13
Jan/2008
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The Poetry of Fear...
 THE POETRY OF FEAR - CHAPTER 8  Not exactly poetry-not exactly prose- perhaps the poetry of fear
Chapter 8
The common denominator in all that I have related thus far is-RAGE. YET before there was rage there was GUILT. And before there was guilt there was -FEAR!
Gerald once described his situation to me in the following manner. As A ten year old boy:
"It's Sunday morning, Mom's in the kitchen. He's in the dinning room sitting at the head of the table. Cautiously I enter the room. Carefully I pull the center chair out from under the table. I sit gently, my breath short and controlled. Trying not to draw my father's glance, I act as if invisible. Very careful not to bang the spoon against the plate, I eat quietly, making little sound. He won't tolerate a slurp or a crunch. Don't want to spill anything, or knock anything over. The sugar had best make it to the plate without hitting the table, only to bang like bowling balls dropping from the rack onto the floor.
I don't dare look in his direction! I must remember to chew, swallow, and breathe gently. Even better if I don't breathe. Perhaps this time I will be able to escape, finish quickly, stand and excuse myself. Then I can retire into my room and into safety. But it won't be! It can't be.
It's going to happen all over again. I know it. He knows it. It cannot be stopped. It's already set in motion. I steal a glance. He's in a white tee shirt and unshaven. Tremendous arms protrude from the short sleeves that restrain his bulging muscles. His tremendous neck holds his balding head erect. His cereal is almost consumed. I note how he always leaves enough milk in the bottom of the bowl to pour into his coffee cup. Strange habit I think. Must not have had much as a kid. The last bit of cereal carefully removed, he ceremoniously tilts the bowl over his coffee cup and adds the milk.
Here it comes! He looks my way. I feel the static in the air. The mirror on the wall seems to crack. His methodical, yet restrained voice booms out:
"Moe Moe, did you clean up the yard like I asked you to do."
A frigid wind whistles through my spine, hardly able to breathe I anticipate what's to come. Barely able to open my mouth the word
"No" dribbles out.
My father's face begins to contort. His eyes bulge out of his head. The throbbing veins in his neck turn dark purple. His complexion is fire red. His fists clench tightly. His arm throb like liquid iron. Out of his bowels, a roar like a thousand-headed tormented beast is emitted
"Aaaaaaahhhhhrrrrrrrrrr!"
Erupting, his arm smashes against the coffeepot and sends it exploding against the wall! Hot coffee splashes everywhere. The Beast has come!
I let out a silent scream as the madman lunges at me. Petrified with fear, I can hardly move. I slide back into the corner like a trapped rat. I feel the first blows begin to land.
"Stop!" my mother screams from the kitchen as I am slammed against the wall. I try to slide into the hallway towards my room. The maniac slams me again. He's obsessed.
"He's going to kill me this time!" I think to myself.
Mom can't pull him off. He's too strong.
"I feel dizzy. Got to escape. He's kicking the shit out of my body. I feel numb!"
"I am going to die. That's got to be a better alternative. I can't feel the blows anymore. He's a madman out of control."
"It's my fault," I think as I sink to the floor. "I should have done as he asked. I provoked him. I should be killed. I deserve to die!"
As I succumb to the onslaught these weird thoughts continue.
"If I die I will go straight to Hell! Honor thy Father and thy Mother! Could Hell be worse?" I wonder.
"I sinned by disobeying my father, therefore I will be punished for all eternity in hell!" At this point I slump into the corner semi-consciously.
"My lungs feel frozen. My body numb. I'M THERE! I am outside my body looking in. I’m beyond fear and pain. He can't hurt me anymore.”
“Am I dead?"
"It's been too many times. It must stop. I must defend myself from The Beast. I will slay the Beast!"
These were the final thoughts I had as I lapsed into unconsciousness. The very first time I raised my hands in self-defense, I felt sickened. Yet the very first blow I flung in retaliation slew him. The Beast just for a moment turned human, whimpered and walked away. He would be back no doubt, but some how the ground rules had changed!”
Christopher Cole
"The Closer's Song" http://geocities.com/closerssong/homepage.html
PEACE.
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