Month: February 2016

X: Moral Hate Circus (Final)

I: Moral Hate Circus  II: Moral Hate Circus  III: Moral Hate Circus  IV: Moral Hate Circus
V: Moral Hate Circus  VI: Moral Hate Circus  VII: Moral Hate Circus  VIII: Moral Hate Circus
IX: Moral Hate Circus


The Screamer is on his feet and he has never felt so strong before and The Screamer takes a step off the stage light he is weightless and The Screamer goes towards you and The Screamer takes your jaw in his hands and The Screamer pulls it right off and The Screamer puts it between his teeth as he grabs your tongue and The Screamer feels the muscle move in his fingers and The Screamer loathes you and The Screamer pulls your tongue and The Screamer digs his nails in and bites onto your jaw as he pulls your tongue and The Screamer pushes your head back and The Screamer feels the ripping of your muscle and The Screamer ignores your screams because you are not The Screamer and The Screamer screams louder than you so you know that The Screamer is The Screamer and you are not The Screamer and no one else is The Screamer because he is The Screamer and there is no other like him only The Screamer and The Screamer still has your tongue and it is hard to pull but The Screamer doesn’t give up and The Screamer carries on pulling and The Screamer succeeds and it rips from your throat, bringing a scattering of blood that lands on the dark ground of the tent, staining the hard soil forever, which is added to by you falling to your knees and choking on blood, unable to close your mouth because you have no jaw and unable to keep the blood in because you have no tongue, and you look up at him, and he can see that your throat is exposed from where the skin of your jaw was ripped off as he pulled off your jaw so he goes for that, discarding your tongue on the ground where it lands in an expanding crimson pool, gripping around your windpipe, continuously screaming and never letting you go no matter how hard you struggle because he wants you quiet because he hates you, and why he hates you is obvious but the reasoning is too far from your comprehension because of the pain he is inflicting upon you with his hand inside your throat, unprotected by your lower jaw which is still between his teeth, your teeth still attached to it, your blood dripping from the dying tissue, and suddenly your eyes are jerked upwards as he yanks on your windpipe, ripping through it like a bear, damaging your vocal chords so that you can only manage hoarse grunts of agony, which you do constantly because you cannot get away, and his hand suddenly plunges deeper, abandoning the half-ripped windpipe and he grips something in the back of your neck, jagged fingers like the claws of a tiger slicing through the meat of you, and he shakes you so hard you lose consciousness for a few seconds as your brain smashes against the inside of your head, and in that time you see sparks, and hear the scolding of his enemies and you wonder why you don’t run away, so when you wake up and your eyes adjust and your brain registers the pain again you try to pull yourself together even though he is slowly destroying your body from the top down, and he is already on your chest which he is scratching at desperately with his claws, eyes crazed and dripping blood from your jaw between his teeth, and you try and push him off like he did to you but he grabs your arm but, instead of slamming it to the floor he raises it to his mouth and bites, letting your jawbone fall onto your sliced chest, and you feel his teeth sharp inside your wrist, slitting through blood vessels and letting warm, soupy blood flow down your arm and his arms are on yours and then, before your eyes, you see him give your arm another bend as he snaps your ulna and radius, and you see just before the pain hits that he is tearing at your arm and trying to rip it off, but as your head shoots back and your destroyed vocal chords force out a harsh loud shriek of pain you feel the shattered and snapped bones of your arm ripping through the flesh and slitting open the skin but you can still feel his teeth there, tearing and ripping at the meat as though eating it, and lapping at the blood as he howls his triumph because he is killing you and you know he is killing you, so you try to get away again but he forces you to the ground and you have only moved an inch but he can see your panic so he slams down your useless arm and returns to your chest, raking down your breasts and underneath them with his nails and eventually getting through the skin to the tissue which he rips out and, with his hands within both breasts, he begins tearing at your skin, across your body, down your abdomen, and over your muscles and through your pubis and over your legs and it feels like a stuttering electric shock as he peels away your flesh in lumps, still biting and snorting at it, and his lips are red, as red as your hair which is still ripped away from your skull, scalp attached and leaking more than blood but now he is at your stomach and pulling at the flesh and scratching through the muscles to get to the tender intestines below and he is drooling and his teeth are white and flash at you and his eyes are wild and his hand slots into your abdomen and pulls and your viscera coats him once again and your head shoots back again as a pain reflex and your legs kick out and he smacks his fist into you, breaking your nose again and blood flows over the only teeth left in your head, sending shocks down you bringing your whole body to a contorting agony that rips through you and tears you apart, rupturing you, and you hear him scream one last time, a gurgling, crimson scream, wet and raw with your innards that splits your head in two, and then finally, finally, whiteness, and a peace, and the screaming is gone, and the vermilion stains are gone, and your jaw is gone, but so is the rest of your body, and you don’t have to feel pain anymore because here you know you are safe, secure, and warm, and a white space welcomes you, and lets you fall into it, and you leave behind the world you thought you were safe in, a world where you walked daily, a world where you used your talent to entertain others, a world where you screamed, and a world you unquestionably, undoubtedly hated, with no reasons, because the world had not hurt you, the world had let you walk it, but you knew there was more, and this is the more you found, to be ripped and torn and ruptured by another world-walker, a world-walker who saw you spinning because before that you weren’t there, hadn’t existed, only appeared because he had made it so, because he had put you there, because he was in charge of you, because he could take your life away just as soon as he gave it to you, because you were under his control, because you were his delusion, because you were his hallucination, because you were him, his inside voice, his unassuming conscience, his hidden lies, which is why he heard you, which is why he saw you, which is why you mattered to him, mattered enough for him to feel for you, and even if that feeling was a deep, burning hatred, he still felt for you, because you mattered to him because you affected him, just by being something imagined come to life, you mattered to him, just by screaming one time, because his gift had been passed down to his hallucination, and he hated you enough to put an end to your life, to stop every artery from pumping, to obliterate every recognisable feature and all because of his hatred of you, which stemmed from his fear of you.

He was scared of you.

His own hallucination.


Scared of his own hallucination, delusion, vision.

Why was he scared?

Why should he have been scared?

What was he?

Who was he?

He imagined you, you existed only because of his mind, and yet he was scared of you?

How was he scared of you?

Is he scared of himself?



It’s like he’s afraid of his own shadow.

He makes a shadow.

His mind conjures a delusion.

A girl turning in tight circles with her hair twirling after her like a child.

Or a lover.

And he is scared.

He is frightened.

He made the hallucination go away.

That won’t stop him or his fear.

It will multiply it.

He knows what he thinks he’s capable of now.


He thought you were real.

Nothing about you was real.

Not your hair.

Not your eyes.

Not your skin.

Not your arm.

Not your muscles.

Not your teeth.

Not your tongue.

Not your jaw.

He went after you to soothe you because he was frightened because you, a creation of his own mind, was screaming. His own mind was screaming.

He attacked his own mind’s creation. He attacked his own being.

He killed his own mind’s creation.

He is one step closer to killing himself.

Or several steps.

Or more than a several.


He doesn’t matter anymore.

Nothing about him matters.

Nothing about what happened matters.

All that matters is now.

He will kill himself soon.

There is nothing to be done anymore.

You never existed and you cease to now.

You simply have to lie here in this white space and wait.

For what, that is not clear.

Just wait.

Lie here.

And wait.


I’m sure whatever’s coming won’t take long to get here.

Lie down.


No, here.

You cannot lie there.

That’s too close.

You can’t pretend you’re real.

Lie here, so you know you never existed.

In the white.

Lie here.

Lie down.


In the white.

Face the white.

It will soon turn to black.

But you will be long gone before then.

You see how the white has turned greyer?

Of course you don’t.

You don’t see anything.

You don’t have eyes to see it with.

Just lie here.

You can’t lie down, can you?

You have no body to lie.

Then just stay.



Or pretend you have a body and lie.

Lie down and lie to yourself that you exist.

You don’t exist.

You never did.

And when he kills himself you will have existed even less than now.

Don’t you see?

You’re not real.

You were never real.

And you will never be real.

And look now.

Here it comes.

Over there.

Just behind you, over there.

Turn around.

You’ll want to see this.

It’ll take you on.

You’ll need to see this.

Turn around.

It’s coming.

The white is less white now, not that you care.

You won’t see this place dark.

You’ll be gone by then.


Here it comes.

Say goodbye.

What do you remember?

Do you remember your hair colour?

What was it?

Red? Orange?


No it wasn’t.

Because you never had hair.

You never existed.

You never had hair just the same as you never had a child.

Or a lover.

You never existed.

You never had hair.

You never had a hair colour.


Do you remember your hair colour?

What was it?

That’s right.


You’re getting it.

Do you remember your eye colour?

What was it?

That’s right.

You are getting there.

You didn’t have an eye colour because you didn’t have eyes.

What about where you went to?

Where did you go?

Did you like it?


No you didn’t go anywhere.

A circus?

No, of course not.

Maybe you’re not getting there.

You didn’t go anywhere because you had no body to take you there.

You never existed.


Where did you go?

Did you like it?




You can’t like something you didn’t see.

You just have the white now.

There are colours here.

But you can’t see them because you don’t exist.

You see?

No hair colour.

No eye colour.

No tent colour.

Just a white, an endless white.

That slowly will fade to black but you’ll be long gone.

Don’t worry about that.

The white is good.

Get taken away in the white.

Now, look again.

Over just behind you.

It’s a little closer now.

Just slightly.

But it’s speeding up.

Don’t be afraid when it arrives here.

It doesn’t hurt.

Just stay in the white, however you chose to do it, and let yourself be taken away.

It will be just as easy as falling asleep.


What was your hair colour?


Nothing. You never had hair, therefore you never had a hair colour.

You are so much better now.

You understand now.

What was your eye colour?


No eye colour.

The same reasons.

And where did you go?



To you, there was never any circus. Never any acts.

For you, you had nothing. No chaos.

No crowds.

No portaloos.

You never went there either.

You didn’t go to the circus did you?

You went nowhere.

You stayed out of the uncertain world.

But where will you go?

No, this time you will go somewhere.

Just behind you, slightly closer now.

Even more slightly closer.

Almost right behind you.

Now it’s right behind you.

It’s stopped.

Are you in the white?

Then look behind you.

Just behind you.

Turn slowly.

If it sees you move suddenly it might run away.

Don’t worry if you feel breathing on your neck.

It’s not unfriendly.

Nor is it friendly.

But it will take you on.

This time, you are going somewhere.


Turn slowly.


Look behind you.

Just behind you.

Turn slowly.

Do you see it?

It sees you.

What do you feel?


What do you feel?

No, don’t you remember?

You don’t feel.

You don’t exist.

You don’t have to.

This is the only real thing.

Do you see it?

Can you touch it?

Are you trying?

Do you remember that you have no hands because you don’t exist?

You don’t exist.

You have nothing.

All you have to do is stay in the white until you feel ready to go.

You seem ready.

You seem very ready.

You seem accepting.

Quiet now, don’t spook it.

Are you ready to go with it?

You’ll go on.

Away from this place.

Away from the colours you can’t see.

Away from the empty whiteness forever.

Are you ready to go?

Then go.

Fall away.

Fall backwards.

If you can.

Once you fall, you won’t remember anything.

Nothing you have experienced will have happened.

But you should be aware that none of that happened already.

We have been through this.

But this place, the white, the memories, all should go.

You will be restored to serene calmness and bliss once again.

Are you ready?

Serene calmness.



Are you ready?

Then go.

Too Much

[TRIGGER WARNING: A friend of mine requested I add a trigger warning. The subject here is suicide and I don’t want anyone reading something they can’t handle. You have been warned.]


The last time I smiled, like really, properly smiled, must have been years ago. Something genuine. Something I was enjoying witnessing or experiencing. Whatever that Something was though has faded long ago into the back of my mind, obscured by the deep, deep mists of simple unhappiness that float around my head.
Must it be any surprise, then, that my arms are a mess? I won’t go into it. I shouldn’t. It’s always my own stupid fault, always. The first few times it was more out of curiosity than anything, and one time it was for art. But the other times, I can’t count anymore, have been to satiate the desires of the voices in my head. Although they don’t always sound like they’re in my head.

It’s not anything to do with now though. I’ve known for a long time it was going to become too much. Life.
A simple life, not much unhappiness, but no happiness. I get left to my own devices all the time. A school drop-out, I never wanted to go to college (never thought I’d make it to this age to be honest), and the world doesn’t want me. I feel it when I look outside. So I stay upstairs and I paint. That’s all I do. Paint. Paint, paint, paint, until the fumes of the alcohol-based ink, the linseed oil and the hairspray make me dizzy and tiredness takes me. I don’t need to sleep, I don’t want to sleep. Give my head over to the little monsters who have relocated from the closet and under the bed to the darkness behind my eyes.
I don’t need sleep.

My life is easy, and I know it. My life is isolated. No stupid other people to roll my eyes at, no one’s smells to try and ignore, no one’s ridiculous labelling of me. I can be crazy at my own pace. Although I don’t want to be crazy. And if you do, you might want to check your head.
Though don’t. Pretend I never told you anything. Pretend I never spoke. I don’t want someone else to miss me.

There’s only one person I know of who would miss me, and that’s perhaps why I’ve held on so long this time. I wouldn’t call it an attempt last time, but it was certainly a good go. An accident, perhaps. But certainly to shut the voices up. Screaming like static in my ears and making my eyes see in colours that don’t exist, touching my neck with invisible fingers. So that was the first time. It took him five hundred years to talk me out of dropping the craft knife. My hand wouldn’t let it go. I wanted to, I wanted to listen to him, to loosen my grip, to follow his every command, to stand up and let myself fall into his arms because I knew he cared about me. I couldn’t, and the eons ticked by. Each milligram of blood lost creating a haze around my eyeballs and thickening my tongue so all I could do was grunt and try to focus on him.
I said I wouldn’t talk about it, and here’s why. What’s the point? You’ve heard the stories before. You’ve seen the hold on comments, heard the that’s terribles, creased your eyebrows in concern. Don’t feel for me. Please.
I don’t want to make this harder for myself.


It’s been four hours. Nothing I can do is distracting me. Just the memories of last time, doubts about myself. A simple text had him drive to me, half an hour. At three in the morning. Open the door with the spare key and rush to my room. I don’t know what he said to his partner. I didn’t think he’d respond. I’d written. I’d texted him.
And that’s all. Just help, just a simple word had him come to me. And I needed help. I wasn’t ready to go then. I might have been if the voices hadn’t shut up. But they were lapping at the blood and I could feel their tongues.
No, stop talking about it.
The memories, that’s one of the problems. If I didn’t imagine all this again, I never would have the thoughts in my head.
I haven’t seen anything, heard anything, felt anything for a good three days. Three whole days. I should be happier. I should be happier in my room knowing I am truly alone, not stuck in here with about six… six things… that no one else can see. Or if they can they don’t tell me. Because they want to drive me down.


No creative spur. Not a single spark of desire to take a paint-matted brush to a canvas. None. One more hour drags past.
I am truly alone.
Truly, truly alone.
If I screamed, no one would hear me.
If I cried, no one would hear me.
If I shouted for help no one would hear me.
So I roll over. To the window to look out. I have painted the mounds of hills and trees six times and I feel absolutely no desire to do it again. An idea I have sketched is merely graphite lines, no art. I don’t want to create that art. There’s no one to create it for.


Half an hour. I have been around the house. Bathroom, living room. My legs are clay. A red spot on the banister. I don’t want to remember what made that.


I lie down for another sixteen minutes. I watch every one of those nine hundred and sixty seconds go past. I am still here. Still truly alone. No monster to fear in the corner, festering and stinking and gurning at itself. No mouth materialising on the ceiling, stretching the plaster of the walls or trying to talk to me. No black morphing thing leaving behind it a trail of shadows to try and sketch in the vague hope I can let someone understand me. Who is there to understand? I see nothing. No one. When I close my eyes, I see darkness.


I wake up to darkness. Proper darkness. So exhausted and tired. I don’t remember my dream in its entirety, but I remember I was running. No lungs in my dream-body so I couldn’t get tired. No muscles to pull me down. Endless roads stretched before me, and I had my arms outstretched. I would feel the soft world beneath my feet and pound onwards. I moved over the earth, grew bigger with every yard. And this I remember clearly, out of all of it, out of the sighs of the silent wind, the miles and miles I travelled in seconds, the knowledge there was nothing to do but run, I remember this.
I was smiling. A wide open mouth, peaceful, eyes sparkling with happy thoughts, misty dream air on my tongue and laughter echoing for me. A whole world to run through forever. Not an sad grey world but a peaceful one. Nothing else to do but laugh and run. Over turf, over fields, over sea.


In two hours I am on the floor. My head still woozy from the aftermath of the ecstasy of the dream. But my body is unhappy. It is heavy, far too heavy, unnatural. No sounds come in from outside and for a second I fear. I fear for myself. Shock runs up my arms, stabbing at my fingers and making my stomach tight. My throat squeezes and I cry. Just once. Just a sad, whimpering cry. Don’t. Don’t.

Don’t make me stay here. I’m stupid. I’m unhappy. I remember childhood. Not fondly. I was happy then. But I am not now. That was lifetimes ago. I was different. My hair, different, my eyes, different. Especially my eyes. Cold green ones now. They were bright and inquisitive before. Now they are just green.

Block out my insane world, please. Please. Put a tyre around my head so all I can see is the darkness from the inside and people will know how stupid I am.

Staring at the ceiling again. Couldn’t it be darker. Couldn’t it be blacker.


I spread a canvas in front of me. I go through the same ritual as I do every time I am going to paint. Canvas, linseed oil on my right, oil paints scattered on my left, brushes, each with different shaped heads, some destroyed by furious painting, some delicately cleaned and looked after. Cardboard, tape, scissors, knife. Behind me. Water, acrylics. To my left. And a graphite pencil in front of me. What should I paint?

I know exactly what to paint. I’ll paint my life. I should pick up the graphite pencil.

The graphite pencil.

Graphite pencil.



Why have I got this again? Didn’t I learn from last time? Didn’t I feel the pain when it wouldn’t let go of my wrist, when I couldn’t drop it, when I could look down and see it, blade bathed in my own blood? Why can’t I pick up the graphite pencil? Why can’t I move my hand forwards? Why does it stretch behind me. Right hand, going backwards, fingers feeling the cold touch of metal, the tape where I had to fix the blade holder after last time. I don’t want to.
I don’t want to.

Graphite pencil.




It’s far too late. But my other hand delicately curls around my phone, swipes, unlocks, and my right hand is twisting the knife and I look at it.
Please. I know I should, I know. I am alone. I want to be in my dream again, I know I do, with the endless running, the never getting tired, the laughter.
Looking to my left hand. I have opened my text messages. The last ones I see from him. Something about my paintings. Something, I cannot read it.
I look at my right hand. Trembling. Anticipating, waiting. I want to go for my neck. My arms didn’t work last time. Go for the neck. Go for the neck. Feel the pain closer to the head so I can escape quicker.

My head. Memories of those stupid things I read everyday.
He sends me them sometimes. Sometimes as a picture, sometime he just says them, sometimes sometimes sometimes. When he thinks I’ve been far too quiet, or if he thinks he can sense I’m sad.
I am not alone? Not usually. I know that. Big mouth whispering me to sleep on the wall with desires, with sickly threats.
But now I’m alone. Now I am. Nothing in my head, they’ve left me. The world is empty. No point in screaming when I do this.

Left. Text. Another. Another.

It’s 1:21 in the morning.

It’s been too long now. Too long since the last time. I drop my phone.

Right. Testing the weight. I turn the canvas over and lie down on it. Stare up at the ceiling. Feel the floor beneath me. If I can hold on. Just for a little longer.

I don’t care if I’m alone. I mustn’t go back to my dream. I will thank myself one day. When I’m better. When I’m cured. When I see the point of the sun again. And I will think I’m so glad I dropped it.


So I try to pick up the pencil again. Must keep my right hand on the floor. Must.
Graphite pencil.
Graphite pencil.
Sketch my life away. All away.

And I press it to my skin. My hand is mine. I am doing this. The soft skin of my left upper arm. The soft, warm, living flesh. I am doing this. And I don’t want to. But I do. More than anything and I push and I slice. And my face doesn’t change. No grimace. Nothing. Nothing.
I do it again. Open up my flesh. Work my way up to my neck because I’m a coward and perhaps I’ll die before I get there. Over my shoulder. Up we go. Arm, arm, arm. Arm, arm arm.
Shoulder, shoulder.
And it gives way each time, no resistance, no hesitation.
I pause and watch the cuts. They seem to swell, to redden, and then they leak. Seeping together and throbbing, stinging, but it doesn’t bother me. There. Onto the canvas.

Paint my life. It’s too much.


It’s hypnotic. I moved, holding my heavy self up over the canvas, a hip on the wood frame. Red and orange on my arm.

Neck. I think I’m ready.


I try to smile, I do. But instead, instead of a smile, instead of that, instead of how I wanted to look so I’d be smiling in my endless unwaking dream, I am shouting. I am shouting.


help me

please help me


Into the floor I am shouting and my hand is gripping the knife tighter.

help me

oh god

please please please


And then
And then
Strong hands
Soft, small, strong hands
The darkest eyes
The darkest eyes I have ever seen
No anger in his expression
No sadness
No relief
Just a gladness
A gladness that he can see my eyes still moving.

And he puts a hand on my head. And pulls my head to his shoulder. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.


please god

oh god

He won’t let me go. His grip gets tighter and I hear wailing. A child’s cry. Not his though.
Mine. All mine. All of it. All the noise, the tears, the static. And it’s loud. But at least there’s something. A hand around my shoulders, over my back. Something I can cling to. It won’t get better. Not while he’s here, not if he’s gone. Nothing will get better.
But at least I have something to cling to.

And I cling. And I sob into his shoulder. And that must mean I dropped the knife. And I scream at the ceiling but he doesn’t try to stop me. Just holds me steady. Still.

It’s still too much.


I am painting my life with my blood now. Still coming out my shoulder, out my arm. Not on the canvas. Not on the cold white. Not there. Not with me curled up inside it. No.

I’m painting my life on him. On his clothes. On his skin. But he doesn’t care. He wants me to. He wants to hold me steady, he wants to run over to me at half 1 in the morning, he wants to save me.

It won’t get better.

But it won’t get worse.

I can

I can make it another day.

Mister Miser

Good morning Mister Miser. Are you here to take both the Good and the Morning from me? Strip me of my dignity and order me to walk bare-foot and blood-covered with a bag over my head, breathing in my own previously-inhaled air. And my hands behind my back, tie there with the same cruelty as you had when you stuffed my head into the bag. That way the Good becomes Bad and the Morning means nothing anymore as the heavy material in front of my eyes makes me blind. I hear the laughter, sure, but I don’t see anybody so I can ignore it. You might think you’re taking my dignity from me, Mister Miser, but you’re not. Inside the dark sack I smile and my white teeth are whiter than yours. I don’t know why you hide my face – perhaps so all you white boys don’t have to see my white teeth shine brighter than yours. But I’ll tell you something. Your souls are black, far blacker than my skin could ever be.

IX: Moral Hate Circus

I: Moral Hate Circus  II: Moral Hate Circus  III: Moral Hate Circus  IV: Moral Hate Circus
V: Moral Hate Circus  VI: Moral Hate Circus  VII: Moral Hate Circus  VIII: Moral Hate Circus


But I can’t always be here.

My enemies crunching towards me show me that.

I won’t always be here.

So I must find a way of stopping you from screaming in the future.

I press down harder on your jaw and your throat makes noises again and your breath is hot and words struggle to come out and are drowned under the gluey blood of your own throat and it is on my fingers again and stop screaming I told you I will be here with you to stop you screaming and you will never scream again.

My enemies are steps away and I must stop you now.

I push harder and my jaw clenches and my hands too and my fingers covered in your saliva curl onto your tongue but I have grip and I push until I feel the hinge again.

The hinge feels like steel and moves slowly but so do my enemies and so do the leaves and the sounds are minimal and so is the breeze.

I have all the time I want.

I move slowly all the same so I don’t hurt you all I want to do is stop you from screaming for future you must not scream again because I cannot be there.

Your jaw is wider and this is what I want even though your screams are louder now.

I push harder until I hear cracking and I can’t tell if that’s my enemies’ feet or your jaw so I push again and it is your jaw I hear the hinge splintering and I see blood again.

And I smile because blood means my work is good.

I push harder.

Your teeth puncture the skin of my hand but I don’t dare stop.

I push harder.

The cracking resonates up my arm.

I push harder.

Your screams turn to rasps and gasps and your eyes flitter closed and finally your jaw gives way and the skin pulls around it and it snaps and tears and I push your jaw into your chest.

It hits your chest and you spasm but go still.

I pull at your jaw. Now loose from your mouth. Skin holds it on but the skin is ripped by bone and force and I can pull at it and your gums are red and raw and bleeding.

Your tongue quivers and lolls.

My enemies are making more noise than you.

I know you can still make noise. But you are silent now.

I let your jaw go.

My hands are wet now. Your jaw made them this way.

Your jaw is held by skin to you and it pulls back and I let it go.

It slips from my hand and from the blood.

And I look at the moon in the blue sky and I know my enemies are here but it is okay because I did what I had to do.

Soothe you. I did soothe you.

You must be glad now I have. You make no noise. You lie there quiet.

I touch you with my red hand and I can’t tell if you are moving.

I turn my eyes to my enemies just as the brown one grabs my arm. The red one grabs my wrist.

I get to my feet and they pull me far from you and I look back and the yellow one is by your side but not touching you and not moving you. They leave you where I left you.

Maybe they are not my enemies.

My eyes are dimming like yours did. They close. My ears stay awake and guide me and tell me where I am.

My feet tell me we are in the main tent and the red and brown enemies throw me down suddenly and I land on wood. My eyes open again and it is wood.

I am on the stage.

I look round at my enemies and they are standing there and I hear them shouting at me, but they sound a long way off and their figures are still.

Arms folded and glaring at me.

I look away and down off the stage and suddenly there is you.

Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.

It is you, a thousand times of you sitting there with your red and brown hair and your green eyes and your jaw hanging down on your chest and your teeth are bleeding and they are staining your skin because you are naked and your skin is white like the moon but smooth and I don’t know how you are there but I know I have soothed you because you are quiet all of you each one of you is quiet all of you are quiet none of you is making a sound not one of you is making a sound none of you are moving all of you are still all of you are silent all of you are looking at me and I hear the red and the brown enemies yelling at me but they are drowned out by your silent stares all your stares and I look into all your eyes at once and I want to tell you that you are welcome that you’re welcome that I’m glad I can help you but your eyes are sad.

Did I not help you?

Are you lying in a forest bleeding?

Didn’t I help you?

I made you stop screaming.

I made your hair red again.

I tasted your tears.

Did I not help you?

-Why would there be tears? Your eyes say, all your eyes. –Why would there be tears if we were happy?

Why would there be?

-Why would there be tears if we were helped?

I don’t know.

-Do you truly believe you helped us?

Us? Are there more of you? I helped you. Not us, not we, not all of you. There was one of you. I helped you.

But you look at me, all of your eyes below look at me as I lie there on my knees in front of you and your eyes are sad. –You didn’t help us.

I helped you.

-You didn’t help us.

I stopped you from screaming.

-You didn’t help us.

You’re not screaming anymore.

-We cannot scream anymore. And your jaws pump blood fast and all of you, like a wave, double over and you stay there for a while and all I can do is watch and know that you are sad.

I wait for ages until, one by one, you sit up again, all straight-backed in the chairs below me, all of you lit by the light of the moon, made much lighter than I am on the stage. I can see that you are crying, all your eyes are crying, and all the tears I taste in my mouth until I have to spit.

I gag and there is salt and you carry on crying and I spit again and the tears come out of my mouth and out of my nose and out of my eyes. I spit and I spit your tears.

-We cannot scream anymore! And you say this loudly so I have to look up.

The tears are louder than you and I only just hear you.

Flowing down my throat like a waterfall as I fall on my back.

-We cannot scream anymore!

I thought you were happy.

-We are not happy.

I thought you were happy. You won’t listen to me.

-You won’t listen to us. You are angry now, all of your eyes are covered by your brows. –Would we have to scream more if you had listened to our first scream?

I listened to it and I followed it to find you and I had to make you stop screaming because I had to help you.

-You didn’t listen to our first scream. You listened too much to the echo of our first scream so you didn’t let it go. Why would I scream anyway?

You weren’t happy and that is why you screamed.

-I wasn’t happy?

You screamed.

-You scream.

I am The Screamer. The. I scream. It’s cool.

-You scream. You are The Screamer.

I am The Screamer.

-Why would I scream?

Because you are not happy.

-Why do you scream?

I am The Screamer.

-Do you scream because you are not happy?

I am The Screamer. I scream.

-Maybe I don’t scream because I am unhappy.

You weren’t happy.

-Maybe I wasn’t happy or unhappy. Maybe I just screamed. I only screamed once before you found me.

I look round at you now and instead of seeing a hundred eyes I see only two glaring out at me from up near the opening of the tent looking down on me scolding me more than the enemies ever could and I know that I should listen to you.

-Why would I scream? Maybe I scream like you scream. I scream because I scream because I was made to scream.

Who is made to scream?

-You are The Screamer.

I am made to scream.

-Why shouldn’t I be made to scream too?

I don’t know.

-Maybe I am. Maybe I just screamed because I just screamed.

So you weren’t unhappy?

-No. You didn’t listen to my scream. You listened to the echo and you didn’t let it go and that is why you came for me because you thought my scream was louder and you thought I was unhappy.

I thought you were unhappy.


Where are the others gone?

-The others?

The others of you who were looking at me. Where did the us go?

-Us is not me and me and me. Us is me and you because we are the same.

No one is the same as me.

-I scream. Do you scream?


-Why do you scream?

I am The Screamer.

-But why do you scream?

Because. I. Am. The. Screamer.

-But why do you scream?

You are stuck on a loop, each time I say I am The Screamer you ask the question again so I have to think of another answer and it is hard because I don’t know why I scream. And all of a sudden I hate you. Why do you ask so many questions? I thought I had made you quiet.

-Why do you scream?

I refuse to answer you and looking into your eyes your green eyes that are like mine I can’t do it anymore. I tremble as fury darts through me through my veins and out of my skin in a mist and a sweat.

-Why do you scream?

And I scream for you, just for you, not for the enemies who still stand there, not for the moon who lights up the doorway and not for me either. I scream my loudest and my longest and I repeat and I scream again and I show you just what The Screamer can do and The Screamer rolls onto his front and The Screamer screams at the floor and The Screamer finds your eyes and The Screamer stares into them and The Screamer knows that they are not your eyes but his eyes and The Screamer is screaming for a different reason now because The Screamer is not screaming for you, The Screamer is not screaming for the enemies who still stand there, The Screamer is not screaming for the moon who lights up the doorway and The Screamer is not screaming for him because The Screamer is screaming because he is scared and The Screamer doesn’t remember being scared before and The Screamer doesn’t remember fear before and The Screamer is afraid of fear and afraid of what it might bring but The Screamer has to face the fear he sees and The Screamer sees the fear when he looks towards the moonlight-lit doorway and The Screamer sees you and The Screamer knows that you are fear.

He is scared of you.

Because he hates you.

Because you hate him.


X: Moral Hate Circus (Final)