0002: Cup of Oil

Cup of Oil

Revenge is a cup, best served cold.

But I don't deserve this revenge.

It's hot. They shot out my left knee. It hurts to all hell but I've already screamed so much in the past week it doesn't matter anymore. I don't remember where I am. Sometimes I'm in the office accepting my job to leave

"It's safe there, Jerry. Just get in, close the deal and get out."

And sometimes I'm perversely on the beach with Tiffany, enjoying a Pina-colada

And then I'm back to reality, being slapped in the face. Foreign voices. Boots. Camos. I don't know their language.

"P-" I can't speak. They busted my lip, "Pleaase." My voice sounds alien in my head.

One of them laughs and grabs the back of my neck. Forces my mouth open.

One of them has a pot thats' steaming and full of oil, and I know they're going to make me drink it.

I think of the dentist and how the syringe eventually absolutely will go into my gums and the pain will hurt beyond any of the pulsations of my body, that no muscle contraction or scream could ever truly hug or encapsulate that pain, that I'd be feeling something beyond expression.

And when it pours the only thing I'm thankful for is that I know I'll finally, finally be dead.


And when I die I think of the cup of coffee I took on the plane heading out to the oil fields. New job, new career - and about how proud my grandfather would've been.