Scarleton Series I : Before the Cult by Sandy Masia Page A

Morrison?”
    “I’m not
sure.”
    “Not that it is
my kinda shit. I’m usually into more underground alternative stuff
but I like that song. It says something about the truth hurting but
the lies being even worse than that. I agree with that. I believe
more in the truth being the ultimate cure, no matter how sour. Lies
are nothing more but sweet poison. Much like ciggies, lies can
destroy you. The truth is a hard medicine to take, but it works.
Don’t mind people being honest, I love it. What I hate are posers.
Superficiality. I don’t get that. I hate that. What is the fucking
point?”
    She nodded
tentatively. “I see. I understand. I am just wondering if you ever
considered that some people may find it hard to be honest with
you.”
    “Yeah,” I said.
“In fact, I think they do. Anyway I was telling you this whole
story for a reason. Not because of my issues with trust and stuff
like that. What I was trying to say is that… being unique and
different puts me up for rejection, misunderstanding and ostracism.
It’s like I am a piece that does not fit here in this
puzzle. But a puzzle that belongs to another alien one. And I feel
the out-of-place-ness. I feel my edges bent and ruffled with so I
may fit. Even when I am finally forced in or somehow altered to, I
remain an oddity. A stain on the canvas. I am nonsense. Without
real ultimate use. The fact that I’m camouflaged into the painting
is so undeniably visible. I boil with the disprovable fact that I
don’t belong here. It’s not my place to take. If I find the
rightful piece I will gladly give it the spot it deserves. And I
hear, smell, and feel my family calling me on the other side.
Longing for me as much as my heart does. There is wind blowing
through the hole, insects crawling in and out, and dust filling in.
It’s every creature’s nature to forget and grow accustomed to
something. One thing that remembers even in the mist of
forgetfulness is the heart. The urges and emotions will soon grow
out of explanations and rationalizations. Soon the mind declares it
just a mood. From that point we are forever lost, hopeless and
helpless without even knowing it.
    ‘It’s just the
blues,’ we say, but the heart knows different.
    ‘It’s just
senseless thoughts,’ we say, but the spirit knows different.
    ‘Oh, it’s just
a dream,” we say, but the forgotten mind remembers.
    ‘It’s just a
compulsion’ we think, but our instincts know better.
    It’s the
calling , it’s the call . Only you can’t comprehend it.
Some drug themselves senseless because of it. It nags and nags
until some search for answers is initiated. It’s so unbearable that
some end their lives. Then I wonder if it is out of choice, or if
they hear, believed and done what had to be done. Like taking the
right bus, knocking on the right door. Laying your life to sweet
fate.
    Do you know
what my cousins say?” I paused, suddenly aware of how
discreetly solemn my tone is. I had zoned out.
    “No, you
haven’t told me,” she said, intrigue blatant - something was also
present there too.
    I stalled,
licking my lips, clearing my throat and resettling in the chair.
“They say to me ‘Blood waters the crops!’”
    “You know what
it means?”
    “No. I
don’t”
    Silence.
    “Then I see the
red fields. And some kind of a Gregorian chanting rising behind the
hills ‘This is Deathiculture. This is Deathiculture. This is truth.
The is It. The It. The it that is. The is that is !’” I
talked without my lips moving, I had a sensation that I was frozen
in place. It wasn’t anything disconcerting or aggressive. It was a
sweet release, an orgasmic caress of goose bumps. Shimmering and
rippling like a head rush.
    Fuck me
now, Macfearson’s voice whispered into my mind. That’s what he
always said as he had his first cigarette of the day – never in the
morning but in the afternoon.
    “What do you do
then?” she asked.
    “I… I just sit
there and become so… so… so something