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22. how he will plead with me to go back
I realised that no matter how beautiful something was in the world it would be destroyed. And that the more beautiful it was, the more potential it had for being destroyed. I had seen the most adorable expressions on the faces of the dogs in death row at the inhumane societies that destroyed them. I saw a dog with the needle of death swinging in its bony shoulder. He had the most beautiful adorable expression on his face as he was put to death. He became a fur rag mat in the arms of the workers. His flip-flop head leaning against their white tunics, his pink tongue falling out and the black nose that stopped twitching for scent. The dog kept that adorable expression until the end. The dog had never lost hope that someone would notice that expression until the end. But look at all the good it did that dog. He was murdered. He was put to death with that vague disappointment on his face, the killer drug placed inside his heart, for no other reason than being unwanted. Within seconds he became a fur rag mat tossed into a barrel, along with the hundreds of others, his claws and legs sticking out like sticks. I hold the image of this dog in my mind, like you would hold your first dead bird in your palm, the blood still warm beneath the feathers and skin. Yet it is dead and not part of your life as you would want it. I hold this dog in the still windless part of me like a dead flower, fragile and papery until the petals separate and crumble into powder as fine as pollen. This dog is not unlike the dead flowers in the vase that you throw out into the back garden. Their death doesn't remind you of their living or their lives before you received them as the sad genitals of plants, the flush of sex and romance on your cheeks and neck. Now they are tossed into your neglected garden, so that their death doesn't remind you of what you and your lover did to them. One day you yourself might end, as your love, along with everything else, and your lover might end. The lesson: completely cut contact. They'll come after you pounding down your door, you know that. If you open it just an inch, they'll kick that door down, right in your face. If they find any way into you they'll take it. That's the only power they have. If they can't find you they'll kill you either quickly or slowly, and how destroyed you are as a person by this stage, determines how noiselessly or how quietly you will die. But I went noisily and kicked out as he kicked into me and came forward to smash my face in. Even more than the physical pain I was being spiritually annihilated. Apart from the beating I was dying from the heart out. I fought whilst drowning in hatred, that I had caught from him like a disease. I had read his book of hatred and had memorised the lines. He was so weak and full of hatred that he always thought the opposite sex, the blacks, or the Jews had the upper hand. He brought out this portrait of Hitler and said, 'Don't you think Hitler is a good looking bloke?' But I didn't think so. I thought Hitler was actually quite ugly and far away from the Aryan ideal that he promoted. And as I looked at Frazer, who was smirking, I could see his ugliness behind that portrait of Hitler. I saw how his beady grey-blue eyes were now littered with the solid remnants of cigarette smoke, with globules as thick as minerals, and how his strawberry-blonde hair had all but left his head with that reddish tinge. Yet still he hated anything apart from his ideal of perfection. He was just the type to hate the world. The nicest thing about the picture was the golden frame and my wide eyes that framed the scene, as I added ethics to my own disgust. They'll walk across the fire to get to you, and use every charm in the book as their only weapon. He is already living violently amongst others, and has been slowly murdering himself for years. His life is a chamber of weak little horrors, and now he's on his way to murder you. Please cut all contact. If you don't, you're a bloody idiot. You will become pathetic, like those lit-up signs along freeways in Canada saying, 'Please Don't Drink And Drive' when you really want to be like the signs in Australia that say, 'Drink And Drive And You're A Bloody Idiot', or like the signs in the United States, 'Don't Drink And Drive, Arsehole!' Your relationship is where he is prepared to push you, which is to the bottom of the barrel as he kicks it over the edge. That is not love, that is hate. Unfortunately the violence always escalates. Or you can believe the biggest lie in the world, or the biggest false promise. Definition of the biggest false promise in the world: All together now, 'Please come back to me and I promise I'll never hit you again'. Why do they always say the same thing? In the same way as all the other hopeless bashers in the self-help books and films written by women have said it? But why did he have to say it too? As if they held this predisposition in their pages or scripts to be so easily categorised. As if it was genetically imprinted somewhere inside them. It was so predictable that he would say it too. I need the mystery of love, not the publicity of hate. Hate is hard to put my finger on. Hate is the violence that is ever-present amidst the false love and always escalating. Hate never satisfies itself. Now that they've already been there, they know they can do that now. It felt good in many ways, and once there they never stop at just that. They're on their way to one step further. Use every bit of your self-esteem to leave the situation quickly. Cross when the lights turn green and just keep walking. Go quietly and efficiently like you are on your way to work. Even if you panic and feel that you have left your purse behind, do not go back to get it. Leave whatever you have been cooking to boil over on the stove. The house may burn down with everything you have inside it. But, after all, it's just a big old house up there on the hill. Try not to think about it and likewise about the next unknown street as you rush towards it. In this escape story you are the main player gaining control of your present and future. The most important character is you, in this your hour of rushing. I had enough self-esteem to walk out after being bashed, and I should have enough to escape if he follows. So all the dogs of the world and the gods of the dogs are dead. Yet it is you who are evil and survive. You who had the reputation in the city. You whom I heard one angry man talk about. You always liked to make them angry. Until one man who was the same as the other man said, 'That sort of man is my enemy. I would like to take him out behind a shed and put a bullet into him'. Frazer was an expert at chaos, both in breaking down his own life and in breaking other people's lives down. But he couldn't break me. I had already been broken. He couldn't smash the same dish twice. |
