Fair Exchange, No Robberies

Dark Memoirs - Index

There are at least two kinds of people in the world: those who write this half-arsed kind of intro to a story that looks to separate the rare and the norm, and those who realise it's an overused framing device and don't.

I am very much in camp latter, not former. In case you wondered. In case you whispered the question in your head like a prayer to God, Santa, or that guy who was present throughout your first two decades on this planet. You know the one. The guy who took your mum to bed of a night.

Looking back I think I always had problems. No I know I did.

Problems with disconnection and detachment. I really love people, but people are full of clichés, like people are unreliable and unpredictable. People are cruel as the world is cruel and people have heart.

Their hearts are inconsistent and treacherous. You know the sort of clichés I'm speaking of already.

I don't often look in the mirror. Afraid of what I might see? No. I already know what I will see and no I don't like it.

Every second spent in front of a looking glass is a wasteful use of precious time. Self-loathing is a full-time vocation and one I do fine enough without looking at that appalling fucker.

As the last person so many people see before they expire, I do feel they're relieved by death's imminent arrival. Fair exchange no robberies as the trade-off is the darkened realisation that dances across their face as I call time. I'd say it gives me a sense of purpose and even delight, but I'm far beyond driven by more than just basal human needs.

Glib. That's a word not used nearly enough. Even in my heavy-on-the-gravitas-and-erudition memoirs, it feels apt. As defined in Collins Dictionary, glib describes something as easy and fluent, but often in a deceptive, superficial, or insincere way.

Perfect.

Seek thou sanctuary in my bosom, the destitute and lowly, for I am not your saviour, but a man neither kindly nor compassionate. I can help you. Help you disrobe all of the pain you suffer corporeally and usher you into a new plane of existence — cessation.

If you don't immediately understand, it's okay. You will or won't in time.

Anecdotally, that strange mix of pale-faced terror and lack of understanding is the hallmark of my greatest wards.

There was once a woman, up in years, a larger woman. Soft cheeked and I guess you'd say voluptuous or top-heavy, depending on whether you were a crass bastard or not.

Searching, she had been, until she stalked my peripheral vision. Taken aback, I would have been, had I not spent months preying on her, watching her fold, her collapse inward, surrendering to the damp, desperate pleasures she hunted in those parts of town where life is lived and destroyed on dice or under the crack of broken leather.

Her awkward, on-the-nose flirtations were noteworthy for her celebratory and complimentary candour—bright, overeager—died the moment she tried to dress the word 'cunt' in intellectual clothing.

Pretty she might have been in her prime. If she ever had a prime. But eager and open-minded, she was intrigued by the promise of cessation I offered.

She took her time performing the rituals I dictated. Disrobing and cleansing herself, as I observed, detached and disconnected. The sight of flesh a mere amuse-bouche before the essence beneath, waiting, writhing in need and want for me. Her very essence.

"Don't be gentle," were the last words she uttered, this side—the only side of existence she ever knew.

I wasn't.

Pride isn’t the word I’d choose, but it will do.

The crash that follows it barely registers anymore.

I’m long past sensation—past anything as small as want or need.

When imagination fails you and self-destruction finally brings you to my door.

Know this: it will all be over.

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