death as Chaddwick

I repositioned myself on the other side of the booth that I have been sitting at alone, allowing for me to finally see the other person sitting across from me. I tried to be as hesitant as possible as I take in what I had been deliberately depriving myself of .

Head resting heavily on the tired leather , back bent in, stomach pushed out and free, he sat alone from the waist up. I self consciously follow his bare arms down, where I quickly become humiliated as I am now the intruder, and I immediately hate myself for giving in to my impulse to switch seats.

For an hour or so in-between sips and premonitions I had nervously watched this man, but only through bunched up tables and empty chairs, with expected disappointment he was my unrecognizable friend, that I had no plans of meeting.

A figure, reclining on her knees, squatted uncomfortably between the man’s legs, while the table, as if balancing on her head, shifted rhythmically above her. It is startling to see another figure. As if performing on stage in a mini theater underneath this man’s table she moves her head back and forth, her lips stretched wide, a gaping hole, endless if the eyes allowed it, but they didn’t; and neither did he. Such constraints are not for him, he yearns for what lies beyond that which she has to offer. My ignominy is what allows my unfettered observation and as I work my way out of her mouth and into the darkness, his violent tattooed hands steal me away; soaking wet and pulsating red, tighten on the mass between his legs, I struggle to allow the scene its innocence, its communal assurance. My uncertainty prevents me from being aroused, the public disregard, even in a dive like this, keeps me from seeing the passion, and then; the recognition of the tattoo, suddenly prevent the man from being a stranger.

I had never actually met Lucas Chaddwick, the writer. In fact, it hurts me to even think of him as such, but I had read his “articles” online, and referred to them myself as poor journalism, a contrived and shabby attempt at intellectual gossip, naming names but never revealing the true hypocrisy and pretentiousness I think he was going for. The few people he managed to upset with his words, lacked self-perceptiveness, and gave it the only validity he was searching for; and that single thought was as foul as the sight of him in person.

Inward ruminations had now distanced me from the actual scene that was taking place, trying to refocus I once again had to fight through my overbearing opponent, I knew I could not allow my hatred for his writing to unjustly reveal the situation. Recognizing the man, and boiling over my opinions of his disgusting writing, had displaced the moment. I had to start from the beginning.

I did not know this man, and as thoughts occupy a time that massacres the real, I once again felt ashamed with myself, and instead of shifting seats, I now shifted focus. My insides begin to shrivel up instantly as I no longer felt the emptiness in my stomach that was put in place to preserve inebriation. Every organ seems to have collapsed inward to form one authoritative mass, I momentarily visualize it inside me and it parallels the shape between his legs. The inner turmoil that manifests so rapidly inside my gut outwardly takes hold, I thrust multiple blows upon my stomach smashing the head that had manifested itself, no longer is my own visibility a concern, if they gave a shit about me, I’ll hear about it in his bullshit article “Peeping Tom, beats himself up alone in bar, donations welcomed for massive unpaid tab…”

I’m distraught for being here, and entangled in feeling worse for thinking even for a second of turning a blind eye to what I am witnessing. Although both parties are offensive, I assume only one experiences even the shallowest of pleasures. Randomly perhaps, I attempt to shove my fist down my throat, a futile endeavor, a hopeful distraction. I gag a little, and think of how I’d like to place the blame on my small hands; which are rather large actually, intimidating even.

The yearning I have for understanding, reverts to a brutalizing thought of missing my opportunity to intervene and prevent a crime. Why have I squandered my chance of heroism, and replaced it with temperamental self-diagnosed masochism. I have failed her and myself. I grasp the sides of my face and hold it stiffly in her direction as she looks more and more desperate than just a minute earlier.

I am etched into place, I suddenly realize I am not just looking into her eye, but she is looking into mine. It screams “I am being abused! He is raping me!!!” Her familiarity is striking, If he cums in her mouth is it over? If this is abuse, and ejaculation is the finality, is it worth intervening? Would I be worth the praise, am I deserving of the title hero, clearly the answer is no.

The distance between them and myself fluctuates within my imagination. She gets up from under the table and sits lovingly in his arms; allowing me to breath a sigh of relief; while they sip the last of their drinks and head out the door, together holding hands; laughing about how obnoxious their public display was; she would joke about looking me in the eye right as he was about to explode into her mouth, he would call me an asshole, and adjust his pants…If this doesn’t happen, then preventing me from sitting alone and running through the entire scenario I created in my head of abuse, I will force myself to take action.

Blood shot eyes. My sweat has topped the both of them. My heart wants to come out of my mouth as it beats heavily in the center of my throat, literally asphyxiating me. I wonder how she breathes.

“Show me one sign of affection,” I plead. “I dare you.” No, this man is literally holding this woman’s face down onto his cock, with even the slightest motion of escape he will snap her neck and finish off anyway, he must be murmuring threats down under the table out, I feel the need to hear what he is saying, I need to be close to him I’ve thought of this moment many times before; falling victim to a victim, and arguing for equality.

My face in his crotch, lips wrapped around his unwashed cock, back and fourth, every time like a bullet into my brain carving itself into my memory his hands on the back of my head remind me of my weakness, my fragility, they feel embedded into my skull. I know if I stop he will crush me, I start to contemplate If I just finish him off…I could get out of here and forget about it, yet if it were up to me, I wouldn’t be under the table to begin with. Death sounds like a better option all together. I fully realize at the same time that the continuance and the fulfillment of his desire, may very well result in that anyway, I’m almost inviting it now.

My hands, without a place to go, have been wedged between the back of my leg and calf; for the first time I remember them with purpose and pull them gently out. I slide them up my thigh examining the coarseness of my tattered jeans with the sleekness of my skin where the holes abruptly surprise my senses , my fingers caress up to my hips, and drop down past my waist, and excitedly back down to my ass, and into the pocket of my favorite jeans where I keep my keys.

There are four of them. The smallest one, is the key to my front door, it is round at the top and slightly bent, due to the lock being constantly jammed, I have always thought how if trying to escape from someone, this is where I would be caught and meet my demise. The second, is to a screen door of the apartment building, about six feet away from mine and my neighbor’s doors, if one wanted they could push through the screen with little effort, we all complain of the nuisance and the uselessness of it, but do nothing about it. I finger my way amongst these small pieces of metal that signify my own little private spaces till I reach the third key. The third one is to my mother’s home.  She passed away a few years ago, and the house is no longer in the family, when she was alive I never had to use it, she was always home when I visited. It is longer then any key I have ever seen, a joke amongst my friends. The tip of my finger moves along the teeth feeling the undulating and unyielding skeletal structure, until the head of it is nestled in my palm and the opposite end juts out through my knuckles.

It all seems to be so simple as I take one last glance up at the one who has forgotten I existed. I put my opposite hand across the space above the navel and it reminds me of a place we all once belonged. I use it to springboard myself off my knees and onto my feet as I stare into the eyes of my prey, an easy target, weak and pathetic. I raise the key above my head and to avoid dramatic effect thrust it down so rapid I nearly miss my mark… The key lands in the outer edge of his left eye socket, the noise he makes interrupts the hollow room with is more then I could have hoped for. I have never received such a standing ovation in my life, but in this gluttonous moment, something tastes even better than applause; without delay, I give them what they want and drive the key down into the opposite eye; then left again, then right, until there is no differentiation, and as I continue the face of Chaddwick closes in on itself, just a gaping hole in its place. It feels so good that I shove my left hand into the target area and continue stabbing with what now appears to be a glistening saber. My opposed hand sacrifices itself for my need to penetrate, and provides a fresh target. After what seems like only seconds of hammering into the pit that now exceeds the skull and reveals the leather from the booth that once provided comfort and support, the bone in my thumb snaps oddly back from one of the blows, and extends back into my direction, pointing directly into my eyes.

I turn away, knowing all to well I have let him down once again. It is time for me to take my keys and go. Shifting my weight over to the left I reach underneath into the right pocket of my favorite jeans and come up empty handed. Shamefully, I look down to face my accuser who has already found a way to make matters worse, pants unzipped left hand holding on to a flaccid penis. If I only could have just found a way to get some enjoyment out of this whole thing.

(Art created by Anat Wegier, who lives and works in Tel Aviv, Israel.)


Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *