Horror…
The first step of this great journey of rediscovery is complete. We’ve made it to our initial landing spot at the lake house on the cliff. It’s a beautiful landing spot to say the least. I’ve been freed from the shackles of debt and I’ve gotten my daughter to a safer place for her to start her schooling. She’s so excited to ride the school bus to her A rated kindergarten. Unfortunately, she missed the age cutoff. She’ll get her chance in 2022. My daughter is a marvel. She’s better than my wife and I in the most important ways. She has a boundless optimism. If it can’t be done today, there’s always tomorrow. That sums up Kerrigan. I assume most children have a pure enthusiasm for life. They aren’t jaded by the abuses of the world yet. My goal is to help my daughter avoid my own demons. Its funny, horror to my daughter isn’t a scary monster or a natural disaster. To Kerrigan, horror is missing out on riding the coin operated carousel at the grocery store. It got me thinking, what is my real horror? I eat, breath, and write blood and guts. I’ve immersed myself in creep. Very few scary movies unnerve me. My horror is much more banal. Here’s the pitch.
Picture a family in the early 80’s, riding the boom of supply-side economics. They have a Lamborghini in the garage parked beside a BMW and their back-up car, a Mercedes. The father and son race motorcycles and the much doted upon daughter is the star of the local theater community. They rub elbows with politicians, celebrities, and all that that entails. They have made it. Then the youngest son is born. Like a two headed oxen, he is a grim omen. With his birth comes the collapse of the family business. The wealth is lost. The older siblings hunger for the silver spoon that’s been ripped from their mouths. They take out their frustrations on the youngest. The mother and father’s marriage ends, although they don’t admit it until 14 years later. The youngest is born with generational skills. He has a photographic memory, natural musical talent, and artistic abilities that stun the community college art teachers who mentored him. His High School professor wrote a personal letter to his parents stating that their child could be the next Ernest Hemingway. As an adult, he wonders what would have been if he hadn’t also contracted the mental illness his parents don’t believe in. What if he hadn’t been the subject of verbal and emotional abuse? What if he’d been in a loving home instead of one that quickly became a den of neglect? Maturity tells him that these questions or impotent mental flagellation. Life is a one way path. No amount of therapy removes the stain of knowing that your own blood doesn’t believe in you. So, the child turns to the internet to find a new family. He finds a professional madame who becomes the sounding board for his sexuality. He finds kindred spirits in Slade and Sage. He finds an unending addiction to any stimulation that remove him from his thoughts for even a split second. He tastes the needle, but opts for the pill bottle as its more inconspicuous. When the drugs aren’t enough, he turns to promiscuity. He dodges the STI bullet only to contract a degenerative brain condition that leads to blood pouring from his ears in the middle of English class. He’s told he’s going to be dead by 30. So, he lives life on a razor’s edge. He starts fighting in the streets, bars, and anywhere else he can put his life on the line. He destroys every meaningful relationship he’s ever had, because he thinks this is the end. The constant pain in his skull and consistent hearing loss make him hopeful that it will all be over soon. Then 30 comes and goes, and he’s still there. Seated amidst the ashes of smoldering bridges, he realizes why they call medicine a practice. Alongside the pain there’s a new voice chiming in with opinions. “You don’t belong here,” it says. “You should go.” He realizes the voice is his own.
This is my horror.
The only thing that keeps me going is the knowledge that I could still redeem myself. I could still get a publishing deal, however unlikely it may be. I could do one last gallery show of my full-scale sculpture, even if they’re shit. How many achievements does it take to redeem so much wasted potential?
Let’s be honest, on a one way path—there is no redemption. We endeavor to erase the stains which cannot be cleansed from within us. No matter how much we scrub with SSRI’s and Opiates, their outline remains.
We are forever left wanting.
