an evening from elsewhere

one enters the fairy tale reality stream, to the unfamiliar house.
you have brought your family with you. a visit, for dinner, a courtesy call. perhaps in the upper rooms, there are bears sleeping in nightclothes. furniture could be scented wood or biscuits. somehow, there are wolves present but not seen.
you try to place the feeling of the house. it’s neither-either from a child’s picture book you loved or was afraid of; or this could be a house you visited when you were a church monk, in a prior life, blessing old couples in cottage homes, in low valleys or countrysides.
in the dining hall, when the hosts have gone to the kitchen, to bring out servings, you see the man known as father, helping sister arrange her pillows at the head of the table. rudely she throws the pillows back at him, bitching about how she had not asked for help.
you tell the father straight: “next time, don’t bother doing anything for her if she didn’t ask.” the mother woman, of course, is distressed at the anger in the hall. you are seething. the ungrateful one deserves no love from her father. she has been like this for far too long. but before anyone else can speak, the hosts return with dinner meat.
yes, you could be sexually interested in the daughter of the house, or at least, momentarily in love. she is also one who owns a strange television. the news is on, in black and white. a classroom full of young students is shown. a girl, in white uniform shirt and dark pleated skirt, has her face buried in bent arms on the study desk – she is drowsy, possibly drugged or sick.
the teacher has announced the winner of the class – best exam results.
the teacher calls the sleeping girl several times before she struggles to awake. she rises from her table. she moves sluggishly to the front of the class. her shirt has begun unbuttoning itself. her uniform slowly falls off her pale body. from her breasts, downwards, her skin is blackened and blue, not from beatings, you understand, but from a disease – gangrene – decomposition.
“i know her,” you tell the young maiden of the house. “ I was eating ice cream with her in the restaurant behind your house.”
“at wendy’s” she offers.
you recall pine trees of moonless night, small roads winding to the plateau of a small hill where you were, with the dying-dining girl.
you then notice a family portrait in the TV hall. it begins to dawn on you as you watch it.
the painting, is of a hellish wasteland – a red and orange apocalyptic background. in the foreground, a husband, either with two daughters or a wife and child. it dawns on you. You had murdered him, for them. that is why there are no men in the house of the hosts.
your family is with you at the dining table, now placed in the TV room. you are explaining to the maiden, with a heavy, tired voice, with fatigue in your bones. “I may be the youngest in the family. but I am also the oldest.” you are referring to your spirit. you bring up the memory of a man in black. long haired and timeless. you know you belong to another family, one of immortal beings, where eons are but a tick of a clock (time does not exist when you are forever)
the girl says, “but what mistake did the dream lord make?”
i see the cycle of a white being, turning into a black being and back again. this is not a mistake but a process. you do not or cannot answer her question.
the hosts disappear into hidden rooms, possibly preparing something final before you depart with the family. the mother woman takes this chance to start panicking again, about the outburst in the dining room. her body seems malleable, falling apart, like a light image breaking down. you explain calmly, “it’s not that i’m telling father not to do anything for sister…”
you are in the driveway outside the house.
The minibus has come to drop off people and take you home. you see the girl from television, on board. bright, sultry, gothic, undead. she is in a fine, white silk blouse and black skirt. in her aura you see her technological paintings. advanced black line systems, geometries, circuits, painted on clean whitewash gesso. she is here to set up her exhibition in the house. You follow her as she gets off. “you are my cousin,” you tell her. long ago, you understand you had been her lover. you do not follow her into the house. the path leads you elsewhere.
in search of the toilet.
you find one of the many great mysteries of oneiric fields. you have been to this kind of underworld before. a vast basement-warehouse of toilets. cavernous, purgatorial, haunted by grey time zones.
there are yellow police tape dangling from low ceilings and around pillars, no one else in sight. there is very little light, a density of fog and voice overs from elsewhere, making announcements in a soulless place. this is also like an amusement house of Halloween horrors. without fear you enter deeper into the cave, to the far end walls where black grills cover drains.
you begin urinating but your organ is limp and too small to handle.
you wet yourself, your pants, urine running down the front of your life. the piss stream turns into a haze, a misty , uncontrolled expulsion. there are ropes hanging from inside your clothes, which are too big for your shrinking body. you understand the ropes are there to hold up your heavy jumpsuit. you legs are loosely tied together. This was how you left the husband when you killed him.
a strange presence of a man is now next to you. he says, “she’s been my girlfriend for six months…” you somehow know he’s talking about the girl in TV. they have broken up. he is broken up. you cannot offer any advice, because, “I am single, I am alone.”
without buttoning or zipping up, and with an ongoing stream of piss gushing all over your body, you leave the cavern. a large, industrial tank like machine follows you, operated by a masked man. It’s one of the halloween party tricks. the tank’s cannon will spray water on people visiting the toilet. you let it attack you with the jet stream, so no one else outside this place will know you’ve wet yourself. the masked man gets off the machine and lops a bottle of clear gel petrol at you.
you do not believe he’ll set you on fire.
#dailywriting #irvingpaulpereira

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