I · To remember
The King in Black
Once I awake and start my day, oh, how I wish I could not remember.
To remember is to be one with your past. You see a world in front of you that you wish to revisit for the moment, for whatever reason. You probably seek to remember that place, friend, or family member you loved. You get the emotion you sought… and you move on. The moment is gone, and you don't remember it again until you want to.
Oh, how I wish I were so lucky. No. Once I awake and start my day, oh, how I wish I could not remember. Sometimes I wish I could never remember breaking every tooth in my mouth. Some days I wish I couldn't recollect my first girlfriend. How I desire to never recount how I helped sell bags of desired compounds to those on the streets.
Days where the pain comes in from watching the youth hand over their last twenty dollars in ripped clothes, asking for the grams. The remembrance of it all. All that hatred — or rather, things I hate I did.
How I hate remembering all the tolerance I had for all the wrong things. Despite being taught better. Despite knowing better. Despite always hoping for better. I always did wrong. As a youth I did wrong, and even now, but a few years shy of this document, I have done so much wrong. And those are the things I hate to remember the most.
To have any clue of my wrong, one must look out at the deep end of the pool where the water began to build up from the very start. Days I can't even remember, but still cringe at the information present. But a few years after my birth, my mother was to have me baptized. I guess I didn't like the look of the water. I don't know. So to put it simply: I bit him. Call it the bite of '03 for all the Lord cares. I have no reason why I proceeded to vomit on the man as well.
Tis it is how it is. That must have caused quite the scene for my mother, father, and two half-siblings. All that was minuscule to my father's alcoholism. I was damn near too young to remember the fact that for my first five years of life he was such a danger that I had to spend most of that time in the city or out on the brink, with either set of grandparents as my primary caregivers. But even after my father would clean up, that was still where I was destined to spend most of my time. Shame, in the present year, I have lost a grandfather and a grandmother on one side. Only left with a hardened war vet who cares not, and a woman who can't even remember who I am.
To not remember must be a lucky thing. But I would never know, for I'm always forced to remember how it all goes from there. It was only the first few weeks of elementary school when I threw that girl over the railing of the jungle gym. It was only a month later that I took a tree limb and hit another kid over the back as hard as I could. All for reasons to both of which I ironically fail to remember. But oh boy do the painful bits always come back. Every bit of wrong and anguish I could have ever committed on another person always dares to come back to me. No — it's never the good things. It's never the family vacations. It's never the holidays. It's never the snow days from school. No. It's always the bad that I committed.
To remember an evil done in my life that wasn't by my hands would be a blessing.
I often find myself remembering all the times I threw a punch for no reason, or insulted another person for no good reason. But yet I can also think of the times when those very people fired back, and for some reason it felt so good to commit more atrocity after the fact. Just knowing that they were so willing to fire back always made the willingness to annoy — to piss them off even more — greater.
For some reason, the moment the hate became equal and the wrong became mutual is the only moment where it felt the least bit satisfying or justifiable to be as such. And yet it seemed to make no difference in the long run. Keep on fighting. Keep on causing a ruckus. Keep on causing outbursts. Keep on pretending to be good while doing all the evil you can think of.
They call it the mind of a child. But why did it take me nearly 24 years to throw away such a mind? No. The thing people must accept is that sometimes people are just born rotten. For as the grades climbed, so did my desire, my wonder, my hope for the evil — always feeling justifiable even when I knew later I would never reflect on it as such.
They say yellow is a color a king of madness wears. Then my color must have been black. For I desired nothing more than for everyone else to see nothing but that. If they could never wake to see another day it would be all the more satisfying — so that I would have no pain when I remember, for there would be no people left for the pain to have affected.
But even back in those early days, the nightmares in my mind, the fear of the anxiety, the wonder and the worry of the Earth that would haunt me in my sleep, were but another driving factor to the worry and anguish that drove what I desired to do to others.
To keep being afraid of everything. To keep worrying sick about everything that's not yours or in your control. To stay awake at night and wonder what even is the impact on this planet. You consider all your actions meaningless until it comes back to haunt thyself.
Like how years of stealing from those around me, while I was laughing like a giddy school kid, I'd fail to see how, in the future, it would haunt me more than any other. All the money taken then would be another dollar karma would make me short later in life. A fate well deserved, if you ask me. For I have no pity on myself. Rest assured, I know every inch of the pain now is deserved. But I fear I have no clue as to where this pain ends.
Maybe I'm destined to be this King in Black. Always getting what he wants, yet in a manor which makes others beg for mercy, not compassion. Maybe the tact is aggressive. Perhaps volatile.
But rest assured, my crown is not of gold but of crows. For it is only the crow and its bad luck that would dare rest upon my head. For I go out of my way to make bad luck a part of someone's day. Even those who loved me, and still somehow do. Perhaps at least one still does. And even then she gets neglected too often. Too many times her calls put on mute. Too many times I've lied and said I wasn't home when I was. Too many times desire was too strong when she was not around, so I took desire out on oneself to a point I'd always fail to please her later. Too many times I've said the work hours were long when they ended early. Always an excuse to not see or please the one I love, and put off marrying while they do the world for me. How unfortunate for such a woman to love a king in black.
To move on to the things I hate to remember: the hate you felt for the hate you gave only made you hate the hate more. Remember me, my old friends — the ones that trimmed their own lives so short despite living so good. To have all that they want. To never fear of lacking resources and friendly faces. Yet only to still feel as though it's lacking. So much so that they trim their own timeline, for what to me feels like no reason — other than the fact that they sought out the black. For each one that enters the black is another feather for my crown, the crow.
And as age gets older and I remember back, I still feel the anger and geist. Those fellow kids back in the day who dared to be good, to be normal. I hated them all so much by the time I got to the 6th grade I forgot why they hated me — despite my hate towards them from the very start.
So strong was it that my head screamed, begged, kill kill kill. Yet obviously I did not. Perhaps that's the only shade of black I will never wear.
Despite that, the shade still screams for its king. Yet I'll never seek it out. It's locked away forever — a shade that will not be seen till even the world itself forgets me. For I dare say my anger would be so great that the first kill would be the devil himself. In fire-wreathed chains, bones damn near molten, I'd snap free. The black swallowing the flame. The crow drinking the molten metal and bone. Hounds of evil trying to eat me alive as my misfortune takes their time away. The lava rivers would turn to sand and the demons of hell become my angels as the king swallows the fallen angels' wings, bit clean off the back of Mephistopheles.
And as the black metal gates fade into the darkness, the king would return home and seek his body from the grave, and then take those who forgot the name.
Call me by my name, for I will call you by yours. For I care not how you look, but I myself must admit that one's appearance is great for my insult's reputation. For there is not an insult, grievance, nor slur charged on appearance or not that I will not send your way. Ironic, considering all those who would befriend me in life look nothing like me. Not a single one of them as skinny as me. Not a single one of them as pale as me. Not a single one with that evil look in their gray eyes, for they are any color but.
It's appropriate that's the color of mine. For only I would dare to see someone so gray compared to me that their appearance is nothing more than an insult, and never a second thought after. The peace and the anger, the contradiction and the fear of never doing anything but, pains me to this day.
Tell me, nightmares in my head: will you ever go away again? I fear you won't. For I will live every night with memories of what I've done, memories of what I'm yet to do, memories that make me afraid only of myself — for the world around me has to deal with such a king. My anger and anguish on the inside make the Trail of Tears look like a single drop from the sky, and those who sent them down to be nothing more than a mercy.
For also the chains of my rage that hold me down make the chains that hold a slave look nothing more like paper, and make some men wonder why the enslaved just doesn't run free. However, my enslavement is willing. For if I weren't, the world might have to deal with a king without a parliament. The chains are the only thing that hold the king in black back.
To hear the dreamers scream out that they never want to see such a shade on such an individual is like a blessing, for it actually shows that at least somebody notices. But as I get older, the dreamers and their screams sound lower and lower.
So tell me, nightmares, are you afraid of my dark yet? Tell me, nightmares, are you afraid of the king in black yet? Do you fear my sorrow? Do you fear my rage? Do you fear my anguish? Or is it intriguing — that you dare to watch just to see how bad it truly gets.
Can't say I blame you. Because back in the day, once middle school dared introduce itself into my life, oh boy did the extra exposure never pay off. That extra exposure being near triple the amount of people who were in my view before. You fail to understand what I was met with. For substance became too common an addictive pastime. Both in sales and consumption.
You see these things are always slow. For most it's small. Never for me. I still remember that first time — for so many things on the same day, well into the night. That old house by the woods on the northwest side of town. That first drink. The first line. That first green leaf. That first shroom. A fish in water, so to speak.
The world was heaven. Everything was free. Life was new. Life was free. It was liberation for the time. And although the fire brightened and dimmed over and over again, it never stops burning to the day you read this text.
The king has his sword.
And to that end, I failed to understand why I ever did it in the first place. I don't know if years stalled the reason, or if I simply never had one to begin with. But all I knew was, once the world became lucid, and everything became within the perception — I got it. Yet once the world became lucid, and within my control, I knew I could bend things to whatever I wanted. Colors moved. Patterns changed. Textures swapped. Cement became cloth. Wood became water. Brass became air. The mind and the ability to dream differently in real time was a blessing, with the fact that I could finally ignore it all. But yet money wasn't always a constant at that age, and a car would be several years off, so the hopes of selling were a long way off — or rather, the aiding in doing so.
However, this comes across what would become my second favorite pastime — for what has thankfully ended as a reason, but as a burning fire that begs every day to be unleashed. Something I wish to keep doing, and always on the close hand of money to stop myself, like an institution of sickness. I could remember every kick, no matter how hard I fucking tried. No matter how hard I fucking tried. No matter what the fuck I did. No matter how the fuck I hoped to get better and better, I never, ever, ever truly did. The love for being a thief was born. A virtue to be taken, as it was the easiest advantage one could ever gain in this fucking life. So easy is it to take from others and call yourself a victim later. A sick and twisted ideology I unfortunately dared to love. Always the dishonest fucking look. How so goddamn disgusting was I to ever partake in such activities. And yet for years and years, up until I dared to face 25 to life, did I ever, ever realize how sickening the truth was.
For now the King in Black has his shield and his sword wielded well. The influencing — the one that dares to strike down and yet drives the secondary motivation that protects the sword. No. The shield never existed for the King. The shield existed for the sword. And the sword enslaves the shield. And then once transportation wasn't a fear, and the king had his carriage, money was no factor for someone so young and so naive. All these things foiling up and up and up, climbing ever higher, higher, and higher. And the wings of the crow carrying the king and his carriage, his mighty speed forward into the skies, out of the dirt they once breathed in.
Live a high life, the king did, and had all the friends he could ever need. Friends for sure. Friends to damn him later. Friends who only cared about the king's assets, and never the king himself. Unfortunate fools they were, for in time they adopted the king's shield, the king's sword, his crown and wings, the very carriage and horse that drove the king forward. Not only did they know that in different ways, but in similar tones they would meet the same fate as the fated king. They themselves, not living such a life for so long, did not fare lucky for what fate had in store for them. And yet, despite them, despite it all, despite the betrayals, despite the turning of backs, despite them spitting in the king's face after he fell to the ground and lost everything — his sword and shield abandoned him, his crown broken in the dirt, wings shattered, carriage stolen, horse dead on the ground, chains almost ensnaring him — the king, who dared to rise past them, still lives, still breathes, still doesn't fear the betrayers. For he knows fate already served them. Dead. Jailed. Fated. Gone. Cutting their own timeline short in various methods and foolish ways. And yet the king, living this life for his entirety, lives on.
And when the king tried to reclaim his things, when the king tried to reclaim his possessions, when the king finally found the first object lost and taken — the shield — the shield betrayed him. For the shield never existed for the king. The shield existed for the sword. And once the sword was lost, so dareth the shield go too. For once found, once betrayed, once again lost. For both ends of a spectrum of hatred and self-loathing and pity that is still regretted to this very moment. The nights and days of when it came. Lights bathed in red and blue. But the king wasn't the one bathed in lights, but another caught in the crossfire. Another the king dragged into the state. One of few who called the king friend honestly, and faded with the same 25 to life. And once and only once, and only one moment, the king dared feel sympathy, and not joy from fellow anguish. For by this time — long after the years of graduating high school, long after the years of leaving that penitentiary the king hated, long after the years of sadness and self-gratitude — the king finally felt something that wasn't perpetual. The king was about to lose something that actually felt here, and not temporary. For once it wasn't just the king trying to win. It was the king trying to save. But even in that aspect the king failed. For even if he got them both out of it, much later on, the one soul action, the one soul sequence, the whole damn consequence of it all — no one will ever forgive you after you did something like that. After you put them through hell.
For this one time, I cannot call it betrayal. For the fact that I threw a hand grenade in their courtroom. For I dared fire a cannonball at their porch step. For the fact that I detonated their minds into collapse. Sorry is a poor excuse. Sorry is a reason to forget. For the king always remembers. Memories are a burden to such a man, as is the fate well deserved. For only after that moment did memories dare ever to become a burden. And there's no solace for the fact that I dared to try to reclaim the shield over and over and over again. Jobs lost. People forgotten. So long did it take for the king in black to realize he was wearing yet another unfortunate shade, that he should retire to the same grave he leaves the other he dares not to wear. For finally, finally, after years and years of remembering, after years and years of lying, deceiving, never being truly honest, after damn near 25 years of being alive on this earth, he feels sorry. He feels sorry for everything. For all the friendships that were potential, that were lost. For all the honest people he stepped on. For all the good he stamped out of this earth. For everything he's ever done. For the king is fated to always and always and always remember. For I say the word three times, for it is in three times the agony that it has linked every day in my mind, heart, and soul, after taking years to finally reflect on what I have truly done. And the irresponsibilities never seem to end. To say I can name every single crime I've ever committed in a manner you would dare listen to without getting disgusted is non-existent. To list every single detail of my life, every minuscule wrong — it's not possible. Dareth not be possible. For no one deserves to read such a story. And I dare say what I even wrote now might be too much — not for public perception, but for the good of those who dare hope to hope for better people, to hope for more out of others. For I am a grim example that is not true.
As for now the King in Black resides himself to only ever possess two items: a mop handle to clean up his life, and a pen to write about the lives he wish he had. For in the name of a different man he wishes he was, he dreams of worlds dreaded and horror, and yet are free to others to commit great good and to save it all — not because good is in the perception of light or dark, but in a sense of forever gray. A shade I may never wear, but a shade I always hope to one day possess. For the king doesn't always want to be the way he is. So the king dreams. The king keeps going. The king keeps hoping for a better world than the one he lets in, than the one that he dared be different from. So much like the dark counterparts he dreams of, he creates a man equal in darkness but dares to fight it off every single day. And when he finds versions that dare not be true or fair, or dare to stay in that gray, he takes them out. A man who fears not of gods. A man who fears not a wrong, right, memory, monsters, people — matters not. He is what I truly wish I was, and yet will never be. For I know who I am. I know who I was. I know what I have said against, and what I have said against myself. I know the fate I have made for myself. I don't know who or what will be the end truly to this mad king, always chained and bounded and slaved in the very colors he wears. Yet I dare to dream. Dare to dream of a better place where I am not me, but who I dare to say should exist.
A storyteller of sorts, yet not the one you expected. Just a boy with his pen and paper, dreaming of worlds and monsters that got out of control. Just not for the reasons you ever expected. For the original storyteller was always the king in black.
So for one last time I dare ask: tell me, nightmares, are you afraid of the dark yet?
For the reason to be afraid was never the one you truly expected. For the reasons I never let the nightmares win is for the reason that I am darker than the nightmares — not in shade but in truth. For the reality is people are but a shade of gray, no matter how insultingly dark or light they may look on the outside.
So only ever read my story as a cautionary tale. Never praise it. Never behold it. For if there is anything I ever want you to praise, it is for the world around me that dared to tolerate me, and for the stories I dare dream of. For it is the stories and the world that be the only two good things in the story of the king in black.