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I Don't Think I Can Help You Anymore (long and profanity-laden)

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Author Topic: I Don't Think I Can Help You Anymore (long and profanity-laden)  (Read 267 times)
Marcus Bell
« on: February 01, 2008, 10:36:38 am »

It fucking hurts. Every single time. You have to actually die again, maybe, and that's why every single nerve - even the ones under your fingernails, if you still have them - screams.


"Biolife Inc, Marcus speaking, how can I help you?"


"M-A-R- yes, that's right. How can I help you?"

"I'll transfer you to our Bionet department."

"Our Bionet depar- yes, my name is Marcus."

"Bionet. B - I- O - excuse me?"

"Marcus. M-A-R-..."


The thing is, the pain isn't enough. It's excruciating, it fills everything. All of those holes left by death? Filled with pain. But it's not enough. Because right now, there's this fucking light, right in front of me, someone is holding a light in my fucking eyes.


"I can't help you if you're screaming, ma'am."

"If I could just interrupt, ma'am."

"Ma'am? I can't help you if you're screaming."

"Thank you. Your concerns are heard, Ma'am, but if you remember the quarterly report...."


"Are you there, ma'am?"


Pain. Pain and pain and pain. I read about pain, but this is nothing like it. I remember once, when I would hide in the closet with a flashlight, reading books while my parents thought I was asleep. The flashlight had cheap batteries, its glow was orange and comforting. This light is nothing like that. This light is hard and bright and...and... cruel.


"Traffic is at a standstill. For those of you heading downtown through Eastonwood and Shorehills, officials are recommending you take alternate routes..."

"...all downtown schools have closed for the day. This includes all schools in Ridleybank, Stanbury and Roftwood, as well as Deansley Drive public school and Mickleburg Way. Please stay tuned for further updates..."

"...authorities at the Nichols Mall have demanded that all media outlets continue with their honest reporting that everything is alright. That's right, honest listeners, the military insists that-..."


"Marcus, what's going on?"

"Marcus, some crazy lady is demanding to speak with a supervisor-"

"What do you mean she's not here?"

"Marcus? Is it okay if I go home early? I'm not feeling well."

"Marcus, I'm worried about my husband. Can I go home?"


Human. I am human. I care. I love. I think. I breathe. I breathe. I fucking breathe. Pain. Pain pain pain. I don't want to go toward the light. The light means pain. The light means a hell of a lot of pain.


"Oh my God!"

"-ease help me, my husband he's gone craz-"

"-at the fuck is happen-"

"-epent! Repent! God has declared judgem-"



Before consciousness comes memory. I read that in a book somewhere. I read it before I really felt pain.


The light. The light. The light.



"Daddy just got crazy he ate my mommy he got crazy he-"


"But he...he....Daddy? Daddy? Is that you?"

"That's not your dad...it's-"






Hide. Run some more. Hide some more. The light is there. The light is bright. Crazy bright. Run. The light blinds me. I run. I hide. I run and hide and hope that no one sees me no one sees me I run and hide and run and hide some more.


"Eden is Burning" says the graffitti.

"Hawthorne don't matter no more" says the thug tearing up another book for the fire.

"There is a cure," says the Scientist, but we don't see him again. Ever again. Not since half-decomposed arms pulled him through that window.


The light is the same as the pain as the light as the pain as the light as the pain on and on and on until infinity and then some more until every fucking nerve screams out for it to stop.


"I can kill them. I've learned how. Shoot them in the head."

"Easy as pie, right?"

"Yeah. Easy as pie."

"What'd you do, kid?"


Every single fucking nerve screams STOP!


"I...I worked in a call centre."


STOP! The light the pain the light the pain stop stop stop stop.


"A call centre? Are you kidding me?"

"I've learned not to kid. Not here."

"Why not? Lost your sense of humour?"

"Too many people around. Too much risk."

"Kid, look up that hallway. Once, it was filled with shoppers: mall rats, soccer moms, those rich gadget fuckers that society never made up a name for yet."


I don't care. I didn't care then I don't care now it's too bright it's too bright it hurts it hurts it hurts....


"Kid, those mall rats and soccer moms and lawyers and doctors and who the fuck else knows will eat your throat out if you give 'em half a chance."

"I know, but I can't-

help you how can i help-

"- I won't-"

bright light who bright who is that coming

"-shoot a ...shoot a..."

my mother someones mother coming bright who light is coming a shotgun oh my

"person. A human. I can't shoot a-"

-a gun he is aiming a gun but he's not dead he's not dead he's a-

"-human being. It's against my-"

morals i want to say morals but the trigger is pulled the bullet is moving i feel-

light and pain and light and pain

and the fucking needle is in me and i'm not a monster i'm human i'm human i'm a fucking Human and that's what pain and light and pain means and i sit up i mean I sit up and I look around and I know that some Fucker shot me in the fucking Face and I'm human but that doesn't mean I won't Kill that man who looks like my Mother because I know Pain and I know Light and I know his fucking Face.

My first words, knowing that that crazy human looks like my mother in a bad dress, knowing that he's human and knowing that he shot me, and knowing my shotgun is fully loaded, and knowing my pistol is armed too...Knowing all that, my first words are very familiar:

"How can I help you, you zombie-loving mother fucker?"
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