‘Bereft…?’

I was never left without before….

‘In desiring the useless epitome of weak mass… it left me stuck in hour per hour guidance.’

In response I huff and shriek, finding solace in my own voice.

‘I’ve grown past that which is accustomed to the many losses one may face in their life time.’

I have no survivor’s guilt nor do I have any feeling of loss or trepidation to accompany said feeling.

‘Everything simply feels expected and as it should.’

I wonder how anyone else would handle these opportunities under my direction… but to wonder is to leave one in a daze.

I was left without any explanation as to how my mother passed. It seemed as though years transpired though in reality only hours had found themselves loose upon the minute hand of the clock. I hated the very idea. The permeability of time. Permanence without consent.

I held my son’s hand, removing the empty glass from his grip, and bid him farewell. I wished to let him sleep.

“Daddy?” He inquired, eyes looking up at me from his blue blanket and white queen sized bed.

“Yes, my mom” I respond foolishly, thoughts nearly racing to recover.

“Haha, I love you, dad!”

The absence of emotion I feel forebodes me.

“Good night, Daddy!”

He yelled smiling, turning over in his bed. Eyes closed as he fixates on a new day to greet. He’ll make the new day his bitch. Yet, I felt nothing.

‘Is this as my child will feel as an adult!?’

I stress this thought to myself. Repeating it until I can stumble on an answer to muster up.

‘No… no… of course not. I will not—’

‘This wasn’t about you yet your mind’s words depict you?’

‘HE will NOT!’ I grow angry and confused.

“CUCKOO! CUCKOO! CUCKOO!”

The clock sounds disrupting my derailed thoughts and ejaculating my scandalous temperament unto a matter of moments.

I realize I stare, face nearly contorted, at my neglected child. Leaving me to respond with a jovially happy facial expression that felt as a mask unto the hollow and deformed. Though, taken gleefully unto my spawn/child none the wiser. Realism escapes me and I soon find that I never know when my son will sleep in permanence.

I exit his room.

‘I needn’t continue to trouble myself with emotional volatility in response.’

In other words, as though for his sister, I attempt at best to feel nothing. His sister, being far more physically affectionate (I actually felt something when finding these words) tends to effect me in ways I neglect. When she smiled I felt happy, her tears made me sad, and her anger gave me bouts of frustration. Though, of any longstanding spark, feelings intermingle to a sense of overindulgence. So, in excess, more than 4 hours of interaction between us bored me.

I find myself in the kitchen. I don’t recall walking from his door. Not this far, anyway. How? When did I get here?

I don’t hate my children. In some way I relate it to postpartum. We don’t grow apart, no. We grow more amicable than loving. Similar to adults in the small moments before one takes their leave.

She’s smart, my daughter. She made sure our interactions interested me. I always admired her for such and perceptively I admit I grew jealous of her and her range of emotions. As you can guess I often feel nothing amid the average 24 hour day. You could also guess both my children are avoided if I have no interest.

‘Why bore myself for someone else?’

I mean the feeling mirrored exactly how the cemetery meandering and chemical bonds exhausted me. I admit, though exhausting myself with the incalculable odds, well tasked measurements, and cross examinations that came to task of myself and my children, all seemed worthwhile to better our immune systems, tolerances, and my studies. All in all, the actions could never take their toll on me.

“When the bell tolls it tolls for thee”, my daughter told me.

I’m often troubled with the spontaneity of recollection. The loose correlation of a single word causing me to immerse unto a now unveiled and well lived moment. I shouldn’t let it bother me, I know. I have need for my hands to be busy yet my mind controls them. There is still yet much to do.

“What are we going to do after, daddy?” The image placating my chores. It causes me to explain away in recollecting the rest of the memory. Her eyes wet as she wakes up that morning and myself watching my lips move as I explain to her the need of her schooling and her studies. I answer her question stating that I could help her understand her school work. That I would begin teaching her about chemicals and their implied many uses that very day. I remember her smile.

‘I love you, daddy!’ Her face never leaving mind. In my eyes she was always staring into mine. She had my nose. My lips. My eyes.

‘See you after school, daddy!’

I don’t know why I always feel so alone when she’s away. Do I wait for her? I have so many things to do. I never give it much thought. I force it away.

‘Do I often find myself waiting for her?’

Do I?

‘Is this weakness?’

Does it matter?

‘Does it?’

Mind you,

I do it all alone.

Cooking, cleaning, finance, poisonings.

‘What if I’m caught?’ My mind ponders.

‘When I’m caught?’ Brewing internal thoughts question.

‘Suffice to say… a short hospital visit and a LONG talk with DYFUS.’ I respond in dual truth and attempt to calm.

“What do you think?” I asked aloud as I stare at my reflection through murky dishwater.

In this moment I look for a response but I’m met with silence. I study the water. It is tinged and browned with grayish streaks of equal parts poison and remnants of dinner. This silence is something I used to call Peace of Mind. Remnants of calm.

I’ve found answer from a few reflections… after meals I find myself staring back within the water. I found myself staring deeper into my daily changing psyche. I ponder my thoughts, the many faces from day to day, studying them to better my clarity. “A weak attempt to solidify my family”, months ago as I stared into the waters… -to another of my own reflections… I found this was said about poisonings and cemetery visits.

In another few, “Give them over to dyfus.”

“HA!” My laugh’s so hard I forget to physically breathe.

I realize I often day dream. The mind tortures itself with thoughts regardless of it’s conscious state. Aware bids thoughts. Sedation brings struggle. Sleep gives dreams. I breathe and realize I’ve been staring into the water for an hour’s time.

I am once again aware of my vision, reminded of the illusive and common daydream. I see my face. My eyes are trained, staring into the water as they stare out from the water. My eyes strained. My facial expression still and neutral, unchanged in the waving waters my hands submerse.

‘No sooner would I die than lose my precious seedlings!’

A thought without fault. I simply wish the mind was not so pervasive. If I believed in prayer? Far less invasive. Much less subversive.

I found areas of mind tread in likeminded fashion. I found myself, in majority, loved by grouping. It felt as though their masks were simply more adjusted than mine. I felt some to be satirical or great in their lack of feeling, the only benefit a lack of bias.

A smaller few say, “Eat them instead”, “A last hoorah away from the nascent soon-to-be-past and groaning of anyone mentionable”. I express my ire for the distasteful, “YOU SICKEN ME!”

I remind them that, “Just because I poison my youth does not mean I am tantalized by the idea of eating my children any more than I would drag a knife across their faces!”

As appetizing or inquiring as these conflicts all sound I believe I’ll mull over my final thoughts myself and remit the inquiries amid the camera I found staring at me.

I found the camera years ago… you will never truly understand what you see, r/LiveViewing

Razor blade in hand, stripping flesh from my arm is my— my normal process (Sorry, the pain was almost too much to bare for a moment. I blame the multitasking— keeps me too alert). It helps me to find a thought that deals with great frustrations. Some do work best under pressure after all. I surmised finally (almost cut too deeply) that I should give them a slow amount of affect without breaking character. I’ve been wanting to since initially bringing them home.

“Would they enjoy that?” I wondered aloud.
An answer “of course” surfaced, astounding me. Growing as nearest to my skull as the oxytocin gland could corroborate. Perhaps…. perhaps as I numb the voice inside… if I stop hearing them…they will ____ me more…. Once more to wonder is to bring one to a daze.