Saturday, August 31, 2013

A Day: Part 2


    "What is it about Steph?" Zeke asked in the back of the man's pick up truck.
    "What are you talking about?" Jed asked. The black ribbed plastic of the truck bed appeared as skewed square in motion on a concrete treadmill. "What about her?" he added.
    "Why do you care where she ended up last night? Zeke asked repairing sorrow.
    "It doesn't matter." Jed said. "It's stupid."
    "It's something." Zeke said. "You definitely bring her up a lot."
    Jed looked over at Zeke with a blank face. From above they were two boys sitting against a wall within a very small courtyard. Beyond the walls was moving concrete flowing pass them. Frothy fast gray moving river water. Chunks of asphalt erupt like waves when black rubber tires rolled over these roads day after day, chiseling them down to what they once were, a pile of stones. A rough stretch of tributary in the asphalt paths. Paths no longer dictated by natural terrain. Two boys leaning against the side of a raft on a river beyond their control, whether they knew it or not. "I just want her to be safe, okay?"
    "Somebody's in love" Zeke laughed.
    "Fuck off." Jed said and then turned away from Zeke. "You don't understand and you probably never will."
     Zeke slumped his head in the plastic raft on the concrete river. Jed's head stared straight faced at the pavement flowing away from him.

    Conceive, if you can, that Maxwell cared for someone's health and well-being other than his own. His acts, words, and thoughts on a day to day basis are decided and executed  based on the notion that there are people, other than himself, who he cares about, maybe even loves. Though his actions in a public spectrum are based on a set of social and regional structures, he still also thinks, says, writes and acts on the impulse to care and love other human beings, in whatever way he can imagine whenever he can. Maxwell, though critical of humanity in certain ways, loves at least a few, maybe many other human beings.
    Formulate this Maxwell in your head.
    Describe what he looks like.
    Possibly give Maxwell a background story based on your own impressions.
    Pick a Maxwell out of people you can remember who seemed aesthetically or ideologically insistent in some way. Also, allow yourself to use your imagination, for that is the true intellectual pleasure of what you are doing. Creative writing.
    Build a character with your mind.
    That character is not Maxwell.
    This is Maxwell.

    She raised her head when she heard her shoulder pop out of place. Her hands and legs were brought together by her ankles and wrists, bound together by her pantyhose. Hog tied with her skirt above her hips. Bare white legs akimbo on the rose colored bed spread. Her clothes wadded at her joints. Her body sunk slightly into the mattress.
    "Something is wrong." She mumbled. Maxwell's left hand was placed flat between her shoulder blades. His right hand held her arm up from the bed. Her right arm had popped out of joint. People need to test the scale of the pleasure pain ratio, such is the reason for free competitive sports of all sorts, and free pornography of all sorts and free exercises of all sorts, so long as one follows the rules. What rules?
    "Something is wrong." She said. Maxwell could have imagined her thinking this when her facial expression abruptly changed:
This has gone too far.
I know how I like to feel and this is not it.
These are only games.
We are just playing too rough.
We didn't choose a safety word.
All those articles about bondage mentioned something about a safety word and I didn't take the time to establish a safety word.
It's fine. He heard me say something was wrong.
I'm scared.
I'm still tied up.
This isn't funny.
What is wrong with him? He popped my joint out of place so going to the hospital is the next step of action in an emergency circumstance. What steps of emergency circumstances?
What does he plan on doing?
I have to go to the bathroom.
How am I going to get out of here?
I have to escape or make him love me.

    Maxwell didn't need anyone to love him. She was tied up and he could bend her to his will. He could bend many to his will if he simply heard and disregarded their character. Maxwell was alone. He was happy or sad depending on the circumstance, but he was nevertheless alone. Maxwell learned his humanity could overcome a different humanity. He reacts on this impulse of narcissism anyway he can.
    "Filthy pig" he said. He spread her legs farther apart from each other. The lips of her vagina glistening pink flesh. His penis became erect as blood engorged the arteries and veins beneath his pale skin, beneath his tight denim jeans.
    "Please don't" she said, her mouth partially muffled by the mattress.

@Weirdbeardtacos commented on instagram:
-Hashtag Opium is my new Shoegaze band-
@Burritoking85 commented back:
-Hashtag Opium played a quiet, almost inaudible set last night. The crowd chanted "Quieter! Quieter!" Eventually, the conversation overwhelmed the live music. The music became a John Cage composition bootlegged on a staticky recorder. History was made that night. @Weirdbeardtacos-
    Two boys commented on each others instagram posts while in the same room, downstairs with the rest of the party.

    Maxwell pulled her right arm towards him. The gap between her shoulder blade and arm stretched her still elastic skin. Tearing muscle and sinew. An organic rubber band.
    "Please don't" she asked. The adrenaline and endorphins were surely still flowing through her body. She probably had not felt very much pain yet, but she pronounced those two words in such a quiet and desperate way. Maxwell knew that something had gone wrong for her. Maxwell grabbed her left thigh and dragged her towards him.

    It wasn't quite rape because she never said no or she never screamed out or she allowed herself to submit because she always truly wanted it because she wanted to be famous that famous victim everyone sees on television explaining how they never knew that playing with fire could somehow get you hurt.

    Victims aloof of their circumstances. It's hard to understand until it happens to you. You have to learn from these experiences, understand them and realize you are not alone.

    -As a conscious observer, is it your responsibility to dole out justice on Maxwell? Or is it your responsibility to tell the truth. Maxwell is white. Maxwell's family is wealthy, or at least wealthy enough. Maxwell is educated. Maxwell never had to worry about his future, so he could let his mind wander wherever he pleased. Keep calm. Do what you want when no one is looking.
     -A church sign I read today, when I rode my bike to class. "The wrong train of thought can lead you down the wrong train of life." The billboard made me angry, but soon I realized there are more important things to be angry at other than sentences. "The wrong train of action can lead you down the wrong life" is what I would have posted on that sign. Thought has never truly hurt anyone. Thought is the straw that broke the camel's back. I don't want to forget the weight before the straw. The last straw. Crude oil.
    -You realize that Maxwell, if not smarter than you, is at least as smart as you. He may have gone to church when he was younger, but it didn't mean what it meant to you. He never experienced the naive beauty of a child's church and he is still as smart as you. He thinks while you meditate. And he gets away with it. He doesn't kill that girl to keep her from squawking. He's smart enough to not panic and skip that gruesome fantasy. He can talk his way out of it. He'll make a great politician, someday.
     They may even swing it, if it gets enough press, which I doubt that it will, that she was the one to blame. If Maxwell were a famous child, the girl would be media fodder.

    A man, while engaged in physical and consensual foreplay with a woman, pulled her shoulder out of its socket. He knew it had happened and she knew it had happened. She mumbled a few words of protest, but they were ignored by the man.
    They had met at the party still active downstairs during this circumstance. They spoke little at the party because the music was perpetually too loud. They danced and rubbed against each other while they drank cheap beer. After an hour and a half or so they ascended the stairwell towards the house's bedrooms.
    Without much more than a frown on her face, the woman submitted to something she would have otherwise been pleased with, so long as something had not gone wrong. Energetic and aggressive sex in an upstairs bedroom. '
    After the man fell asleep, the woman snuck out of the room, holding her left arm with her right hand. She tip toed down the stairs and stepped slowly over unconscious bodies on dirty carpet. She looked to the right and saw someone she recognized. His face was slumped into a couch cushion, but she recognized his t shirt. She snuck over to him, took her hand from her dislocated arm and shook his limp arm.
    "Wake up" she said.
    "Huh?" He said.
    "We've got to get out of here." She said.
    "Steph?" He asked.
    "We've got to get out of here." she said again. "Will you come with me?"
     They went to his mom's house where he helped pop her shoulder into place. She never went to the hospital. She doesn't remember who Maxwell is and she occasionally feels a dull pain in her shoulder if it is about to rain or there is a full moon. The only other damage was psychological. She asked him not to tell anybody about this.

    "She's kind of a slut" Zeke said.
    "You better fucking drop it." Jed responded.
    The man slammed the brakes of his black truck. Both Jed and Zeke's heads bounced off of the cab. "Here we are" the man said stepping out of the truck to a gravel lot.

Aaron C. Molden


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