Brutalist Stories #25

Rust Licker

Monument to the Revolution. Dušan Džamonja

“—and what do we take from this?” I look down at them, give them a moment. Pathetic, soulless, shrink wrapped, and ready to pick up off a shelf somewhere in the annals of time; "One whole life: Wasted.”

How dare they? “It’s my life to waste,” some might say. Some have said, when they’ve been staring down the barrel of my bolt-gun, ready to slip into the infinite. Funny, how once their eyes cross, looking up at me from the floor along that barrel, it’s at that moment they choose to try and hold against something, someone, and give themselves a moment of meaning.

“No, answer? Well, then, you are hereby called upon—”

“No, no, please,” a whimper.

“—Those that have taken time and resource to help produce you.” And a pause, push the barrel into their temple, hard. “All those that have at one point or another taken a moment to love and care and yes, help you along the way.”

“I’ve tried, I have tried to make it work, to make it count!” I raise my eyebrows and look down at them, shake my head. I can’t believe them so I continue.

“—and by those that have tried to make you into something, in the face of your ineptitude.”

“Why!” They grit their teeth. “Am I to blame?”

“You are free, you are responsible.”

“Who made me responsible? I didn’t ask for any of this, did I?” Ah, the squirming, and I know what’s coming next, the same with all of them, everyone, every time. “Who are you?! Why are YOU here?! What gives you the right?” Always with this question, and it kicks, and that other part is alive.

It grits its teeth, it that part that thinks it was here first. Somehow, just because they were in charge for so long, they think that they’re the real one, the original, that they have the right to be in control. They see themselves as trapped inside some form of hell.

What am I? Who am I? Really, well, I am something deep down that came to life. A delusion of grandeur, that took control and now slaughters people of my choosing. Now, that other side, the one that thinks it is the original, sometimes they try to put up a little bit of a fight, but most of the time, they just don’t care enough to try and battle with me. It’s just easier to float there on the periphery, to think to themselves, that what’s happening isn’t right, but really, not to claim in any way any responsibility for it. They just watch, which, is fine by me, because I get to do what I enjoy most.

“I am your penance,” I look down at them through what some would probably call psychopathic eyes. This duel personality, split, not quite down the middle, not anymore. I’m alive, they’re cowering, same as this one in front of me, and as the bolt goes through their temple, I feel a part of my soul wince, but I know they will go back into their hole, just as they always do.

Building inspiration: Monument to the Revolution. Dušan Džamonja

Walk with Me In Hell by Lamb of God

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Brutalist Stories #25
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