Misanthropy is Love

Anyone can get medication.

Anyone can get therapy.

Anyone can act like they’re mad.

A rare few wish they were not.

Love your enemies; befriend your foes.

Forgive your oppressors.

End your sorrow.

Fun fact:

Every single book I’ve written with a female protagonist, she has been mixed-race. Just because I always imagine the protagonist looking like myself, and usually she does (but with slight differences such as slimmer, thicker, different eyes or hair, etc). I’ve only written several stories and the man has been white. I’ve written men as white because if they were mixed-race they’d remind me of my brothers. And I usually model the men on people I’ve fancied in the past, and since I rarely see ethnic diversity where I live, they’ve been few, and white.

Written on 21st February 2011. Entitled “Off the Text: Edmund Alive”. I’ve missed writing this book.

The Stark household front door slammed shut behind Fredrick as he drifted in at 5 o’clock. Ignoring the welcomes from his mother, Fredrick ran upstairs to his room and locked the door.

His bedroom was neat, with white walls and a large whiteboard above his desk to write his thoughts on. The double bed in the centre of the room remained without pillows due to his strong belief that his body should be completely horizontal when sleeping. And the only poster on his wall was that Winston Churchill smoking a cigar and wearing his famous bowler hat.

“Freddie?” There was a knocking at the door. “There’s tea for you here.”

“I’m not hungry,” muttered Fredrick.

“Can you let me in please?” asked the voice.

“I’m doing work.”

“Boy, unless that school has started given you extra work, then there’s no way you have anymore homework to do for anytime soon.”

The young Stark sighed before getting up and unlocking his door to let his company in.

“I’m really busy, Edmund,” he sighed.

“I can see that,” said his brother, looking around the immaculate room. He set the tray of food on the bed. “Charis made more sushi,” he smiled, pointing to the food.

“Tell her thanks.”

His brother walked over to the desk and looked at the whiteboard; studying the random equations, sentences and doodles written upon it. In the top right corner was a neatly drawn eye; its iris coloured in green.

Edmund sighed quietly before turning to Fredrick. “You’ll find her, Freds.”

“There’s no rush,” Fredrick smiled.

“Yeah. Right.”

“What if I don’t like her?”

There was a silence.

“You’ll like her,” Edmund said quietly.

The young Stark hesitated. “Don’t… don’t you think that, you know, it’s a bit unfair that, well, we have no choice?”

His brother smiled. “All I know, Freds, is that without Charis I wouldn’t be half the man I am now.”

“Okay. I think I’m going to study now,” Fredrick said, moving towards his desk and away from his brother.

“Alright,” said Edmund. “Eat your sushi.”

Once again alone in his room, Fredrick sat at his desk and opened up his maths workbook, but had barely set pencil to page before the bedroom door swung open and a very excitable Gregory Green bounded into the room.

“Alright lover?!” he beamed.

“Hello.”

“We’re off out for a bit of a jive, so get your glad-rags on!”

“What?”

Gregory raised his bushy brows. “It’s a Friday night, you’re sixteen, and maths is hardly the foundation of a crazy night.”

Fredrick hesitated. “I don’t really think—”

“I know what you think, so you can shut up.”

“But what about Feya?”

“Just you and me tonight, mate.”

“Oh.”

“Aye, so get ready for ten.”

“That’s a bit late…”

Gregory rolled his eyes and tutted. “We’re going out, Fredster, and that’s that, alright? Aye, alright. I’ll see you later.” Before he left, Gregory spotted the sushi, and after reading Fredrick’s mind, ate it himself.

‘Walking Through Death’. The even more crap and not re-drafted version. I’ve become lazy.

There is little difference between the living and the dead; just that one possesses the power to breath and a beating heart, whilst the other fuels the former’s growth and, thus, existence. However, there is a state closer to life than death itself, and should one find oneself in such circumstances, survival is implausible, and recovery is impossible. The name for such differs amongst all, and through time, fiction has altered the perceived characteristics of any unfortunate soul to become such a being. There is no glamour in this fate. There is no hope. And there certainly is no happiness… Yes, such a way of existence would be too much of a sin to wish upon anyone and too much of a curse to possibly desire. It is the state of the in between; it is to be the living-dead.

Incident, the First

Dearest brother—I do not know how to express both my anticipation and my anxiety at when you will return. I hope it is soon, brother, because the most terrible thing has happened. I did not wish to interrupt your studies at the University and I do not wish what I have to tell you to ruin your chances there. But it is terrible, brother.

The Night Walker, he returned for his sacrifice. Believe me when I say that with all my heart I wished not to tell you and burden you with this, but he has taken Mumbasa. He has taken our brother! The village had been struck with famine, and even the children had barely little to eat, they had stopped playing and sat outsides their huts with pot bellies and hungry eyes from when the sun rose to when it set once more. Many of the village elders have passed, and those who survive do so on little more than a string of life left.

Oh, dearest brother, He came in the night, we were not prepared! The Chief offered him not one—but three women, yet he still refused. He said they were not healthy enough, that they were not fit for death itself, never mind a breath. He demanded all the young men be brought to him, that he would choose himself.

Mumbasa was the third he looked upon; our sweet brother, so strong yet tender, it was he the Night Walker chose. I have never seen Mother cry so in all my years. There was nothing we could do, even the Chief put himself forward in place of our brother, but the Fiend refused. What could we do? Be torn to shreds while Mumbasa’s life would still end? Or watch as he was dragged away? I write now with water-filled eyes and a broken heart. Mumbasa has been gone for only two days, but the pain could count for years of grief.

I beg of you though, Tomas, do not return! Do not return to the village. Stay at school, where you are safe, but pray to the gods for us. I will use the last of my savings to send this to you, in secret, so do not write in return. I hope to see you soon, my brother, but in better times—Your ever-loving sister, Adeola.

Incident, the Second

Date: March 13^th, 19—.

Morning. Wake up, pills. Sit in room, lunch. After lunch, pills, then it’s crafts. Dinner, pills. Sit in room, pills. Bed.

Nobody will listen to me, I am sick, they say, I do not know what I say. But I do. I know. He hurts us. Mary. He hurt Mary. He bit her, he bites us. It hurts and I tell them but they do not listen, they will not look at where he bites us. Why is this? I want to be heard and I want to be understood. Mary cries at night, in her room, and she cuts her legs—I saw the scars. Nobody else has seen the cuts or the scars, but I have. She found a sharp stone, hides it in her shoe, she found it out in the garden. I don’t like the flowers in the garden, they are all red and orange. I wanted yellow but yellow scares Harry so no yellow for the garden! It would be pretty if there was yellow. Not blue I don’t like blue it is the colour for the sky and nowhere else.

I watch him sometimes when we all sit together. Sometimes he sees me watching him and he smiles and I see his teeth. He has sharp teeth ready for biting and for hurting us. I do not know why they will not listen to us. They just won’t listen. LISTEN TO ME I shout in my head. My head is my own, it is mine and I will listen, I will always listen. If they would listen then I would say I am cold it’s cold in my room at 4 OCLOCK that is when he comes and touches me. He touches me down there at my thigh and he bites me too. I cannot scream or else he says he will never stop biting me. Ever he will not stop. It felt good it feels good but then it hurt it hurts and I did not know why. I do not know why. A pretty girl he called me but too weak and too alive. Sometimes he tells me to talk to him but I do not know what to say so I tell the story of Snow White. I remember that story because my mum told me it. it to me. I would come home from school and I would cry and mum would tell me the story of Snow White and I would not cry anymore.

When he stops he watches as I cry that he hurt me. I remember the word for that, I read it when I was allowed real books. He is sadistic. I told him that one time after he hurt me and he laughed and he said he feels no pleasure. He will watch as I lie and go to sleep. I am not scared to sleep with him there to see me. It would hurt less if he bit me when I sleep.

I do not like that he hurts Mary. Then he laughs at us and he says that we are all mad that nothing is real that no one will listen. But I will listen. I will listen to me and I know that he hurts us and he is a bad mad. Bad men always cry soon. Time gets them and then they cry. And when he cries I will hurt him.

Incident, the Third

Dear reader,

My life was never too fantastic nor never too dismal. I went to school almost every day and even went to church once in a while, not just for seasonal services. If you were to ask me, if anyone were to ask me, how my life would end, my reply would be, “With age, and a lot of it.” God, if there really is a God, help me. Save me, be here for me, dear Lord! I don’t want to die, I’ve so much to do in life.

Growing up on the estate was… hard. Hell, I was the only guy my age who actually gave a shit about school, who didn’t think flogging drugs was as easy working on the market but made as much money as being a doctor. I wanted to be a Social Worker, and I was going to come back here and I’d help people. I’d help people just because they needed help. I need help, now, I need it now. There’s not time for an autobiography of my life, no time, but I hope this reaches someone and you’ll believe me. I’ve got an IQ of 125 and am probably the most normal, sane person in this whole fucking estate. So just read this and believe me. Please…

George Robinson had been living in the place next door to mine since I was a kid. He wasn’t married and he had no kids.

‘Being Sane’. Stopped writing this because I got bored of it. Based on myself and my mind.

I, like 99% of the population, claim that I am not normal. But unlike the majority of the 99%, I wish I was. When I was little, if my mother and I had a fight, I would write a letter explaining I had run away, then proceed to hide behind my dressing table—sometimes for hours on end—waiting for her to find me in floods of tears saying how sorry she was. On most occasions, I would eventually get bored and emerge from my solitary haven, but the odd time my mother would come and discover me. In silence, she’d take my hands and gently pull me out from behind the dresser, kissing my forehead before walking away. It was during those moments of intimacy that I saw she was not weeping, that she hadn’t been upset because of my absence, and I hated her for that. I realise now that she always knew where I’d be hiding, she was just too tired to play my childhood games.

Usually, people find my weirdness amusing, and I’m known as the funny one amongst my friends. That’s right, I have friends—and they’re normal. I even socialise; you know, go out, get drunk, wake up and swear I’m never touching alcohol again. I’m not the stereotype. And there are even some instances where my outré personality is beneficial, like a few months ago, when I was at a party. I was warm and went outside for a cigarette (I don’t smoke full-time—just when I go out because it gives me a few moments to be alone), and nobody else was there so I took off my shoes because heels weren’t a good idea at all.

I was almost finished my fag when a man came out and glanced at me before concentrating on his packet of cigarettes.

“Got a light?” he asked, now looking at the sky.

“Yeah,” I said, handing him it.

“This lighter’s shit,” he said, lighting his cigarette on the first try and handing it back to me.

“I’m sorry.” I threw my butt down and stood on it with my bare foot. The pain was still pain.

“I bet you say sorry a lot,” he muttered, blowing rings in my direction, “and I bet you don’t mean it most of the time, either.”

“Most people don’t expect an apology, so they tend not to regard it, so it doesn’t matter if I meant it or not.”

“Well, what about me? Here I am, an honest man, listening to you, aware you’ve apologised and you didn’t mean a single word of it.”

“Well, I’m sorry for that.”

“There you go again!” he said, smiling slightly. He had thin lips and a lot of stubble. Judging from his age, which I guessed to be 23 or 24 for, and the whiteness of his teeth, he hadn’t been a smoker for very long. Or, like me, he wasn’t a smoker at all. “I’m Michael.”

“Hello, Michael,” I smiled, “I’m Esmée.”

He stood silently finishing his cigarette before moving so closely beside me that I could feel the heat of his smokey breath. “We shouldn’t exchange phone numbers,” he muttered softly, locking his grey eyes on my own.

“Or details about our lives,” I added.

“I’ll just assume your second name is Jones.”

“And I’ll assume yours to be Ellison.”

“When we go back inside, let’s ignore one another…”

“Pretend the other doesn’t exist.”

“And regret that our only exchange was over cigarettes.”

He lifted his hand to my cheek and kissed my lips. I didn’t move my own, and upon our separation he chuckled and said, “Smoking’s bad for you,” before walking back into the party. That night I went home and cried because I realised that I’d had a moment so perfect I’d always remember it, but I’d never meet that man again. 

Over a year to date. Je ne comprend pas car ce n’est pas juste. La vie, la vie est belle, je promets.

It’s cold in the deep, dark hole,

In the pits of Hell,

Where the angels fell with their wings so white,

Yet turned to black and the dust that filled their

Anguish of ash.

Though the angels, they sing,

They sing a song

Of peace and love and how the end is not long,

And I wait for it,

I’ll hold its hand,

Because in the pits of Hell

Is where I’ll stand.

They tell you to stop, but they don’t tell you how. And what is the substitute for the pain? because the pain represents the progress, so without it, how do I know I’m doing well? I don’t, and I’m not; I’m sinking back to where I can’t breathe and pressure is too much.

L’imagination est l’oeil de l’âme, je promets.

I am the world recycled. I am your great-uncle, her childhood rabbit, his old apple core, and I am Ghandi. I am the milk I fed as a baby, the fudge I ate at six. I am the greatest lost prose of the century and I am Vivaldi’s failed symphony. My mind is sparked by a broken mug and ash. The food I eat was fire and the perfume I spray was once honey. But my thoughts are mine. The world cannot see what I refuse to display. I was and will once more be an empty mind. I’ll disperse what I please and retain the indecent. I am the extraordinary, I promise you I am.