So . . .
The other day, I wrote a post about an imagined version of my father’s final moments.
My imagined truth, it was called.
I like that version.
But this version here today is also possible.
Both versions and several others live in my imagination.
Contrary and contradictory and complicated and tangled.
Uneasy co-existence.
Uneasy magic.
So here we go . . .
A small room.
He is decades past the point where the drinking brings him any sort of pleasure, but he drinks. He drinks to live. His body and his mind are so tangled in the poison’s ivied effects, he no longer knows where he ends and the alcohol begins.
He drinks to live.
The longest relationship he has ever had.
It poisons him and it feeds him, and he no longer gives a shit either way.
He drinks to live.
He smokes. He has always smoked. He enjoys the rituals and the heat of that small round flame and the feel of the smoke as the warm tendrils reach within him.
Bring the poison.
He is Rasputin.
All these fucking years . . . and here he still stands.
Bring the fucking poison.
Run it through his motherfucking veins.
He has magic.
He surveys the room from his seat on the couch.
A small room.
A small ugly furnished room, but it doesn’t matter. He is larger than this room. Bigger than this space. Where he lives is not as important as the existence of him. He is more than his surroundings. This hardship, this deprivation, this less . . . it will only serve to make him bigger and stronger and more.
Although he is tired of waiting.
His breath is ragged at the thought of all the cruelty he has been forced to endure.
What he has been forced to withstand.
His vision fogs with hatred.
So many betrayals. So many people who deserve to pay. So many people who have failed him.
A life filled with the poisons of small-minded others.
His hands shake at the memory of what has been taken.
Of what has been ripped from his grasp.
Of what was his.
Bring the motherfucking poison.
He drinks.
He is magic.
These hands are magic. This mind is magic. This imagination is magic. This talent is magic.
Magic takes.
Magic takes what it wants.
It so fucking does.
With these hands and this mind and this imagination and this talent . . .
He took.
He drinks again.
It is incomprehensible to him, even after all these years, that what he took . . . that what he held in these hands of magic . . . turned on him.
Turned on him and took . . . everything.
Turned on him and spit poison into his face.
Turned on him and spit and took joy in the resultant corrosion.
He taught her too well, perhaps.
She was more like him than he imagined.
A worthier match than he suspected.
The irony is not lost on him, and he drinks again.
Bring the motherfucking poison.
He’s not going anywhere.
He will sit here amidst them. Biding his time. Making them sweat. His time will come.
Their time will come.
Her time will come. Stupid cunt thinking this is over. Stupid motherfucking cunt thinking she can make him nothing. That she can take him down. Thinking she can move on with her life and he will just fade into the shadows. He will rip her from the light into these shadows . . . he will reach right up into her and rip her to pieces.
He has magic.
She knows he has magic.
He has magic and he has poison, and she will pay.
He’s not going anywhere.
Bring the motherfucking poison.
He is right here.
He drinks.
He stands and walks to the bathroom. Flicks his cigarette into the toilet as he takes a piss. Holds himself a moment.
Considers the possibility of leaving this room to find some company.
A small bargain.
That’s where he made his mistake . . . women are whores. All women are whores. He knew that and he forgot.
All women are whores.
Look at the price he has been forced to pay.
Whores.
He fondles himself as he steps to the sink and gazes into the mirror.
The ravage that faces him is beyond belief.
Poison’s effects.
He is filled with hate even as he hardens in his hand.
Bring the motherfucking poison.
Let it run through his veins.
He is Rasputin.
He will be here until his magic is fulfilled.
He sinks into the couch.
He drinks.
He wraps his hand around himself and closes his eyes.
A vision dances before him.
Small children, their faces freckled, their hair glossy in the sunlight. He reaches for a single tress and feels the ribboned silk glide across his roughened hands.
Yes.
He breathes the mingled scent of soap and sand and smoke.
Yes.
He hears them calling for him with waving hands and happy voices.
Yes.
The smile of his small daughter.
Oh, yes.
She reaches for him.
God, yes.
Bring the motherfucking poison.
Let it course through his veins.
He is magic.
Magic takes.
It so fucking does.
He will reach right up into her and rip her to pieces.
Yes.
He is Rasputin.
He will be here until his magic is fulfilled.
Bring the poison.
He drinks.
One last time.
Yes.
