I have decided now, after years of running from my memories, to return to this the green room. A lonely studio apartment lined in the unknown streets of a forgotten arena, life filled with death, time consumed by undergrowth and deviance. A lost existence in this one room sanctuary not so happily broken with a view of the abandoned Texaco® gas station across an unlit alley. There are still moments in its life, times when the sign still flickers, a ray of hope to its dying lights, but it is years long dead from the glory days of bright red and white. I hear the howls of cats in heat and garbage filth ravenous creatures. I move toward the pane, peering out the single window which faced the dying monster, and see him again standing beneath the empty light, he wears the same black hooded sweatshirt and draw string cargo pants his washed out green hair still falling across his eyes like a filter to his world, I wipe the condensation from the window and he is gone.
“Memories can play tricks on the mind” I can hear his voice whispered so tender and warm, “turn away”
I always loved his voice, like a mid-summer rain shower, delicate and warm, piercing to your dry sun beaten skin, intoxicating to your soul. He was my gentle rain, his hands touching my neck and words flooding my soul, but in the end I knew that when it has been so dry, rain pours and with the heat comes storms, thunder then lightning.
The hairs stand erect on the back of my neck, I turn from the window and I can feel his presents, he is here again to watch, a shiver passes through my spine and exits my feet draining me of the instinct to run. Though I can not see through the clear fog that are the memories which have brought me here, I know I have come a long way to understanding myself and to what strange possessions have unfilled my memories.
I have for years felt drawn back here, like a power which will not be denied pulls on the tide to the shore. The room before me stands as my body, dark and powerless, drained of memory, one entrance and one view of the world. The blackness engulfs me and is pulled right through my body, overwhelming my conscience with memories, I begin to cry.
“This, now this is your greatest failure” His voice still echoes in these walls.
Like a canyon to thunder will shake into itself a long awaiting earthquake, I am caught within its trance. I turn back to sit alone beneath a very window I once vowed I would never return to, softly rain beaten and slightly stiff from the steamy summer nights we pried upon it. I still remember this window, its pane so cold against my face even on the warmest of days; recoiling the memories to which I spent years forgetting. The door across the room calls out to me, I close my eyes and yet I can still see the lurking black image floating toward me on clouds of haze, a look of pure venomous poison. One hand to its head, the other firmly attached to the polished strap of black leather, which became my doom, and my control.
“Don’t cry little boy”
I open my eyes in fear coldness runs through my body like a wave searching its home and in big letters across a blank page my soul must exclaim to the world:
AND FEAR HAS EATEN ME ALIVE