, I am enlightened.

And then you buy the mug.

The next question is the last one and it’s not the beginning anymore, it’s the end. Do I want to die? And you are so enlightened, you are so smart and clever and happy, you say yes. Yes I want to die; I want to rip my enlightened soul from this body that can never fully appreciate me.

I want to die. I don’t want the mug or the tattoo. I don’t want to t-shirt or the haircut. All I want is to die, to be done with my philosophically enlightened life, and I want it now.

But that’s just human, I guess. We want everything we can’t have because we’re all just a lot of greedy bastards. When we do have it we want the next best thing, the new fashion trend rippling through society. And what’s trendier than death?

Then it’s like every breath is exactly what you’re trying to escape from, every heartbeat is a betrayal and suddenly it’s all you can think about. It’s what drives your thoughts, your dreams, your nightmares.

But you're still alive. That's when the disease seeps in with realization, the problem is clear. You can't live like this, you can't survive knowing the secrets of the universe, its a sin in it's purest form. You don't need this.

For a moment while staring into Nolan’s eyes I think he might actually do it, he might actually go through with killing me. The really fucked up characters always get this absolutely psychotic glint in their eye, a moment of truth to really how mental they are on the inside. And they hide it so well, but it’s there, dormant and waiting like a threatening volcano. They’re all just waiting to erupt.

Then Nolan lets go.

I fall onto the ground in a coughing bundle of flesh and bones, cursing under my breath, anger flaring up in my stomach. They always choke. They always surrender. My seconds of euphoria are ruined by these pussy motherfucker. They can never be true to themselves like I know they want to.

The end of enlightenment is only moments, heartbeats away and you’re ready and waiting and, alas, it doesn’t come. It never comes. And you try and you try, and I fucking tried, and you can’t fucking die.

That’s my problem. I can not fucking die.