The Benefit of Being Numb
by Rush Montgomery III
Kurt looked down at the city's lights. For a moment the world was smeared with the glaze of too much medication, giving the traffic below a liquid appearance. Radiant amoebas swirled and intertwined, molesting one another with their threads of luminescence.
What am I doing? he managed to think. This is all fucked up.
Kurt leaned a little too far over the edge of the building rooftop on which he had perched. His hand slid on the coarse concrete lip of the roof's parapet, and was immediately warm with a flood of fresh blood.
Christ, the colors, Kurt commented of the world that even still danced rhythmically beneath him. It all seemed to pulse to the beat of a patternless and almost incomprehensible song.
Tires on pavement. Angry motorists honking. Tired engines revving.
Beep. Honk. Click. Slam. Scream.
Doors. Tires. People. Dogs.
Kurt stumbled away from the world orchestra and teetered on one weak leg momentarily. His mind reeled, his world shifted dramatically from wonder to fear, and he toppled helplessly onto his back. He thought for a moment to focus on the pain in his lower back, he thought for a moment to focus on the warm river of blood which was filling his palm and soaking his right sleeve, and then eventually decided to focus instead on his heart, which was beating out of his chest.
My God, I'm dying, he decided, and fumbled with his good hand, trying to grip a large enough portion of reality to set himself upright. Instead, Kurt gripped an empty pill bottle.
Across a swirling maelstrom of hallucination, Kurt's left hand reeled in the bottle, in the hopes that he could reach his limited field of vision. Pulling and pulling across the endless haze, his hand – with bottle in tow – pulled to a stop just beyond the tip of his nose.
Zoloft, it read.
What have I done? his mind asked. Even throughout the pain and confusion, he was able to question his actions, yet with the questions he asked, more questions surfaced.
How did I get here? Why did I take these pills? Am I dying?
My God, I'm dying.
Through the haze, Kurt noticed a shapeless form swimming. It bobbed rhythmically from side to side. It grew and grew and grew until it seemed to fill his field of view. It twisted and contorted and the top portion seemed to shrink and fold in on itself. Then, just as the top seemed to vanish completely, it was apparent that it was actually growing. More that growing, it was moving closer.
Someone is with me, Kurt finally realized. This shapeless form was a person, and they were leaning in close to him.
"Hello, Kurt," the person said. It was a familiar voice, and Kurt was more than surprised to realize that he could understand them.
Kurt tried for a moment to reply, and eventually came to the realization that it would not be possible. His mind was awash with strange vision as if he were lost in a waking dream. He could not speak, he could not move, but he could understand.
"You've really fucked up this time," the voice spoke again.
Have I? he asked himself. He couldn't make much sense of what he was seeing, but he was slightly aware of the fact that he had not done this to himself. His head ached with a dull throb. Had he hit his head earlier during the fall? No, he was sure it had hurt from the very beginning.
"You"ve always been a fucking wasted pillhead," the voice spoke. It was muffled and warped, like playback from a melted record, but it was becoming familiar, as if he was able to tune it in through the interference. The voice was Kurt's wife Cynthia.
"You think you'd be a better parent then me, Kurt?" she asked, knowing he couldn’t respond. "You think you can just take my baby away from me?"
"I –" Kurt gasped. It was a word. He had managed a word, and it felt surreal. He seemed to focus on that one word, that self-defining pronoun, for an eternity. He was more than surprised that he was able to say anything at all, and extremely dismayed to suddenly be drowned by the realization that he would be unable to finish his sentence.
There was something in his mouth. It was cold and hard, but no other feature of the item was immediately apparent. It was cold and hard, and it tasted somewhat like blood. It wasn't blood.
"No one will miss a washed-up pillhead," Cynthia said and punctuated with a snap of her fingers. It wasn't her fingers. It was a familiar sound, and it wasn't the sound of finger snapping.
There was a flood of vision, perhaps even a flood of realization. Kurt could see his childhood, sitting under a bridge and playing a dime store guitar poorly. There was the seedy clubs, the smoke-filled bars, the sound of punk music.
Screaming. Banging. Stomping.
Beep. Honk. Click. Slam. Scream.
Kurt had met his best friend in a underground punk club. His friend's name was Steve. Kurt called him Steve-o. Steve-o would take him to other local punk and hard rock clubs. Steve-o introduced Kurt to Phil.
Phil was a pusher. Phil dealt in weed. Phil dealt in coke. Phil dealt in OTC pharmaceuticals.
Kurt bought weed. Kurt bought coke. Kurt bought Zoloft, Xanax, Lithium, Prozac, Adderall, Straterra, Concerta, Ritalin, Dexedrine.
If Jesus wanted the world to love, he should have given Zoloft to his disciples.
Phil had given him every feel-good drug known to man. Phil had also introduced Kurt to Cynthia. Cynthia was also into weed, coke and OTC meds. During punk shows, Kurt and Cynthia would screw in the maintenance closet behind the stage. There was something about having sex with an audience cheering, something that made it all better.
It was at one such rendezvous that their daughter Piper was conceived. Piper was an angel sent from God. A God, oddly enough, whom Kurt had grown to hate.
"Where are you, fuckhead?" Cynthia asked, obviously aware of Kurt’s drug-induced daydreams. "I need you here for the finale."
The cold, hard object stirred in his mouth. His teeth clicked against it, but Kurt couldn't feel the sensation directly. It was almost as if he was dreaming the entire event.
Blood, Kurt thought of the taste. It wasn’t blood, it was metal.
It wasn't finger snapping, it was the hammer click of a handgun.
Phil had introduced Kurt to Cynthia. Cynthia and Kurt had a daughter, Piper. Piper was three and Cynthia suggested they should have protection against anyone who might hurt them. Cynthia had convinced Kurt to buy a handgun.
There had been fights and arguments. Piper had gone for days to stay with grandma. Sometimes days were weeks. Kurt and Cynthia would fight. There would be loud arguments, shouting, arms flailing.
There would be weed, there would be coke, there would be OTC meds and fucking on the floor.
Kurt began to pray. If the complete absence of God was leaving Kurt in a world of shit and drug-abuse, perhaps the smallest bit of God added to his life couldn’t possibly hurt anything.
Out of the haze, Kurt began to view his own life. There was too much weed, there was too much coke, there were too many pharmaceuticals. Kurt would have to slow down, to back out. He'd have to get his life straight.
This suggestion was passed to Cynthia, but it's common knowledge that one person's epiphany is not easily shared with others. She was not receptive to the thought and scoffed and laughed at Kurt. Kurt had decided to leave Cynthia.
"I can't leave Piper with her," he had confided in Steve-o. Steve-o was his best friend and would surely understand. What's more, he would surely help him break away from Cynthia and live a normal life with his daughter.
Steve-o was Kurt's best friend, but weak to the desires of the flesh. Many nights, he had rolled lustfully on the floor with Cynthia, who had pulled him deep inside her. Through sweaty kisses, he had revealed Kurt’s plan, almost as the punchline to some cruel joke.
Screaming. Banging. Stomping.
Beep. Honk. Click. Slam. Scream.
There had been a phone call to Kurt.
"Meet me downtown on the roof of the Walker Building," Cynthia had asked. It was a place they had often gone to have sex. The view of the stars from the rooftop was breathtaking. "We need to talk."
Kurt had gone, had walked out onto the rooftop. There was an explosion of light, like a camera flashbulb popping. The world tilted.
Suddenly, even trough the haze, everything made sense again.
My God, I'm dying.
Unknowingly to Kurt, and ceasing all remaining memory, the hammer fell.
posted by Zipdot | 11:34 AM
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