The Crazy Never Die : A True Tale of an Fictionalized Account of something that may have happened
Some may never live, worthless fucks in the true sense of the word, just standing there under a leaky roof waiting for the rain to stop, imaginary rain, just pouring there inside their minds, an unreality to only be shared with the rest of the clueless.
The crazies, the ones who maybe know they are crazy, never die.
They just stand there, at a bus stop, waiting for a bus that will never come, a suicide pact inside their mind, restless whores waiting for a ride to anywhere else but here, maybe to reinvent themselves, an image, something better.
The edge, that place they are trying to step away from, to keep from falling into the abyss, keeps moving towards them, pushed by unseen forces, the killers in the night, rejected, pushed, ready for the sweet kiss of death, that midnight madness creeping inside of their brain.
Winston was there, close, ready to do it, just to lie down on the sweat and cum stained mattress and slit his wrists.
Who would even care if he killed himself?
His land lady?
He owed her 3 months back rent. $43.10.
He was her only renter; in a wore down box of a place built in 1942, on the corner of Oak and Misery.
The place smelled like cat urine.
It had always smelled like that, the first time he moved in back in 1989, he had noticed it.
“Just some airing and it’ll be fine!” Sheila, his land lady had said, smiling.
It was 2017, and now, it smelled like a cat had peed and then killed itself, somewhere in the wall, back in 1983.
He tried to live life as he was taught by the nuns at St. Mary’s Catholic School : Hit everyone on the knuckles that doesn’t conform to your point of view then scowl at them.
He had adhere to the motto – Do not regret living life. Do not sit in an office chair, dying one breath at a time. Get out, climb that mountain, see the sea, before the monsters drink it all.
His father, some restless crook of a writer, had left his family; wife and a baby, left a note with that saying on it.
He had stolen it from the back of some novel.
His mom had decided to kill herself.
A bad decision, maybe, but her good years were behind her.
She knew it, the cops who shot her as she brandished that knife, close to her throat.
His grandmother, that woman who tried to raise him to be a good Christian, tried to know it but she just sighed and wandered back into the living room, to knit, to watch the TV, soft glowing pictures to occupy her mind.
There were the lies; your mom? Oh she is in Heaven, waiting, long life and all that.
His father? Business trip.
He was dead too, killed in a bar fight.
Winston decided to go to work instead, it seemed an easier death.