About the Writer

To get any understanding of me, and what began to artificially manufacture me, here it might be important to know how my life all began and how I became your narrator, of sorts. What darkness makes up my earliest memories and what haunted me throughout my youth, had a structural effect on my personality and ability to trust or feel any amount of security? Since, I do not believe a life’s first memory can start as a dream, my earliest memory must all be real, or created by the hands of man;“if you can call him that”; of course to serve a higher purpose, here is how it all began.

My mind awoke, as I grasped my first breath, a fear of fight or flight pumped from my body’s center core into every limb as I laid there bound, to the bed. My blood pumped viciously and made my hands and feet ache with pain, but I was bound by the feet and arms, by fear. Frozen in fear and time, as a ghost I awoke to life, drenched in a cold sweat. My second deep breath, I managed to draw into my lungs, this kept me conscious and I would not pass out this time. The room became less fuzzy and I knew exactly what I was going to see even before I opened my eyes.

A strange room of dated furniture and drab colored rough linen spread across a hospital sized bed. This was my father’s, father’s bed, a Grand wizard, Poobah of the most influential Freemasons temple, a temple of human genocide and destruction. My father’s, father was also a Sheriff, which the two always seem to go together. So, when I say the only good Freemason is a dead one and the only good sheriff is one I shoot all has its origins in this story, my awakening to life and death.

I kept my eyes shut for now, for the longest time, because here time stood still and it stood still because I force myself not to move my body, not even a hair. This was both the beginning and ending of my life, here I knew it all but, I grew to see even with my eyes closed in fear and dread. I could though squint, just enough to make out shapes but not enough to be recognized and accepted as awake. Imagine awaking to life by playing dead. This is also where I learned to breathe without raising or lowering my chest. Throughout my youth and even into puberty, I would find myself over and over practicing this skill of breath control, long separated from what dark, evil place I began this disturbing practice.

A large German Cuckoo Clock was in front of me, on the wall directly peering at me as I lay bound artificially to the bed. The small door of the Cuckoo Clock sprang open and open, again and again, a mechanical woodpecker extended out on an expanding gated perch, reaching toward where I lay paralyzed and bound. The woodpecker slowly turned its head from side to side, as would a Shakespearean actor gesturing prior to burping out a pivotal line in some ancient regurgitated tragedy. A recording bellowed out louder and louder, in a tonally exaggerated Walt Disney type voice “Cuc-Koo, Coc-koo I am going to kill you”, and over again “Cuc-Koo, Coc-koo I am going to kill you”. It went on and on and my fear built along with the blood pressure now pooling in my extremities, painfully pushing against the small capillaries in my hands and feet. My heart beat like the drum, my hands and feet responded each time in pain.

The bed was covered with an olive duvet, worn in well but still hard and nearly as abrasive as an old piece of sand paper. The bedding was made for durability, not comfort; it would last as long as it needed to be used, nothing more. It was a small room, with a small antique writing desk, vanity, wardrobe and night stand on each side of the bed, O that horrible bed. The only sole that could find any comfort there would be the dead, bound to a life of horrors, I tell you as your holy fucking narrator this is true.

The furniture was old, gaudy, cheap and in a poor Victorian style, my my do I hate anything artistically relating to any Victorian period. I even hate the queen of England because she comes from Victorian nobility. If there was a hell in middle earth it would be dressed up as Victorian. The curtains were drawn and light dim, this would enhance the artificial affect, the very effects that had me bound to my death bed. The smell was musty, of old people, mildew dust floated and flooded the room when any rays of sun light screamed through the darkness. Placing anyone in this room would make them want to leave and never come back, but I was frozen and stuck by fright.

Time stopped recording as a lay there endlessly being threatened over and over as I entered, bound to my awaken life. The air viscous as a fluid that resonated and echoed, the sound of the insane voice of the woodpecker. The recording or record of the Cuckoo clock singing its scratchy song of death and murder; “Cuc-Koo, Coc-koo I am going to kill you”, played over and over as if the recording was stuck. As I lay there, I thought, how can you run from a strange place since you don’t know how you got here or where to run too. There was a door to the room but if I opened it, was life even more threatening on the other side of the room’s door. Since the door to the Cuckoo clock opens and threatens me, is opening the door of the room and leaving going to be even worse. I laid there endlessly in fear, but it seems I have experienced this before, was I hear last week, do I do this every week.

I suddenly jumped up and rushed to the door, open the door and ran through an unknown but known house. As a small two year old child I did not have the strength to open the outside door, so I ran down a flight of stairs, where a family sat talking to each other. The family was my family, my brother was there, my father and his father, they seemed strange and I said the Cuckoo clock said it was going to kill me, The Cuckoo clock said it was going to kill me, I was hysteric and mad. I would be damaged goods from this point on, a created killer just looking for any Cuckoo to kill. My father’s mother said it was a bad dream, you were just dreaming and taking a nap in our room.

How can you have a dream when you have no previous memory, because you have nothing to imagine first and no knowledge to build off? How could I even know what life and death is, without some previously acquired knowledge? Call it whatever you want, Oedipus complex is fine by me but when I think of my father or my father’s father or even my mother’s father, I think of a mound of cold rotting earth. Also, that was the last time my mother agreed to let me or my brother go on weekly visitation I told her what happened and she knew enough not to let me go back to Freddy Krueger’s house. I was 10 before I saw him again and it was outside a court house where he was asking the judge for visitation. I am glad he never got granted visitation, I hope him and his father rot in a smelly hole, like all other Freemason bitches.

The sad truth is my step brother did not have the opportunity to escape my father’s, father and it is no surprise that he committed suicide, which I would say was murder.

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3 Responses to “About the Writer”

  1. It is on my website? Just copy it, I don’t know or care really

  2. Check out http://www.defenderpublishing.com They help you get your work published. Part of the http://www.rnn.com (www.raidersnewsnetwork) The Author of Apollyon Rising. Ok…You need to get your work published. Awesome job. btw, I can help edit perhaps. lol good luck.

    • Thanks for the comments Liltierette, I will check out defender publishing, and send them an email. But, if they can’t get books in a bookstore or library, they just wont sell or get read. And, all my blogs need to be turned into 100,000 word books that are well edited. Yeah, I need help editing bad so any help would be great. Right now I have been working a lot on the http://www.Toxictours.com site but no one is logging on, so that is a little disturbing.

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