Vicarious (standard:horror, 387 words)
Author: Scott H	Added: Jan 02 2007	Views/Reads: 3614/0	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Twisted tale, real and imagined. depressants, alcohol, and closure.

Vicarious 

It was a quarter past four in the morning and medically I should have
been unconscious. At 3:30 I had chased my fourth Percocet down with my 
fifteenth beer. I sat with a luke warm Budweiser in my hand watching 
red candles flicker to the bass drum of the pounding barrage of 
metallic mayhem. Tool's latest release “Vicarious” bleeds through the 
speakers and into my thoughts. 

The room smells like an overwhelming mix of sandalwood incense and
cigarettes. For the past six hours I have sat on the same black leather 
loveseat, only getting up to relieve myself. 

Occasionally the thunder outside could be heard over the music, the rain
pounding on the windows. 

“...I like to watch things die, from a good safe distance. Vicariously I
live while the whole world dies...” these lyrics echoed through my head 
seven times this evening. I listened to the entire album in its 
entirety, back to back, repeatedly, for the last seven hours. I waited 
for this song every time. Maynard's haunting vocals kept me just this 
side of sober, and just this side of sane. For the seventh time 
tonight, Maynard, as Tool's singer and front man, had reminded me of 
humanity's obsession and need for observing the suffering of others. 
Observing from a “good safe distance” as the song goes. 

Tomorrow afternoon the reality of my actions would hit me like a ton of
bricks. For now I waited for the CD to reset for the eighth time. I 
waited once again to be reminded of suffering. The song spoke to me 
about my necessary justification as a spectator. How could I ever 
justify participation? 

I glimpsed a satin stained hand, curled in a grip that demanded release.


The candle was nearly burnt down, the light begun to fade, and the flame
flickered its last good byes. How tragic... 

A solitary leather sandal lies on the floor next to the fire place. 

Now she understands all to well. In the end she understands. I am not to
be worshipped. 

She stares up at me from the comfort of the velvet love seat, her velvet
love seat. He stare haunts me. We are locked eye to eye. She does not 
blink. A condescending smirk is her only expression. 

Tonight we danced. We made love. Tonight she sleeps. 


Tweet