Emotional Purge

“You'll feel your senses changing,” says Mr. Dark. “You might even see things/places/people that aren't even there. You'll notice that your resentment towards women will melt away. When love goes, it takes a lot of emotions with it. You're perceptions will change/alter/sharpen, and your connections to others will wither/fade/die. And as that unfolds, you'll find other impulses fill your mind. Something... dark.”

Words and events fall out like poetry. Circumstances and situations that never existed take shape. It’s like swimming through darkness. Voices echo. Shadows come alive. Thoughts bleed.

“Sometimes the smallest choices have the greatest consequences. Sometimes it all comes down to chance; it’s chance that turn us into unrecognizable monsters, or the embodiment of everything we’ve aspired towards. It’s all arbitrary.” My words echo in silence, and the Man with Sunglasses is talking about women.

"Women are like cars; you can buy 'em at full price and cut through the bullshit of the sale... You can haggle and get them at a discount (and this is the preferred method)... Or, you can steal them."

So Dylan speaks up. “Women don’t deserve your respect. They deserve your contempt.”

“…But…what do we do with the past?” I ask.

“Burn it. Burn it all,” says a man covered in bandages. He walks away. “It was a sorry and meaningless life. They all are.”

I see all my anger, all my frustration and bitter rage... and I call it “Jake.” I see everything dark inside of me, and every hateful thought, and I call it “Mr. Dark.” I see everything pathetic and emotional in me, and I call it “Stalker.” The decisions I make are arbitrary; nothing I do has any real meaning. There is no good. There is no bad. There are only actions and consequences.

Stalker mutters to himself. “She’s made me do such ugly things. She’s made me think such ugly thoughts. I don’t consider myself human anymore. It makes what I have to do much easier to stomach. It makes what I’m about to do look a little less revolting.”

“‘S a shame you couldn’t be normal,” I tell him. “You are everything you thought you were trying not to be.”

“No, it’s not okay,” says Jake, liquor dripping from his chin. “Nothing is okay.”

“I see no redeeming qualities in the human race. There is nothing in this world worth saving. There is nothing in this world worth fighting for. The only thing this sorry world deserves is a sudden and absolute death. And nothing would make me happier than having a hand in that process.”

“I have grown beyond human needs,” says a man who’s been a soldier his entire life.

“That just takes a level of imagination that you don’t have, buddy.” Jake winks. “I would rather live recklessly and die young, than die a coward’s death by my own hand. How many friends do you think you have? I can count my friends on one finger.” He flips me off with a smirk.

I pass a girl in the hallway. Her eyes linger on me longer than they should.

“I can give you a million reasons not to kill yourself, pal. Unfortunately, I can also give you a million reasons to the contrary.”

“The end is in sight, Graham,” whispers Mr. Light. “The state that you’re in… it won’t last for much longer. You think you’ve lost everything… even your identity. There is a way to regain that.” A gap in time. Missing pieces of a forgotten conversation. “…Happiness is not permanent. Happiness isn’t an end goal, Graham. The happiest moments of your life are pieces along a greater path. …It differs from one person to the next. …But don’t get stuck trying to figure out the meaning of life. People spend lifetimes worrying about that one. Life only has what value and meaning one puts into it; there's no intrinsic value there.”

Gone from him are all the memories of a life he once knew. He is free from the chains of his mistakes. No past. No memory. Just the here and now.

“How long do you think your happiness will last?” asks Mr. Dark. “You've constructed your entire persona around your constant misery. It's no wonder you've had such trouble acquiring love, let alone keep it. It was almost impossible for you to let anyone into your life, and when you did, it challenged everything you knew about yourself. It became almost impossible to reconcile the fact that you are society's reject with the fact that someone actually loved you.”

“If I look fake, it’s because I am. I can’t tell you how many times I get the nagging feeling that I’m just some artificial thing, some flat character in some fictional story. Am I a person? Or am I a character? What’s the difference? I had a life once. Something that closely resembled happiness. That doesn’t exist anymore. It never will again. Every day, I look in the mirror and see the face of my killer. He’s gonna finish the job someday.”

I respond with a question. “You have to ask yourself how your consciousness arrived in this particular body? Why am I confined to this one perspective in the collective reality? Without a body, who am I really? You begin asking these questions, and you can almost feel your soul rising out of the back of your skull. You snap back by concerning yourself with the mundane details of your life, but you're left with a disturbing after thought. There are no solid answers to any of your questions. (No man likes to think this deeply.)”

Graham holds Jennifer tight in his arms, as the rain showers them both. “I love you so much. I will never let you go.” And you can be sure that he made good on that promise.

“People only see what they choose to see, son. They look at the details that make them right.”

“…It all hinged on one human emotion: Love. Love was the one thing that brought you the greatest happiness, and the most potent despair.”

“How many times, son? How many times have you reached for that phone, desperate for a friendly voice, and realized that there wouldn’t be one? How many times have you realized how alone you really are?”

“Too many.”

“Most humans have such a vague sense of purpose, and determination. So few actually know what they want from life. The man who does not hesitate, the man who knows exactly what he wants, is a formidable man indeed.”

“Does it matter? Of course not. Nothing really matters, especially not in this environment. Everything you know, everyone you thought you knew, is a temporary construct of your overactive imagination. Those you choose to love, and choose to hate, will all cease to exist soon enough. There is only one path to follow. No deviations exist. Everything goes according to a singular plan. Remorse is irrelevant. Regret means nothing. You have no free will. You might choose to argue all this, but eventually you will come to agree with me. Eventually, everything you put value into will be lost, and you will come to know that nothing lasts forever, and happiness and belonging is a vague delusion of your mind. Happiness teaches you nothing. Pain is the only source of knowledge. Expect it. Enjoy it. Pleasure is temporary. Pain is forever.”

“The human mind can be manipulated to almost any end. For instance, I can convince you that you are in love with just about anyone. And that love will cast a shadow over all reason and rationality that you ever thought you had. …I can make you love or hate anyone you choose. Both emotions are passion, and yet only one serves any purpose. Of course, I can’t imagine what constructive purpose love could possibly have for any man.”

“Mine is the voice that cannot be silenced.”

“It’s only a matter of time before you see things my way. I never lie, and I never err. Every disappointment, every failure, and every tragedy will reinforce everything I tell you, and will chisel down the walls of naivety that you currently surround yourself with.”

“Through the eyes of Mr. Dark, all life becomes meaningless,” she tells me.

“Why is life so precious to someone who wastes it? You think you're so goddamned unique, don't you? Like you're the only one who's ever suffered from a broken heart?"

"You look at me as if you know you're better than me in every way. I recognize that look all too well. Sometimes, it seems that's the only way people look at me."

“Victory. It’s not about being the best, son. It’s about being better. …Sometimes only slightly. Your life… your world… it’s not what you’d expect. Did you honestly think people like me didn’t exist? Did you think that your life actually meant something? There is no such thing as good or evil. There is just evil. It’s remarkable how often genius and madness become intertwined. When gods fail… we call them devils. Don't fear death. Fear me.” A broken speech from a broken man feigning at greatness. His words drip with pretentiousness.

"She was just an actress, son. Some pathetically eager waitress with dreams of Hollywood. But you wouldn't stop pursuing her, so I had her removed from the board. In that sense, you caused her death."

"Don't you put that on me, you prick."

“I see the worst people in the world procreate, and it trivializes the whole concept of reproduction. I care for nothing of the future of my planet.”

“So what are your intentions? World domination?”

“Please.” Dylan looks out the window and sighs to himself. “The world is not enough.” He chuckles to himself.

“I find myself withdrawing from my peers. I have very little in common with those I’ve become surrounded by. The only meaningful conversations I have are with myself.” I understand his words too well, but I say nothing.

A shift, and Mr. Light is talking: “A sunset lights up the sky differently… a rather apt finale to a weary day. I suppose there’s a certain… calming effect at knowing the day’s work is done. And it’s only at the end of things that we can see the bigger picture… and appreciate it.”

“How much longer is this going to go on?” asks Stalker.

“…That’s something only you can know, Graham. "

Stalker feels his eyes water. “I want to be a good person… so badly.”

“I don’t think you’re a bad person, Graham.”

“I’ve done such horrible things…”

“Everyone has. At least, in their own minds. There’s a big difference between imagination and action.”

“Hope can sustain a life, and its absence can destroy one. A man without hope cannot last very long. …The end of hope is the beginning of despair.”

“That’s all I have. Despair. Isolation. My life has become one miserable experience after another. Even my dreams have turned to nightmares… I exist now in a constant and deep state of depression. Every day, I get a little closer to death. Closer than I want to believe.”

“And what stays your hand?”

“Fear.”

“Of what?”

“The future. I’m terrified of life on this earth, but that pales in comparison with the unknown of what lies beyond death.”

“…What dreams may come, right? You have to appreciate the fact that the most famous soliloquy in literature was the contemplation of suicide. To live or die. This thinking is universal, Graham. Anyone who’s lost something of value knows despair. You needn’t feel so lost.”

“Of course, it all sounds so trivial, doesn’t it? I lose a girl and wallow in misery… turn into something I can barely recognize in the mirror. …But I spent my whole life thinking that all I needed was to fall in love. …To find someone I could be happy with, someone who would make my life seem valuable. And I found her. I found someone who loved me as much as I loved her. It just seemed so perfect. …She was beautiful in ways I can’t even describe… and she made me happier than I’d ever imagined I could be. And now she’s gone from me… and it’s like everything I thought I could count on is gone with her. How can I trust that feeling again, knowing full well that everything is so damned temporary? It’s all so trivial… And if that’s the case, then what’s the point of life? If happiness is just something that slips through your fingers?”

"…A quarter of the way through my life's journey, I found myself in a dark place... the right path lost."

"It's not hard to imagine a better life,” I tell him. “What if Jake was a friend? What if the Man with Sunglasses was a little less obscene? We could turn this whole thing into a comedy.”

“It is a painful thing, to find that you are a victim of causality. All humans struggle to assert their will, their ‘free will,’ as they often claim it to be. But fate, like death, overcomes us all. And there is nothing we can do to stop it, no matter how frequently we tell ourselves otherwise.”

“Maybe I want the world to end so I don’t have to kill myself.”

"It's in everyone's best interest that you keep believing in love."

“I see the face of my killer every time I look in the mirror. He’s coming for me; this fact is indisputable. I am the creator of my own misery, and as such, I will be my own killer. There is no other possible end for me.” How little you know.

“Are you sure you’re not confusing love with limerence?”

Mr. Dark trains his gun at Stalker's face. "You killed her, and so many others. There's only one end to this story." Stalker meets Mr. Dark's glare. "It's a shame you don't have the ability to do it yourself."

Stalker speaks through gritted teeth. "I never killed her."

Mr. Dark pauses. "Now what makes you think that?"

Stalker swallows. "My memory isn't what it used to be... but the memories of her death... they were inconsistent... spotty... certain key details were missing... there were logical gaps... In fact, I never killed anyone."

“Sometimes, I like to imagine what Heaven would be like… Like a big party or some special event, a wedding maybe… where everyone you love, and all your friends are there. I try to imagine that… but all I see is myself standing in an empty room talking to myself.”

“You’re only a loser if you choose to be.”

"My whole life is a lesson in apathy."

Stalker falls to the ground, beaten in ways that not measurable in any one understanding of reality.

“Why do you wallow in your own self-pity?”

“I like it.”

“There’s a time to laugh, and there’s a time to cry. I want to laugh.” Time flows and Jake is saying something different in front of the nightclub: "...’S the people that are involved in the shit that know all the little differences within it. To a guy like me, the Scots and the Irish is the same thing. You ask a Scot, and they'll learn ya real quick. ...Talked to some nerdy chick, she tells me there's a difference between geeks and nerds. Go figure. Now there're two groups of people I'd like to drown in a toilet. …Course you realize that most of what you see in fiction is just one man have a conversation with himself. That's the author talkin'."

“My words are hollow and meaningless. She has turned me into the kind of person I hate: weak and emotional.”

“This world has to end. I will do everything in my power to make sure that happens.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong. Yeah, just keep telling yourself that, you fucking shit.”

“You deserve…”

“Nevermind. It’s all fucked. Fucking fucker’s fucked. Beyond all recognition.”

“Ugly as sin. And just as fucking attractive.”

“I feel like a freak. I am a tangled outcast. I have no love for anyone or anything. The same is true for others; no soul loves me. That makes me happy in such a wrong way. I want to destroy. I want to tear down everything good in this world. I want everyone to hurt. I want everyone to be in pain. The type of pain that makes them wish for death. I want no one to escape. I want destruction and decay.”

“I’ll destroy you. Too late. You already have.”

“Fucker! I hate you.”

“Never again.”

“True love is supposedly the purest form of romantic love… But it's more like a distortion, a mental high that comes from finding someone who is enamored of you. It feeds your ego and makes you think your life is important. And if you're lucky, you die before the feeling subsides. In that case, it's called ‘everlasting love.’”

“Love is a bubble of fleeting happiness that keeps the forces of chaos and ruin (and reality) at arms length. But it isn’t long before those external forces creep in, and rip that bubble apart. It is inevitable. As surely as death follows life, heartbreak follows love.”

I think of the future, of the relationships yet to occur. I think of the promises that lovers make, and how hollow they inevitably become. After all, a promise is a lie until is fulfilled. I imagine these promises that I might have to make again someday. And all of them are tainted.

“I love you,” I say, but it’s hard to know for sure. “I’ll never leave you,” I say, but I know I eventually will. “You’re the only one for me,” but I know there’s probably a few others who are better. “I’ve never felt this way before,” but I actually have. “I’ll always be there for you,” but there’s a good chance I won’t. “I care about you,” until you stop being relevant to me. “Everything’s going to be alright,” but I can’t know that. No one can.

She's not dead, but she may as well be. I know I'll never see her again. No matter how much I learn about women, I still know nothing. I have no sense of belonging. Women have nothing to offer me. They hold no sway over my actions. Romance is nothing more than the path to self-destruction.

Random thoughts. Splintered memories.

“You never know how far you’ve come until you look back at what you once were.”

“I have no real connections with anyone on this world. I am my own conscience. My best friends are those that I choose to create. I feel no sympathy for the lonely female. She needs only to use an arsenal of cosmetics to make herself attractive, and secure a mate. No further action is required.”

Sex is a bodily function. There’s no need to romanticize it.

“Romance is just the means to alleviate loneliness.”

“You look at me and you feel a sense of disgust. You wonder, ‘What kind of a man is he? Who would possibly do those terrible things?’ You wonder. But are we really that different? I am a slave to my obsessions. But I act on those obsessions. Some people might consider that bravery, or devotion. Others call it insanity. The difference is slight. Subtle. Significant. My name is Stalker. I hunt women. I would kill them if I could. But that isn’t my way.” Stalker is a twisted man.

“I can help you.”

“No.”

“She betrayed everything.”

“Nothing will ever be the same. Oh sure, I’ll fall in love again. I might even believe myself to be happy. I’ll lie to myself and to whomever the next one is, saying that we’ll always be together, and that ‘I’ve never felt this way before.’ Not that any of that will be true, it’ll just sound really nice at the time. But in the back of my mind, I’ll have your memory scratching it’s way to the surface. How easily I was replaced. How easily anyone can be replaced.”

“I am stained. I can never return.”

“Here’s the new target information you requested,” says Mr. Gray. He hands me a file. “Make sure that she finds this to expedite the future split. You’ll need a resurgence in misery to spur your creative process.”

“I have evolved into something I’ve never been before. I don’t recognize myself anymore.”

“Fuck off.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“My life has been irrevocably changed. I can never be who I once was. The past is dead. There are no u-turns in this life. Only the endless scarring that the experience leaves you with.”

A demon whispers in Stalker’s ear. A devil pulls at Stalker’s marionette strings. Stalker undresses in front of a bed whose occupant flashes us an evil grin. Stalker removes a happy facemask from a face filled with hate. Stalker reaches for the sky as demons claw at his clothing. Stalker is gangly and used up.

“I’m so alone.”

“I have never let you down. Single you are, and single you remain. I promise that you will never have to compromise who you are for the sake of a female. I promise that you will never be tainted by their caress, and drowned in any love that lasts any longer than a month. You have a freedom that most men will never know. Love is not the deus ex machina that everyone presupposes it is. Love solves nothing important. Love is an evil, the likes of which this world refuses to acknowledge.”

“I’m so alone.”

“I’m so alone.”

“I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I
I’m so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.”

“Preemptive stalking. What a concept.”

“I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.”

“You like to think of yourself as a victim. How would you like that to feel a little more real?”

“I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.”

“My pain is self-inflicted; you don’t have to pity me.”

“I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am –”

“I’m alone.”

“You think that’ll change?”

“Now who’s being naïve?”

“What kind of a person doesn’t flinch?”

“Someone who’s not afraid to die.”

“Let me tell you something about women. There are three basic ways to acquire them. One: You negotiate.” The Man with Sunglasses smirks and leans in closer to the female wearing glitter in her hair. “This is the most accepted method, but it takes time and salesmanship. Two: You steal them.” Jake elbows a girl in the face and starts screaming in silence. “You take them against their will and make them your own. And three: You buy them, and cut through all the lies.” Dylan pushes an envelope across the table toward a high priced whore.

“Why are you single?” she asks me.

“Why isn’t everyone else single?” I ask.

“Do you know why I don’t fear death? Because I’m already in hell.” Stalker’s scream tears open the sky.

“Can I even be who I once was? Am I even capable of loving anyone anymore?”

“But to me, I have to ask the bigger question: To what end? Why hunt women? Why pull them into your life? The immediate answer, as any man would tell me, is sex. To me, sex is little more than urinating or farting. It's a bodily function that releases the hormones that cloud one's thinking. It's a load blow. There's no need to romance that. And so the additional answers to my original question fall in: Love, marriage, family... and as those answers spill out, I like them less and less. My life is difficult enough without a family in tow, and certainly wouldn't want to curse anyone with the genetic and mental flaws that I carry. ...And love. I suppose in the abstract, life is best lived by striving for happiness. And love is focused happiness. But I've also seen the lows that it drags one to, I've seen that flimsy line between love and hate. Love takes you to such amazing highs, and such desperate lows. Now, a life without love... that keeps happiness and misery in a much narrower range. Maybe that's the better option. As you can see, I have no incentive to pursue women or romance. I have no doubts that I will die with a wealth of regret. But I can't see that changing no matter what I do.”

“Take out a pen and write down the barriers: Sublimation, involuntary celibacy, desire for independence, avoid being emotionally hurt, misanthropy, including an aversion to offspring, love-shyness, inferiority complex, social isolation, circumstantial, fear of rejection, learned helplessness, social anxiety.”

“Here I am missing her all over again.”

“It’s nice to know that people are so reliable, yes?”

“Some days… I can’t decide who I want to be. I can’t decide who I am.”

Stalker kisses a specter.

“Great day, huh?” says an optimistic stranger. Stalker gives him a perfunctory glance and answers out of necessity.

“Some say.” There is a long pause.

“What brings you here?”

“Why do you ask questions when you don’t care to hear the answers?”

“Whoa! Someone’s in a bad mood today. I’m just making conversation.”

“Why? So you can fill the deafening silence with meaningless chatter?”

“No offense, pal. I can see your down on your luck.”

“Luck only exists for those who believe in it.”

“Oh well, I tried. I didn’t want to be confrontational.”

“…”

“See over there? That’s my son and my wife. I used to be like you. Angry at everything, and everyone. However, it all disappeared when I met Linda. It’s just like something… clicked. There’s something very refreshing about finding someone to love. It’s almost as thought the whole world changes for the better. Anger is fleeting next to joy. I’m sure you’ll find that out one day.”

“…Yes. It all sounds so familiar. You say you used to be like me? Well, I used to be like you too. I used to think that love would solve all my problems, that love would calm me down, and numb my pain. However, love is a drug, easily replaceable, and infinitely fleeting. To me, love is just a painful memory, one among many. Look at your love. Look at the emotional connection you’ve made with another human being. You’ve compromised yourself because you were too weak to face the prospect of a life in solitude. You see strength, but I see nothing but a man deluding himself into a sense of security, playing into the game that is shoved down our throats. You sicken me beyond words. Nothing would please me more than to watch your family betray you and leave you for dead. Joy is a drug. Love is but a fart in the wind of time. Fuck you and everything you stand for. I’m leaving.” Stalker stands and flicks his toothpick at the ground. He walks off and leaves the optimist behind. The man stares in shock at Stalker for a moment or two, then looks over at his family. They disappear like a fleeting thought. The man gasps for air as he feels his own existence vanish in a like manner. The bench is empty, as the wind turns cold with the approach of winter.

“Are you ready to die? I hope so. Things are going to end badly for you. I hear his voice echo in silence. How did you meet Mr. Dark? He gave me a choice. There’s a difference between being ready for death, and wishing for it.”

A gangly man stumbles through a graveyard as lightning crackles through the sky.

“This is my reality. This is my insanity.”

“…All those horrible characters… you can reject them, and let them be your adversaries. Or you can tame them, and make them your allies.”

Stalker’s voice is nothing more than a gravely scrapping of vocal cords: “I’m going to tear this whole fucking world apart.”

Stalker removes his contact lenses. Those green eyes were just a lie.

“It won’t be long before I know everything about you. Every little detail will be mine. In time.”

“It’s going to take more that you have to find love again.”

“My hate makes me whole.”

"You gut the pieces of yourself that you don't want anymore. The hate, the fear, the pain. You remove these emotions from yourself, and give them names. Jake. Mr. Dark. Stalker. You become less than the whole, but better able to survive because of it."

"Congratulations. You understand now that the cure for love... is apathy."

“We all have our scars, don’t we? Some cut a little deeper than others.” Stalker looks at the scars on his arm, at the rotting flesh between each mark. He scratches it, peeling off layer after layer of skin. It tears away, like paint chips and old paper. He keeps peeling until there’s nothing left.

“I’m not who I really am. I am someone else entirely.”

“Things need not have happened to be true. Tales and dreams are the shadow-truths that will endure when mere facts are dust and ashes, and forgot.”

—Neil Gaiman

• << First Post
• < Previous Post
• Next Post >
• Last Post >>