(20) The memo

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(20) The memo

Shoot yourself in the fucking head, or I will."

It was as short as that.

It needed nothing else.

It savagely meant what it said.

A product of violence driven to extremes by a hatred and repugnance exacerbated and made more unbearable as each day passed.

Rotten layers of a perverse reality were peeled off only to reveal even fouler putrefaction just beneath.

This malignant core was an absolutely nauseating abomination.

The proper action is to thoroughly disgorge, pulverize, and eradicate this pulsating tumour by any means necessary and with any weapon and tool available.

The day was drawing to an end.

The sky digested the sun in sinister shadows that added

to the gloom of vivid colours announcing a final

screaming death

This is what it's like when the last nerves expire painfully.

As each twitch stops moving and as each sound goes silent, the darkening lifelessness grows in the limbo.

No one to my knowledge ever came back from this state to describe what happens next.

Silence and lack of movement are the results considered complete and satisfactory in these cases.

That's when it is permitted and appropriate to walk away.

To avoid feeling the need to further mutilate or exacerbate the lifeless mass, it is recommended to give in to all the savagery and violence your being can muster and channel it into creating the most absolute physical massacre in possible terms of the least recognizable scattered dismemberment of the human body.

No care needs to be given to whatever you wish to name the resulting leftover.

The process of nature will bring decomposition on its own.

It is good to spit or urinate on the filth before turning away, though, as a final middle finger equivalent.

If I could have left the grounds earlier, the memo would have been written and executed by someone else, as I hope not to be the only one capable of executing a memo.

Probably not.

Anyhow, in this case, I was the one tied by fate to write this one.

The length of time is very determining, from the onset of realization and the peeling of layers.

As a fermentation process, the length of time will expose the full potential of aroma in detail.

The same occurs with rot and decay.

A time comes when a state of saturation is reached, like pus under the skin forming under a sore in the skin to force its way out; a body will bloat with gases after rigour mortis, and it is useless not to execute a memo.

If not, these morbid states will contaminate or kill you.

It is a question of hygienic cleansing, social rightfulness, and self-respect.

If it is done too late after the time is ripe, the whole thing might die on its own without the final pulverization and destruction of it as described.

However, should you ever be able to detect it early, before the onset of any pathology, proceed immediately regardless of how undeserved it seems. This feeling is caused by a limitation within our senses.

Don't get fooled; it is exactly what will get you to write a memo.

I was at such a point now.

Having seen with each day a more gross and disgusting layer beneath each peeling back of reality, the time was ripe to execute a memo.

This step is done in silence.

The words are never shared with the recipient.

The only reason a memo is put into writing is to secretly seal into reality what is to come.

It is a green light and red carpet at the same time for the destruction to unfold.

The festering incarnation of intoxication will simply be without any warning, explanation, or justification about what is to come.

No prior interaction is worthy of it.

It will, in fact, weaken and distract you in the channelling of your task, thereby compromising the result.

At this point, once the words are written, fate is sealed like blood flowing from a wound.

The blood leaks down the skin from multiple wounds as a reminder in my mind that the time is near for murder.

It was with this persistent image of blood flowing on skin that I got up during the night.

Only the moon and stars could be considered my companions, casting a dim light on the scene unfolding.

There was a crowbar on the table in the corner.

The kitchen drawer had the perfect knife with a long, broad blade.

There was lighter fluid in one of the cupboards above the stove.

I gathered these and quietly made my way to the room at the end of the hall.

It was the third and largest room in the place.

I left the lighter fluid on the desk near the bed.

Gripping the crowbar tightly in the left hand and the kitchen knife tightly in the right hand, I began without a shout or warning to bash his head in with the crowbar, alternating with a deep stab of the knife anywhere in the abdomen.

In no time, with this bash and stab movement, blood was flying in all directions.

The body's head was a pulp in no time, and the torso was a bleeding river.

My hands, arms, and body dripped from being covered during the onslaught.

Even when it was clear no sound and movement were present any longer in the body, I continued the back-and-forth pummelling and stabbing, lost in my thoughts about the day's end in all its gloom and vivid death.

When I regained my senses, I reached for the lighter fluid, completely emptied it over the gory, slippery mess, and put the torch flame to it.

It caught on instantly in flames, like happy jack-o'-lantern smiles; the flames danced like teeth, hungry to devour the offering.

Before the stench of roasting flesh became too appetizing, I quickly remembered to spit and urinate on the mass.

It felt like pissing on a campfire, but only much better.

I promptly turned around and exited the bedroom, leaving the flames to engulf the scene.

As I walked down the hall towards the exit, I could hear the sound of the fellow roommates waking from their slumber, surprised at what their senses were registering. By the time I reached the bottom floor and pushed open the door, the night greeted me with a brisk blast of cold air.

I walked across the parking lot bristling with morbid joy.

I felt a pride and relief impossible to convey by words.

The look on my blood-splattered face described my passion in all accuracy.

My mouth showed my teeth clenched together, a rabid reminder of the savage impulse let loose and consumed in violent action.

My eyes had an obsessed stare.

A gaze transfixed with a mesmerizing and sombre mystery to it.

I followed the sidewalk until I reached the old cemetery gates.

I walked on the path and sat against a tree stump.

The sky slowly showed signs of resurrecting the day.

A new day free of a nauseating abomination.

The deeds of the night dissipating and taking the shape of purity and cleansing.

The abscess is drained.

The pus ran dry.

Nothing left but the promise of new growth from the ashes.

As I heard the police sirens wail in my direction, I reached in my coat's inner pocket and pulled out my revolver.

With one breath I quickly directed the tip to my head and pulled the trigger.