quirito (i scream)

Don’t tell your children about how much of a loser I was. How much of a loser you remember me to be. Please, keep it between us. 

Please,

Just tell them how much you liked me, how you could not keep yourself away from me; or don’t tell them anything at all. 

If it’s worth anything, I promise you:  I’ll keep quiet as well. I promise you I won’t tell them anything.

I promise you I won’t tell them how I risked everything for a little piece of heaven at your side, how you were heaven to me. How I was alone, scared, in the dark, and you were my Prometheus. 

And I hold back from writing “just because you were kind” because I refuse to believe it was kindness. It has to be something else. It had to be.

Because you did not bleed for the sake of being kind. You are not that good. You are not that selfless. 

You are egocentric, obnoxious, small and self-absorbed in your “man of the world” knowledge and experience that I didn't have, and that you so gracefully shoved in my face. 

But I liked it, I loved every minute of it. In my tongue it tasted like sugar, in my hands it felt like a river’s cold running water.  And you tasted it. There is no way you didn’t.

So please, again, I ask: Do not say a word. I won’t either.

Don’t tell them about the wounded animal I was. Don’t tell them about all the times you saw me bed-ridden walking through the hallways. Don’t tell them, please, about how many times I showed teeth that had no sharp edge in them just because I was kicked into doing so.

I miss you, like a widow misses her late husband.

But you are not dead, which, honestly, makes it worse and makes me cruel for the first time. 

Because, for the first time, I wish for me to be happy and what makes me happy is for you to miss me forever and die whispering my name, as I have died screaming yours. 

I lie in my bed and miss you. I do miss you and I do wish to see you with no wife taking the place that is rightfully mine; but I’m cruel and wish for me to find someone that will take your place and do what you didn’t: hold me close, kiss me senseless and make me die in my desire for them.

But as I write I realize I’m already the loser. I will never love someone the way I loved you. I will never burn for them the way I did for you because I’m either still burning or I’m just a pile of ashes. No resurrection, no holy water to put me out. Just eternal death and eternal burning. That’s what you did to me. And I hate that I have to be grateful, I cannot not be. Thank you for knocking on my door, thank you for haunting me.

But I’m selfish and I pray to the God I no longer believe in that you miss me too. That I haunt you too and that you will never get over me, that you will call my name, that I ruin your life. 

Please, Please, Please. I pray to you. Please, think of me. Please, ruin your life in the name of your regret of me. Don’t you dare think I would want you to be happy without me. I wouldn’t! How would I? When I will never be happy with you and that’s the only way I wanted to be happy as? “You have bewitched me, body and soul.” “Haunt me, drive me mad.” All the stupid phrases from all the stupid books come to my mind when I think of you. You. You. You. I could write it a thousand times just to feel like I’m touching your face. 

I love you. I love you. Laugh at me. Make fun of me. Say “What is this now?” or “You mean, like a friend?” break my heart, but speak to me and free me from loving you forever. Because it will be the death of me. I’m dying a slow, painful death of imagining you forgiving me, understanding me and letting me go. Or worse, holding me in your heart like I hold you; and it kills me.

And the worst of it is that I have learnt I’m pretty fucking smart, smarter than you, actually. I always was. But since I’m smart and I have insane pattern recognition abilities I have developed over the years: That means I’m right and you miss me, which means you are the only God who has been kind to me and answered to my prayers.

Humanity is not an abstract concept. It is me. I am the vessel of humanity. I am humanity. Therefore treating me badly is a crime against humanity. Anything that argues anything different is a fucking war crime and anyone who argues something different is a war criminal.

These men are actually meaningless. In the big scheme of things they are nothing but pathetic losers with delusions of grandeur. But the pathetic loser can knock your teeth out. And depending on the fucking day he’s had, he will do so.

Loser men (Which is kind of a redundancy, because all men are losers, but let’s save some face for the “Not all men” crowd) worship a number of “hobbies” you will find easy to recognize; Formula 1, Soccer, History, “Good” Movies, “Goated” Anime, “Interesting” Books and “Good” Music. What they really love and adore and give sacrifice to is power.

Formula 1: Formula 1 men are rich. Their cars could kill them and everyone around them. It is an overwhelming showcase of the power of money and force. They revere that. Their “Miracle of Engineering” renewed every year is exuberant, unnecessary and absolutely and utterly meaningless. It is the chariot of the few built on the money that could feed, heal and save the many. The arrogance and selfishness it exudes intoxicates them.

Soccer: They don’t really like the sport. They could care less. They get to scream at kids and believe they are better because they know some rules most likely their wives don’t. They get to scream, to shout and insult and humiliate. They get to eat and they get to be served and not be bothered like a Roman Emperor watching the circus eating grapes and cured ham. It is not about National Pride. It is not about children or men working together, achieving the unachievable by effort, by companionship and by team work. It is about looking at a team of lowly jesters, to a group of christians about to get eaten by a lion, from above.

History: Another way for loser men to jerk off. This is a tricky one, since it can manifest itself in two ways. Let’s explore them real quick:

The “History in 5 minutes” Jerk: Knows absolutely nothing about politics nor history. Laughs at “politics memes”, is a reductionist, simplifying idiot. You can recognize in his voice the following phrases or themes: “Haha! Japan became a joke after the Two Atomic Bombs! Now they are cute and anime!” “Russia!!! Soviet!!!! Cyka Blyat!!!!” “America! Fuck yeah!!”

The Educated Gentry: He has read, oh!, so many books! He is so smart, has never gone to a gym, and loves reading, commenting and thinking about politics. He is very aware of how the world has changed in so little time! He is all for abortion and for women’s empowerment! He knows who Rosa Luxemburg is! But, oh, didn’t you hear? He won’t hesitate to call her daughter a whore when she steps out of line.

You will find them easy to recognize as well, but you’ll need to listen to them carefully, and be wary not to fall into their trap. He will cite sources, a lot of them. He is a walking, breathing references page, since he does not dare to have thoughts of his own. He will speak highly of ancient civilizations. Which ones, you ask? Not the Roman Empire, he thinks it's too cliché. Not Egypt nor The Aztecs. Too brown, too “Global South” for his taste. He will likely adore the Ottomans, or The Chinese, or The Russians! He will use the following: “Oh, they are different!” or “They are another thing entirely!” to kiss their feet, but also to parry with them. Be wary: They see them as peers, as brothers in arms. They want their power, their violence and to feel worthy of the reverence and worship they themselves subject them too. They will find ways to put their boot on your face. But they will argue their way into making you kneel, “ad hominen” your discomfort into getting you to turn your cheek around, and reference their boot into crushing your face on the pavement.

“Good” Movies, “Goated” Anime, “Interesting” Books, “Good” Music: All are but one and the same: The likes of men are the likes of God. God Almighty. The all powerful creator, who sent his one and only son to cleanse us of our sins loves The Godfather. He also thinks Sasuke Uchiha is a weeping idiot and also loves The Beatles way more than he likes Taylor Swift.

You see, these men, who rarely follow the religious very dogmatic precepts, engage in this relationship with God as if they are very intimate friends. Not in the “You know me, you created me. I thank you for your kindness and your watching over me. I was hurt, but I will be happy again. If not in this life, then in the next, as for that is your promise.” way. But in the “I am so fucking smart. I am surrounded by idiots. But I am the greatest. I am very much like you, God. Smart, cool and unattached. These idiots around me (The women in my house that actually pray to you and go to church) are but mindless lambs that follow every instruction dictated by another idiot. But not me. I am smart. Just like you and Quentin Tarantino are. Thank you. Amen.”

Reaching the end of this law, I can hear the non-believer, I can see the cynic. Both the seething of their blood and the sardonic, dry, loud sound of their scoff can reach my ear. “Well, this is ridiculous!”, “Wow, so she is bitter!”

Yes, I am bitter. Yes, I am scorned. Yes, I have the scars of third degree burns on my body. And I got them from burning alive at the stake of “He is not that bad.”, “I’m just not getting him well.”

I will take on with no shame the “scorned woman” label if it means I get to live a life where I don’t have to fear upsetting the guy I have destroyed my body for, my career for and my mind for. If it means not facing the streets when, one day, he decides that my body is no longer fuckable, then I’ll proudly be the scorned woman.

Yes, I am scorned. I was hurt. I was betrayed. I looked up and I was spit on. I knelt and I was kicked relentlessly.

And I got up. And I wiped the blood from my face. I collected my broken teeth and walked away, and did not look back when the soldier suddenly started weeping, asking in a broken voice “Why are you leaving me? I need you! I love you!”