Writing: The Case of the Alcoholic Rodents: Part III

by Beauchamp Art

He wanted something to blame, so he found scapegoats where there are unwanted solutions or dead-ends. So he blamed environmental factors which he failed to deal with rational. Recently, he’d blamed drink and the side-effects from his mild anti-depressants, functioning as a counter-productive anti-placebo; along with excusing poor behaviour by blaming his slightly problematic mental health, thus once again failing to take responsibility for his reactions.

Blame family, blame bullies, blame his brain: its chemistry, inescapable responses of which he was fully aware but failed to reorientate his reactions in time to negate a problematic engagement. Ever an actor, a slipping mask trying to fit in place, face away from isolation, but feeling dishonest when trying to be truthful, deceitful to himself. And why? Why should he mislead himself. What had he to gain from this play he made himself perform. He, his inner other, his internal scapegoat, penned in; both warden and prisoner.

Pathetic and mocking, his tormentor, a persecution complex, paranoid megalomania, narcissistic, autistic, find more things to blame, more terms to identify his particular neurosis to understand himself better, to distance himself from the problems of his personality. Rather than encouraging resolution, accelerating the inner division, the disassociation and depersonalisation, he saw himself becoming ever more a fleshy puppet, tangled in its own knots, dragged along by the momentum of time ever escaping him.

Label and dissect himself, find what is the rotten core and cut it out, or find what is missing and fill it in. But there is no deviation besides that which defines him as who he is. He knew himself to be the flaws, the faults, the blame, the remorse, the irreconcilable bore, the vain marionette, dancing his gallows jig for cheers from a baying crowd.

Hurrah! They cry, and sing in sympathy, oh for his pious pathos. Look for he wretches, his face ruddy and loins firm, hanging under his own weight. Now closer to his bones than ever. Look at that pigeoned chest in futile heaving for narrow breath. They clap in unison on the ticking of the clock, each sound seeming to grow further from the last, until the time between becomes as long as the noose about his neck.

Until throat and gullet collapse like overlapping metro tunnels in a seismic shift, an earthquake cracks as spine jolts from skull, and his seizures cease. His pantomime paralysed, audience disperse. So he swings softly in the open breeze, eyes locked shit in permanent agonised whence, and dipped cheeks seem to slightly grin.

All the problems he would leave behind.

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