95 lines
5.9 KiB
Plaintext
95 lines
5.9 KiB
Plaintext
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ooooo ooooo .oooooo. oooooooooooo HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #512
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`888' `888' d8P' `Y8b `888' `8
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888 888 888 888 888 "Teenage Angst Has Paid Off Well"
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888ooooo888 888 888 888oooo8
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888 888 888 888 888 " by Kreid
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888 888 `88b d88' 888 o 3/16/99
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o888o o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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Alone in a very large bed, flat on his belly, thinking, sweating,
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there lay Ivan. The sheets were satin but they had become sticky with his
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own filth and sweat, since he had been spending the majority of his hours
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in bed for several days now. There in bed, Ivan was accompanied by
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nothing. There were many items around his room which he had been living
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with for the past few days: several books, a couple bags of potato chips,
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and a bunch of empty bottles of hard liquor. His room was definitely very
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full, but he made sure his bed was completely empty. Ivan was definitely
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alone in that very large bed, his old and new sweat gradually sinking
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deeper into the satin sheets.
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The television was on, but Ivan could no longer bear to watch it.
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But it had a certain presence in the room, unlike anything else there. It
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was alive. Ivan had placed it on MUTE instead of turning it off, so it
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hissed and shot bright, happy images into the dark room. The television
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was the only light, and it caused very rapid color changes in the room as
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the happy people on the screen moved around in their nice city apartments
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and made jokes for the audience to laugh at. Ivan did not notice this
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spectacle, of course, because he was on his belly, facing away from the
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television. His eyes were closed; vision seemed irrelevant to him at this
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point. He focused on the warm, damp, smooth satin pillow and how it
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cradled his face as he drooled into it. The windows shook a little from
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the wind outside trying to get in. There was a heavy storm outside, but
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Ivan's room did not seem affected much by it. The television shone with
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defiance; it ruled the room. Ivan ignored the whole scene. No storm
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outside, and no stale room inside with television wasting energy and vodka
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spilled on the hardwood floor. Just wet satin and warm drool and Ivan.
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Outside that large room of Ivan's was an even larger house, where
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windows were open to let the rainwater spill in onto the walls and
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furniture. Doors were unlocked, valuables were unprotected. Ivan, the man
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of the house, was not concerned. The door to his room was locked, so he
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was safe enough. About a month ago, Ivan's father would have made sure all
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the doors were locked and windows were closed, and his mother would have
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been in the kitchen paying the bills. But that wasn't an option anymore.
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Tonight, Ivan's mother and father were together, locked in a small closet,
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dead.
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Ivan had killed his parents exactly thirty days before that stormy
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night. He had drugged their food before dinner. They were eating
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Mahi-mahi (dolphin) that night and Ivan had emptied out an assortment of
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the family's pills into the food while it was cooking. Pain medicines and
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sleeping medicines from his parents' medicine cabinet, Zoloft from his own;
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a good handful of pills, popped open and spilled into a frying pan in
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which his parents' dinner-dolphin was cooking. Ivan ate only hot dogs
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that night.
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That was a whopping thirty days ago. It had been a long month for
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lonely Ivan, lying in bed and sweating. Now his parents were long since
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dead, and they smelled horribly, and remarkably, nobody knew yet.
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Fortunately for Ivan, nobody actually cared about his parents. They had
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plenty of friends who they invited over at night and had cocktails with,
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but none of these people seemed too concerned about a thirty-day absence
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for Ivan's parents. Ivan was not surprised that his parents were not
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missed; nobody at those cocktail parties cared for anyone, anyway. No one
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in that class had ever really known friendship; it was all just a matter
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of each "friend" gaining personal security and having "friends" to brag to
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when their kids got into Stanford. Nonchalantly, they would say it: "Oh,
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Peter and I just got back from a college visit. Oh, Princeton, yes,
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that's all. Oh, yes, lots of driving, heh heh heh. Oh, yes, they said
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they would love to have him there. Oh, how are your kids doing, heh heh
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heh." Ivan heard them every night, talking, talking, talking, and then
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asking questions to which they did not care what the answers were.
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Sipping drinks made with rum, laughing at each others' jokes, all at once.
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Heh, heh, heh. Every night, but not since Ivan's parents had been locked
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away in the closet. Now there were cocktail parties going on at the
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neighbors' houses, and people momentarily pretended to wonder where Ivan's
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parents had been for the past month. "Oh, yes, I called them the other
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day. Oh, I left a message. Oh, I bet they're off on vacation somewhere
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and they forgot to tell us, heh heh heh." Sooner or later people would
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just forget to talk about Ivan's parents. The only memory of them would
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be a stink in Ivan's closet. I guess I'll have to bury them tomorrow,
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thought Ivan, and he drooled a little more. He didn't really care,
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either. Heh, heh, heh.
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Ivan kept his eyes sealed shut and buried in his pillow. Water
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splashed up against his windows and tried desperately to get into his
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room. Outside, there was a very busy and confused world, and their
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televisions were not on mute, and their rooms were not hot, and their
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front doors were all locked. Ivan rolled over on his side, tiredly licked
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his lips, and fell asleep.
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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #512 - WRITTEN BY: KREID - 3/16/99 ]
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