276 The Struggles Behind Closed Doors

There appears to have been a struggle. Something violent. Something had finally snapped. Something terrible. It must have been quite the commotion, but the sound clatter was over. The strikes and blows were over now.

This struggle had strewn the debris that spoke of advantage vs disadvantage. Woulda vs shoulda. Coulda vs all of the subjunctive remedies we deny ourselves before it's too late. The subjunctibe mood is a fuse, once lit, that takes things to their explosive end. This story moved beyond the subjunctive through the passive-aggressive, then the agressive-aggressive. The tableau of the disembodied parts told a story of how one capitalized on knowing another's weaknesses, soft spots, and vulnerabilities.

Some fights are over material things. Or a lover. Or between lovers. Or because of jealousy. Some have reasons forgotten before the fight ends, making identifying the winner impossible. Others cherry pick which commandments were violated.

Not this one.

This one was evidenced by something quite different. And personal. I surveyed the aftermath of blood, sinews, and even the gray matter that had stood in somebody's way. An obstacle someone couldn't abide. An irresistible force had encountered an immovable object, and nuclear fusion then created a new universe of tumult and shuddering immiscibles.

Upon entering, I was visibly moved. I knew what I was looking at. It occurred to me that I was more sentient of my own hurt, to see what I saw, cutting deeply into my sensibilities. As if I'd been involved. I felt shame that must've emerged from the ugly scene that had only recently ended, smoldering in disgust and disappointment.

How could such a disagreement come to such carnage? There were no winners here, certainly. You don't need much of a body count to strike a pose of terminal pathos.

But this wasn't the first time I'd opened a door to join a morgue. Truthfully, you only need one finger to count to one. The struggles I have with myself leave me bleeding grace and atonement.

It takes two to fight, it's been said. Now I wonder. That's never been true for someone like me. I open the doors of rooms to clean up what's left of my struggles within.