I was going nowhere, twenty-one, no job, no girlfriend, no car. I suppose everybody has their methods of measuring success, not me though. I live to my means, I do what I can, and if I can’t, then I’m not your fucking teacher.
My father told me that I should find myself a wife. I found myself a wife, on her wedding night. I wasn’t even invited. The groom was half-cut and his blushing bride was a blossoming whore, hoping for some prick in a suit to sort her out and fill that empty hole inside. But there was really only one hole anybody could fill, and emotion had fuck all to do with it. It’s amazing what authority a suit can command.
People are so fucking stupid.
Running around in circles, making the same mistakes over and over again until they run out of energy and crash wearily into apathy, forming a happy life from the smashed ruins of over-indulgence and lack of fulfilment.
Well fuck ‘em all. I’m not the one to sort them out.
Some people think I’m insane, but what do they know? They’re just buying into the illusion of sanity. They consider themselves normal, because so far, they haven’t had a man in a white coat inform them of the name of cognitive ailment which afflicts them, complete with a recipe of symptoms, and a menu of pills for their ills. The truth is, the brain changes throughout life, growing and shrinking in different areas, dependent on the stimuli applied to their cognitive makeup. Perfect sanity, would be an entirely proportional brain makeup, the likes of which can only be possessed by those we would call paranoid schizophrenics. It is beyond me why we must twist reality to fit our own perceptions and definitions into it, without regard for anything real. I do not possess the courage of Achilles, the wisdom of Ulysses or the strength of Hercules, nor do I possess the prophetic vision of a clairvoyant. I am a Stanford County prison guard. I am the man at the back of the Clapham omnibus, sitting like everybody else, isolated and quiet, staring at a plane in the sky and wishing I was somewhere else. I’m sat directly behind you, but you don’t even know I’m there.
Now let me tell you what I cannot stand; a manner lacking in politesse. I truly cannot stand the impolite, which seems hypocritical, as I myself have no regard for the feelings of others. Sometimes, if a person I meet is particularly discourteous, I have a tendency to get quite enraged. I could not tell you why. I, like many others, am enslaved by the shackles of tradition, routine, and the concept of civility. Why is there such variety in our choice of virtue and vice? Perhaps it is the result of evolutionary hardwiring, manifested after years of sociological conditioning. Perhaps the human psyche has grown to be adaptable, and yet ever so corruptible. Who knows? Who the fuck actually cares?
So perhaps I am not at fault for what I have just done, or maybe I am wholly responsible. Some may even doubt the existence of free-will, and so how can I be held responsible for the scarlet trickles running down my fingers? All I asked for was a lighter, nothing more, just a lighter for my cigarette. I saw that he had one, but as I approached, he slid it into the pocket of his waistcoat and began to turn away. Upon asking, at first he ignored me. A second inquisition resulted in him hastily turning his head and refuting my request. Against my better judgement, I decided to give him one last chance at redemption, merely requesting this time that he let me light off the cherry-end of the cigarette he was smoking. Once again, I was ignored. My feelings were hurt, and I reached into my pocket, clasping my Victorinox, as a child clings to a teddy bear, in lieu of maternal comfort. As I released the blade and took the knife from my pocket, I took three hasty steps forward, raising the blade in the air, I drove it down into his neck.
I never lit my cigarette.
(c) JC Axe 2014.
Original content: http://jcaxefiction.wordpress.com/2014/07/15/ineverlitmycigarette/