Surrealism At It’s Shittiest.

This is another older post, before I post my most recent memoir entry tomorrow. The original title was ” Alter-Ego” and it depicts the first time we (myself and two other girls) committed a robbery. My mentality surrounding it, and the details that took place that night. Thank you so much for following my story, for reading my entries and for all the amazing support you all provide through your comments and emails. It’s a huge blessing to have so many strong and caring people at my side. God bless you!! And so we move forward together.

Alter-Ego

Cold ice washes over me, as he passes me his wallet. Surrealism at its shittiest. I don’t even look inside, just, shove it into my back pocket.

‘Your keys,’ I say forcefully. He shakes his head.’ Not my car, man, please.’ His hand reaching out and clutching the clanging little mass sticking out from the ignition. Your keys. I say one more time, moving my face closer to his. Eye to eye, the quiet battle of submission. ‘I’m not gonna steal your car buddy, just give me your fucking keys’..he’s holding his breath as he turns the ignition off and drops the keys in my palm. I wipe them off with my hoodie sleeve, paranoid about prints. Lift them up in the air and throw them as far as I can. They land in a row of dying, polluted bushes lining the parking lot. Perfect. It’ll take him a while to find to them, giving us the time we need to take off. She is still holding the axe to his throat as I continue my wipe down. The door handle, the window. Anything in between. The fabric of my sweatshirt squeaking along the exterior.

I tell him, under no circumstances is he to get out of his car until we’re out of view. He shakes his head yes, and after a couple of seconds, after that last grim look, She slowly pulls the cold metal away from his jugular. His hands are still up at his sides as we turn around and bolt. I look back once, and he’s still sitting, frozen, the car door ajar.

Once we’re a few blocks away, I stop to check the wallet. Enough money to rent a cheap motel room, and get something to eat. I pull out the cash, wipe the wallet down, and toss it into a nearby garbage can. I already feel cleaner, and surprisingly, not guilty. Something about having a place to sleep tonight, removes the burden from me completely, and I feel better. This thing inside me has begun to breathe. Something new, and raw and hungry. This kind of, vengeful eating beast. This vigilante ghost. Breathing into my ear, whispering congratulations and toasting me with cheap champagne. Hi Satan. Nice to meet you. Feel free to rummage through my trash and build a place for yourself in this dark and foul monologue. Set up your stinking workshop, pick your characters. Pull your strings. The doors are open.

As we walk to meet Tyler, my mind is building its own getaway place. Changing this into something livable, something I can carry more easily. A lie. One, I’m more willing to accept. Like, I’m not robbing people. I’m avenging myself. I’m taking back my power. I’m a vindictive rape victim, searching the streets for perverted Johns. Retaliating, justified and validated. Some austere character from a Sin City comic. Some kind of crazed alter-ego. My own Tyler Durton. Kicking up a storm with a, who gives a shit. Too bad this isn’t the damn movies kid.

To read the post that follows this one simply press the link as follows~http://thisbeatingheart.com/2011/11/21/adjusting-the-scales/