I, Death

Wednesday August 22, 2012 - 7:47 PM

That night at the pit is starting to come back to me. No, it’s not that it was never there; I mean, I never lost the memories of that night, well, most of them anyway. I did spend a long time trying not to think about it, trying to do anything but think about it. But now that I'm writing in my journal regularly, it's becoming easier to bring it all back.

I recall it being a pretty low-key party, just the four of us. But it was a relief, and it might have ranked up there as one of those “good times” memories that people say they look back on with fondness when they get older.

Just four friends, drunk, stoned, rocking along, goofing around, just letting ourselves relax and enjoy the moment.

I know, I must sound like one of those “Carpe Diem” poets that Robin Williams talks about in that movie where he plays a teacher at this private school, the one Robbie mimicked when he first arrived at our school. But, until the tragedy struck, it was a night like that. None of us had a clue what was going to happen.

No, that’s not true.

Neil must have.

Yeah, now that I think about it, it’s strange that Neil didn’t smoke anything. He even seemed not to be drinking as much as the rest of us had been. It was almost as if he could sense that something bad was going to go down.

At the time, though, I wasn’t concerned with whether or not Neil was catching a good buzz. Jagdish and I were sharing a joint and a beer, doing air guitar and singing a song by a local bar band that Neil’s older brother was a member of.

They were pretty cool. Called themselves the “Vicious Pigs” — we’d been to a lot of their shows, had all three of their cds and one of our favorite songs was “Rock Me to Hell” — that’s the one Jag and I were rocking down to.

“Hit it to me baby” I screamed, in an attempt to reach the high notes of the band’s lead singer.

Jagdish finished off the can of beer, crushed it in his fist, tossed it in the fire, then started strumming the fingers of his right hand down near his hip and wiggling his left fingers in a half-closed fist at about mid-chest. He was mimicking the actions of Neil’s brother, the lead guitarist for the band. With a higher-pitched voice than mine, he belted out the next lyrics. “Down on your knees.”

We stepped closer to each other, leaning against each other’s backs at a pretty steep angle the way we’d seen the lead guitarist and lead singer do on stage while performing this song.

“Rock me to Hell, baby!” we bellowed together, in much deeper voices.

Jag then moved away so fast that I fell onto the ground because I was still leaning on him. I landed hard and watched as he leapt onto a boulder beside the fire and started gyrating his hips to the unheard drumbeat of the song while his fingers moved along the invisible guitar in an effort that spoke to me like the awesome guitar riffs that always played during this part of the chorus of the song, and finished the song with: “Oh blow me a breeze.”

Neil and Harley were sitting on a fallen tree, laughing their asses off. “Great show, you dumb fucks,” Harley said.

“Yeah, nice fall, Peter!” Neil said.

I remember getting up to my feet, the sound of their laughter echoing in my head, and suddenly I was filled with a red-hot anger. I don’t know why. It was an accident that I’d fallen when he leapt up onto the rock. But the fall, combined with him thrusting his crotch in my direction, and the laughter of our friends, just rolled into a burning anger that seemed to bubble up out of nowhere.

I glared at Jagdish and he started to shrug as if to say ‘Hey man, sorry, but what can I do?’ I was about to say something like: ’You dumb prick, you could have warned me you were going to move.’ But I never got a chance to say a single word.

His eyes suddenly widened and he released a hot burst of puke, some of it hitting the side of my face, and he fell right off the rock, his arm and hand falling into the fire.

“Aw Christ,” Harley said. “This just gets better and better. If you guys don’t quit it, I’m going to fucking piss myself laughing.”

I was wiping the puke off my face looking at how it seemed red in my hands in the strange firelight, when Neil let out a strange panicked yell.

I didn’t hear what exactly he said because it was then I’d noticed that Jagdish was just laying there, his arm directly in the fire. He hadn’t pulled it out at all. He was right out of it.

I grabbed at his other arm, dragged him out of the fire, the stench of burnt flesh and fabric suddenly filling the air.

Out of nowhere, Neil was down on the ground, his fingers pressed against the side of Jag’s neck. Then his hand shot back, like he’d been stung, and he jumped up to stand beside me.

“Son of a bitch,” Neil whispered and then, in a voice that kept getting louder and louder kept saying this over and over and over.

Sonofabitchsonofabitchsonofabitchsonofabitchsonofabitch

Then, to the bizarre tune of Neil’s endless stream of panic, I felt something welling up in my throat. Given the situation, how much I’d drank, the disgusting smell of Jag’s burnt flesh, I bent over, ready to release the entire contents of my stomach.

But I didn’t throw up, even though the feeling was exactly the same.

Instead, I released a deep and eerie laugh, which seemed to reverberate from the depths of my stomach and burned at my throat as it burst out of my mouth.

– 1 Comment –

Jane said...

I came upon your blog only a few days ago. You made me cry! I have finished reading it. How come you are not posting anymore? Are you alright? Hang in there, Peter.