The End of My Death
tries so hard, my father, to claim me for the land of the living, but
it is too late, I am already dead, something other than human. He brings
out those family photos trying to demonstrate some constituent normalcy,
to show that I, too, am only human and came from humans, but it backfires
in a way that confuses him and pushes him stunned to the periphery of
the story. It’s so clear to everyone that he has little to do with
the Dahmer myth. I think he was even a bit dismayed that so few gave any
credence to the allegations that he had abused me.
Really I'm just another pointless enigma, nothing to solve. Still everything I've touched has become apocryphal — all those retold childhood incidents and stupid generic photos. Suddenly this ordinary chronology of scraped knees contains within it the genesis of a monster. But even that monster is dead now that I've reached the end of my death. When I worked in the chocolate factory I didn't need to eat any meals — the chocolate dust collected at the back of my throat and when it formed a little ball I washed it down with vodka hidden in an Evian bottle. Now I eat three square meals and all that starchy nutrition has made me a little bit fat, so I don't feel at all like the same person. Everyone wants to know what do I think about when I masturbate, but I'm on medication now, so I don't really do it very often and when I do I find I can't really think of anything. And everyone wants to know if I still dream of picking guys up and dismembering their drugged bodies. But really its hard to think about social interaction when your body image is so low — I'd have to get back into shape first.
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