The Fall of a Titan

14th January 2009

Dear Reader,

‘Life in many instances throws us funny curve balls.’

Just as you were, I was born kicking and screaming.... pulled from a milieu of urine, maternal fluid and various other bodily fabrications. My unformed skull had been aggressively moulded to a replica of my mother’s birth canal, and at which point had resembled the makings of an ice cream cone. I entered this world as a meat sack with a birth weight of 6 pounds and a length on the 50th percentile. Apparently I was kept in a humidified crib for 2 weeks relating to undiagnosed jaundice. Of course none of this comes from my own memory, so here I shall tell the story of my father. He is the self professed unsung hero, who never forgets to inform me of my apparent evil plan to overthrow his empire, which was my birth.

My father turned 48 this year, I never see him and my mother would rather spit on his grave then have to execute an obligatory smile in his favour. He left when I was 12 in the same manner I was delivered; kicking and screaming, all of which culminated in feelings of guilt and repressed memories. It wasn’t until I was 18 that I remembered his defining words to me as he looked straight into my eyes before slamming the front door 2 inches from my face. ‘You have ruined my life, I was going somewhere until you were born and now only the bare road is in front of me’. A 12 year old should never have to hear those words, I was the chaos to his order, his kryptonite, and ultimately I became the knife that pierced his perfect plans. Truth be told the man was a walking contradiction, he was never going anywhere, he was stuck working in the railway at a dead end job from Monday to Friday. Friday nights he would head down to the pub and whistle at the passing bar maids, by 2am Saturday morning he would stumble in. I remember his heavy work boots, staggering around the front entrance on the old polished floor boards. It sounded as if a giant had donned a pair of trees for dance shoes and started a non-rhythmical tap recital. It was at those times that I knew a storm was brewing. I hid like a scared 12 year old does under the sheets, thinking all the while that that flimsy piece of cloth would endure the anguish of a young boys silent screams.

Morning would bring its own new sting of reality as I watched my mother walk out of her room, sometimes swathed in a motley covered gown of dried blood and white cotton. I never forget peering through the undeveloped tears that lingered at the base of my eyes and seeing the blue-green hue that enveloped my mum’s face like a semi-permanent mask.

I don’t know if you are willing to go any further and horror in many forms can only be handled in small doses. So here I shall leave you and hope that tonight you will sleep undisturbed, for tomorrow will only beget more mindless torture.