Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28060931-20170103211339

Call me accident prone. No matter whether you think ‘’accident proness’’ is real, you cannot doubt factors stronger than chance and math contribute to my ‘’clumsiness.’’

Let me illustrate: at seven, a kiddy diddler pulls up when you’re walking home and snatches you. Luckily, a fleet of cops burst out of two vans and surround the car. Hurah, the pedo has been arrested and the day saved. But this guy is a real fuck-up; he pulls a gun and blast a cop in the head. A spray of red mist splashed the window ten inches from your innocent eyes. The pedophile goes berserk and pumps one cop full of iron and your seven-year-old eyes see geysers of blood rupture the copper’s shirt.

At fifteen, you find out you have A.D.D. and Epilepsy. Unlucky, but common enough. There’s a twist. Your mother won’t let you use Adderall because she fears you will abuse it.

At seventeen, the school hires a bunch of students to paint the roof. You got the job. When painting the foot of the roof you reach behind to scratch your ass. You knock over a can of paint. You turn around and look down. You see the street splattered with a girl’s brain.

I am telling you this because of what happened one night when I had a bottle of Listerine in my mouth. I tripped. Luckily, the Listerine went smoothly down my throat. It did not destroy my liver, nothing as dramatic. I only got drunk and fell down the stairs.

I woke up in a white room, blinded by white light, and attended by some man in a white coat. When I got well enough to comprehend the situation, my doctor told me that my liver is barely functioning, and that next time if I want to get hammered I should grab a beer.

This was the fever pitch for me. I had enough. I stopped taking the meds they gave for my liver and paid an orderly with financial problems to get me some alcohol. She got me rum. I downed the bottle in one gulp. An explosive pain erupted in my belly and I convulsed, digging my nails into my stomach. ‘’FUCKING COCKSUCKING SHIT FUCKING APE CUMDUMPSER!’’ I yelled.

Doctors rushed into the room. I remember is a tight grip on my face and something going up my esophagus. Then all faded to blackness.

I woke up with a tube in my mouth and a pulsating agony in my upper belly and I was running a fever. It took me three months to recover. I got recommended a psychologist. I didn’t want one. But I decided to have a test session so the Pretty Huge Dicks would stop hounding me. I sat in a dull room that was a step away from a padded cell with plywood table barely big enough for a coffee mug and hardback.

A pretty girl with blonde hair tied into ponytail walked in behind me. She looked 36 24 36, but I couldn’t be sure. She sat opposite me with a commercial smile apparent on every cunt of a flight attendant you met.

“Hi, Alan. Nice to meet you,” She said.

“Can’t say that’s mutual.” I said as I kicked back and sighed.

“Well, I we can change that; that’s why I here, to change things.’”

“If you think you can change ‘’that’’, you should change into something slimmer.”

“Sure, but let’s get a little more acquainted.”

I recoiled. Most psychologists would jot down “Exhibits sexual urges” on their pad with a smug grin.

“Okay,” She said, “Now that the game is on let’s discuss why you attempted suicide.”

“Frankly, darling,” I said. “I don’t give a damn whether I live or die. I’m not going to try explain shit to you since the fucking priest that came on my face before acne wouldn’t believe what I have to say. And no, love, I’m not alcoholic and my father did not beat my mother. He spilt before he had a chance.

“Try to explain. Your under patient-doctor confidentially… I promise you won’t be send to the looney bin, Al.”

“Quid quo pro, Clarice.” I laughed, not intending to share a pack of Orbits with her.

“Well, this one time when I was a freshman in collage, I hooked up with the prettiest guy in our year. Things were going well until the taco bell I ate came out at the worst time possible. Mind you, this kind of thing was always happened to me. Not shitting on guys’ dicks, but these accidents. You know, to the point where I – a women of science – don’t believe it’s pure chance. You know what I mean, Al.” and she gave me that wink – that motherfucking wink that said “I know you do, Al, I damn well know you do.”

I sat there, dumbfounded, until the psychologist said “I can help, Al, you’re not alone.”

I agreed to visit her again. I went home but couldn’t sleep for shit. Coincidence? Is she saying what I think or pure paranoia?

We met in her clinic, not the hospital. This office was much larger and equipped with bookcases lined with leather-bound books and some comfy couches. She came in and sat opposite me; a glass table separated us. Stress balls and other trinkets were sprawled over it.

She was still wearing her silk white shirt and lab coat, but I could something better than the outline of her bra behind that shirt. She caught me looking and traced my gaze. She noticed she ‘’forgot’’ something. A horrible fake surprise surged through her face. I gave her a “Are you serious?” look

“I’m jealous,” my doctor said. “Your luck changed, mine didn’t.”

“I’ll never forgot this image, but let’s not mix business with pleasure. What do you want?”

She smiled and asked me to recount the three most memorable accidents in my life as I have done for you, reader. Her smiled remained plastered across her face. After I finished, she said:

“We are predisposed to accidents, there are things far beyond our understanding. Mischievous things that find it amusing to see us suffer because of ‘’luck’’.”

“You should consider a career in comedy!” I laughed.

“No, really. Scientists themselves are baffled as to this and they’ve been doing research since the early forties.”

“And they concluded that ghosts are fucking with us for the laugh? Are you taking the piss?”

“I want you to know that you’re not alone. That there are tons of people who are victim to this “accident-proness”, and that they felt the same way as you. We have group gathering every Sunday.”

“You should have your license revoked; no one should be allowed to bullshit patients like this! You know I tried to kill myself because I believed nonsensical shit?”

“But you came back,” She said. “And you’ll come back tomorrow. Or better yet, come with me to the meeting.”

“If I wanted to attend a looney gathering I’d go to Justin Bieber concert, see ya.” I said as I stormed out of the room.

What the hell was I doing believing all this shit, how desperate was I to find some comfort or explanation. ‘’Hell, I’ll prove myself wrong’’, I thought, ‘’I’ll go to their circle jerk of freaks.”

The next day I was back at the clinic and my doctor was in her car, ushering me in. I got in warily, feeling my custom Wilson Combat in my pocket. Thankfully they did not take it off me, saying that my depression prevented me from caring arms.

As we drove there I realized I did not know my psychologist’s name; I asked her. It was Julie. She asked me some typical question about my family, what I had for breakfast, where I went to school, that sort of shit.

We drove into open country. Hills sloped and curved endlessly in the distance, lined with trees and pastures. Some lonely cottages loomed atop the hills like ancient idols.

I began to be concerned, but what was I going to down – besides – curiosity overpowered me. Curiosity killed the kitty,’’ a voice in my head said.

I became truly alarmed when we pulled up to a weathered, oak shack beside the road. The shack was older than the Hitler’s missing testicle.

“Come on out, we’re here.” Julie said.

I put my hands in pockets, clutching the gun. A rusted weathercock screeched on the slanted roof and I choked from a sweet smell of decay. We went in through the door and were greeted by a muscly guy, the thing was… he was ass naked.

“Sorry, I did not mention this but you have to get naked before attending.”

“No.” I said, squeezing the gun.

“Please, Al, you don’t want this to get nasty. You made it this far, so please, we just need to make sure you’re not carrying weapons and we need to feel fully comfortable with each other in order to be honest.”

“No thanks. Just take my word for i-“ that was when I got knocked out by the beefcake.

I awoke with a headache. Hazy images chased each other in front of my eyes. I smelled tar and… burned flesh? I tried to move but leathery restrains strapped me into a chair. Felt like an Ikea chair with extra splinters.

My vision cleared and I saw that I was sitting in a circle, my clothes gun along with my Wilson Combat. ‘’Got myself into a real mess,” I thought.

“What the fuck is this shit!” I yelled. “Relax, Al.” Julie said. She sat opposite me and I was not thrilled by her lack of clothes this time. I looked around, the rest were naked too and they were wearing masks. They reminded me of the Hawaiian masks you’d see in a Scooby-doo cartoon, but these were carved at acute angles which defied the shape of human heads: Triangular, mostly. Some were shaped like elongated demon faces – jagged teeth, horns and impossibly sharp edges.

Now I knew why I smelled burning flesh, in the middle was a blazing pit. But instead of coals, human bodies flared in there. I dry heaved.

I went into a fear-driven frenzy; I knocked over my chair and flailed on the ground while some voices in the background told me to stay calm and that everything is going to be okay. I flipped myself up and a ghastly mask shot up before me. The man wearing it was clutching a cleaver.

“Calm down, now, you don’t want an accident to happen to you.”

I continued flailing manically while he tried to stab me. That freak missed and cut my left hand free. More people surrounded me, some were holding knifes, some pitchforks. I felt the tools slicing my body and I felt blood rush down my body like a waterfall. Eventually, they managed to cut all of restrains off and I darted through the nearest opening in the confusion of masks bouncing around and tools jabbing back and forth.

I found my way to the corridor I came in. I saw my clothes neatly laid out on an end table, I ran to my trousers and took out the gun.

A stampede of lunatics spilled out from where I bolted out of. I took three shots. One guy dropped and the rest tripped over him. I burst through the door and ran for Julie’s car. Before I got the door open, one whack-job tackled me to the ground. Luckily, he tripped over a rock and ‘’luckily’’ his face hit a peculiarly jagged which cracked his skull open and his brain spilled onto the ground.

I looked up and another looney raised his cleaver above his head. His momentum threw him forward with amazing speed and agitation. By a stroke of luck, he missed me by a hair and chopped off his dick.

I got into the car and turned the key which was ‘’ luckily’’ in the keyhole. I drove the fuck away. I saw some cars behind me revving up, but the engines took a lot more motivation than Julie’s ’69 Chevy.

I drove away into the sunset. I guess I was too gullible and desperate for explanations. I think God’s luck will eventually even out what harm satan’s luck did. So remember, don’t trust your psychologist or you might end up abducted by a cult of sex-crazed, nudist nut-jobs. 