Smash Cut to Back-Alley and the Struggling Narrator

Image from comicvine.com
Image from comicvine.com

 

Fellow had a habit of speaking his mind, which is exactly why three police officers were rearranging his face for him. Quite a bit of blood flowed from his mouth and above his eye. For a moment he thought he might die, that this might be the end of him. But then he realised no one ever dies from a beating: they just give up.

These beating felt almost practiced now, the punches felt strained, and the kicks felt fake (as if the cops didn’t care about the show anymore than they cared about their next doughnut). If these punks didn’t even care why should he. So he stifled a yawn and shut the hell up so he could at least enjoy the night air.

Later, when the codgers had had their fill of Fellow’s flesh, they returned to the pub and left him to rot on the pavement, which is exactly what he did. He didn’t think gangrene could kill you this fast, but he knew embarrassment certainly could. That filthy rot that eats the inside of your face and leaves you grinning like a spastic sycophant, all the while it pumps up the colours to let everyone know exactly what you meant. That filthy little rot that makes you cringe when you study memories of a person dressed in your skin. That filthy fucking rot, isn’t that right Fellow?

He nodded sardonically, as if he could even share in the humour of his situation. A piece of meat on the back alley pavement with flabby skin, a bloody face, and few broken ribs: one of which was dangerously close to piercing his lung and letting the way go.

But I digress, and he only has enough time.

He shoulders his potential death quite well for someone so afraid of dying. Maybe dying alone isn’t a curse, instead the ultimate gift. No loved one to see you shit your pants, and no doctor called to extend a brain dead body. No, instead he could piss his pants like a child, with carefree inhibitions.

He lay flat on his back and could feel the blood foaming in his mouth. He tried to hock a loogey, spitting the blood somewhere else. Instead he spat it straight up and well, we all know how gravity works.

He wonders what his story would be, if they ever reported his death. He aimed high and wondered if they would ever make a movie about his life. (Probably not, biopics are usually about extraordinary people. Most movies had enough boring people in them anyways).

He imagined a smash cut in the black of the movie theatre, an exciting collage of his mother and his father fucking in the back of a rented ute which was later involved in several political scandals. How his parents were quite normal and raised him with love. How in his teenage years he discovered Gide, and the Internet, and knew that the world was run wrong. They might even call him a prophet. How when he was sixteen and in the prime of his life he had delivered a soap-box on Marxist theory at his catholic school and how Father Damian had taken him to a dark room and forced him to suck his sanctified dick as some form of penance. How he had told no one. How he had…

How he had told no one, because no one would listen, even though he tried.

How he had never stopped screaming, how even at the ripe age of forty-six he still felt the haunting of a sixteen year olds voice, and he never quite felt that his balls had dropped. How he had lashed out at everyone he ever loved because he didn’t want them to listen he just wanted them to understand.

Oh, he is dying now, Fellow I mean. He moved and the rib gouged out his innards and now he is looking at me and all I can sense is emptiness and despair.

The cops never knew his name.

He wished he had taken the time to tell them.

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