Junkyard Blues

Chapter Twelve

51 C Chapter Twelve t happened again and it had not been in his plan, but it happened. He had tried to avoid it, but to no avail. It happened even after that effort. It was like there was some mighty hand, some invisible mighty hand that was always standing by to take control of himself; take control and manipulate him like a puppet on strings, only letting him go when the deed was already done. Yes, letting go when it was time for the hate and shame to surface and stare him squarely on the face. When it was time for that hate and shame to wash his face with wave after wave of its horrible breath. God why? Why did I do this again? Jude stared at his hands in silence, a frown on his forehead, as if the answer was there in his hands, as if some reasonable answer was going to leap out of his sweaty palms and kick his brain, some final enlightenment that could clear everything for him. But the answer was not there, not in the sweaty palms, not anywhere. In fact, the answer was lost somewhere in the clouds, clouds that were always going to be beyond his grasp. The answer was drifting in those clouds, playing a game of “Catch me if you can,” with him. What’ve I done again? How could I do this again when…? He felt like crying; it was beyond any reason that he had done this again. Beyond any reason that at this point in time he should’ve let himself go so easily. You just lost control again, pal. You just lost control of your brain and actually handed it to that crazy thing between your legs. But was he that stupid? Was he that senseless? A donkey that could not even raise a hand to defend itself, a donkey that could easily be led to the slaughter slab without even knowing, without even raising a hand to protest? No! What’ve I done again? Why did I do this again? The deed is done, buddy and as you know what’s done is done. There’s no need crying over spilled milk. That was logical, but he could not stop hating himself, he could not stop feeling that blind hate mixed with shame that always came afterward, when I 52 the act was already done; that shame that said without doubt that he had descended to the bottom of the pit again. God, I’m a beast. The bed creaked as she turned on it behind him. He was sitting on the bed, still not wearing anything, still not able to bring himself to pick up his clothes from the heap on the floor. He heard a tiny moan escape from her throat, that moan that was the residual sound of previous weeping. He felt a familiar anger, a familiar anger that was directed at her, a familiar anger that was directed to that moan coming out of her throat. Jesus, why? Why did I do this again? Why had he not been able to control himself? Just control himself this one time, just this one time that things were already down the drain? He felt a lump climb to his throat; he felt his eyes start to grow heavy. He was going to cry. He sniffed back the tears and looked at his palms again, trying to swallow that painful lump that was almost blocking his throat. He hated the fact that it had happened again, hated the feeling of hurt and the shame that came afterward, but there was nothing he could do about it. It had happened. Stop racking yourself then! It’s the room, this murky smelly room, the room and her. They have a hold on me, a terrible hold that I can’t break from. You don’t know what you’re saying. But… It was her and her dark murky smelly room. It was her and her room because they had that force, that powerful invisible force that always took control of him once he walked into the room (and even when he had been feeling repulsion before walking in like today). Somehow there was a force around her and her room that could make him do things even when he had vowed not to do them, even when the thought of it had been repulsive enough to make him want to puke. It was strong...