Bliss

Bliss

I know you've heard my stories. I know you're afraid of me, of the things I can do to you, of how I can change you, of the memories I'll steal from you that you'll never get back. You know that I will take away the last shred of what you are and make you another man, a piece of silverware, and then you will remain a mere shadow among the many other walking shadows on this earth. But you, a man among men, have not stopped. You came, you sought me, you insisted, and now I am you. You are no more. You will be no more. Only I exist. Through you. 
Only a few steps separate you from the door handle on which dozens of layers of sweat are deposited, never drying, a new one always covering it, one more and more exasperated than the previous one. Your feet stumble, the road flees from your path, and stones play under your soles, preventing you from having any balance. Leaves and blades of grass are flailing, crying out for help, help other than your own. And the sun's rays only chase you, taking away your already sick sight. 
You stretch out your hand, and your fingers tremble, but you don't pay them any mind because you know you're fine. You know that once you're inside, you'll get better, and I'll be there to caress your body, your skin, your veins, your hair, and your organs. I will hold your hand, whisper what you want to hear, and you… you will listen.
You've relaxed your body for a few seconds before you leave for your second journey, where the chair and the table are waiting for you, where the walls are empty of memories, where the clothes are soiled, filthy and ironed, where the bed hasn't been made for a long time, where the food lies on the table covered with hundreds of flies also drunk with the foul smell of your home, where the plate you received as an alms from a dead man sick of your death has remained intact, and the plastic on top is now sweaty with waiting for you to grab it, where the sheet is stained with vomit, with tears when you raise your eyes to the sky and wonder: what have I done, Lord, why have you punished me like this, why have you taken your hand from me instead of healing me, why have you thrown me into a place with no rope to hold on to bring me out? 
But there is no one to hear you. Everyone's gone, everyone has left you because in their eyes you're nothing, no one understands you, no one can bear your breath, your yellow hands, your missing teeth, your face, grumbling, ageing, crushed by me. No one crosses your threshold to ask you how you are, John. Everyone criticizes you, everyone has already put a badge on you that you will not get rid of until the church, by law, is obliged to put your name on the cross, and not the insignia you have grown up with in recent years. Quit drinking! You're an alcoholic! You've ruined your life! That's all you hear, and you don't like it, and then you fight back. How can I quit drinking when it’s the only one who keeps me company? How can I quit when it keeps me cold, keeps me hungry, keeps me ugly? How can I quit when it's most challenging for me? I look at my phone book and have no one to call, to listen, to tell my problem, to offer me the hand that God has taken away from me. 
You walk into the house and pass without saying hello past the loneliness that sits in a corner with its eyes on you, like a shark that smelled your scent long before you appeared in front of it and waited, just waiting for you to give it a sign. And there, in that room, you're bumping into me. I'm in every nook and cranny, I'm in every secret place, wanting you to keep me away, to forget me, to throw me into the fire, but I always manage to surface, and this time I stand imposing in your eyes, wherever you turn them. 
You approach the chair, pull back the backrest and want to sit down, but tears are streaming down your cheeks. You want to stop me. You want to get away from me, but where to go, there's no one waiting for you. It hurts you. It hurts your constant presence in the house, it hurts you when you look in the mirror and see no one else. It hurts you when the callers give you a busy tone, and then you wipe your tears and look at me again. I open my arms, and you continue to cry against my chest, hold me tight and cling to me.
Suddenly you push me away and start screaming. Go away, you scum of my life. You've only brought me harm, I've lost everything, I've lost myself. I'm swimming in a darkness that makes me shiver. I've forgotten what I look like, I've forgotten my brother's face, my mother's face. You, Satan, it's all your fault. Yes, it is, but only I have the power to make you smile, forget your hunger, forget your so-called friends. 
Then he swallows the leftover poison, letting me feel him again. Feeling his heart pounding, his liver squirming, his knees going soft, vomit in his throat, his stomach turning against him. And I laugh uproariously as I watch him fill his glass again, and again, and again, and again, until there's nothing left in it. He slides off his chair, turns his head to one side, and spits me out onto the often spat-on carpet. I remain steeped in the once-vivid flowers and stare at him again. With his other hand he grabs the phone, presses the first key, and it rings and rings and rings. But there's no one. Again, there's no one to answer it. I pick him up, bring the glass closer to him, and urge him to drink. We lie there, side by side, like yin and yang, for hours, maybe days. I watch the light come, then get swallowed up by the night, then come again, and so on, until I, too, lose the string. I feel weaker and weaker. I feel more and more lost until I don't feel anything at all.