ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tom is a poet from Devon in the UK and has been published in Punk Noir, Bristol Noir and A Thin Slice of Anxiety.
I
I lost everything once; mind, body and soul. Left too easily, often does for those who can’t afford them to begin with. Then we end up in a place like this, rushing towards insanity, and sometimes beyond it. It was my first day on the farm, the place you come when there is nowhere else left to go. The prison’s don’t want you, too mad, the hospital doesn’t know what to do with you, after the physical injuries have been stitched up, also too mad, and society - well they would rather you weren’t around at all, mad as hell. And I can’t blame them, if I hadn’t killed myself, I surly would of killed a member of one of them. You see when you have lost your mind society becomes a problem, when you lose the senses as well that problem can become distorted and exaggerated, and frightening. But lose all three, and you’ll find ways that even the hungry wild dogs would avoid, just to get by. And at these fevered moments - there is absolutely no LOVE anywhere, just pure FEAR.
In fact, there is not much of anything left; it has been sold, whored, burnt, bloodied, begged and frightened into hiding. You get so good at hiding away the part of you that really counts and arrive, a zombie to it all.
The location of the farm was somewhere out on the moors, by the coast, in a valley; where the wind tore through at night, otherwise it was dead quiet. I arrived in the dark after a long journey, it was Thursday night. Searched, booked in, and shown to a strange room in a strange old house, with only the dog's that barked for company, carried by the wind.
The next few days were blurry at best, a lot of getting to know the people, who’s who, and the lay of the land. Detox.
On Sundays we went to see the preacher. He claimed to be able to sit with Jesus in the other realm. He wore two watches, one for this realm and, well, one for the other. He was the one in charge. I can tell you detoxing from it all is scary enough, but sitting in front of a stage shivering, with a man who claims to be in the presence of the lord and saviour Jesus Christ, is quite the trip. You talk to Jesus from a stage you’re a prophet, you talk to him from the street, you’re a madman. “Oh father, will you be with these children too, show them deliverance, guide them along the path to riotousness.” Weather he was insane or not didn’t matter, it made him money, people all over the world wanted to be next to the man who was next to Jesus; and this paid the bills. No one else wanted us, this band of misfits, so if it was fake or real - what made it fake?
Most of us were either from prison or the street, but a few were from regular society - too bent up to be able to cope, and I would argue the most destructive of all. There was 10 of us male and female and after the sermon we were heading back to the farm for Sunday lunch, on the bus, speeding through the country lanes, some laughing, some crying and some nothing. “I’ve been speakin to je’sus alll myyy life...” Bam Bam was a hulk of a man, with the character of a small lost and angry teenager and was singing Phil Collins from the front of the bus. He was dressed fully in white, shirt buttoned up and hair combed. No one told him not to sing. “Hey, Sam what did you make of all that Jesus stuff?” A girl named Gemma learnt over the seat in front. “I’m not sure I’d call him 100 percent insane, but not far off.” I replied. “Yeah, when. he talked about being on the swing with Christ, as a child, it was...” She smiled a half uneasy smile, the kind that comes with lack of choice. “OH YES HE KNOWS ME AND HE KNOWS IM RIGHT!!!” Bam Bam continued. “All I know is I don’t know what’s real anymore Gemma, just that if Jesus was there just now, he had a funny way of showing it. The thick, twisted hedges flew past the window as we headed deeper into the valley, away from civilisation and away from Jesus.
II
But how did we all get to such a place, and why did some of us “choose” a life of streets, asylums, prisons or even death? What was the matter with us, could we not just sort ourselves out? Simply - NO. Denial and in bred cruelty caused the world’s strongest drug to run through the veins of some men, it made the world go around, in too higher doses it caused a complete breakdown of all life, it was called: TOXIC SHAME. It can make you do things you don’t want to, from small things like buy new clothes to fit in to somewhere that does not accept you for who you are. Too big things like cut your own face up with a straight razor because well it can. It could also make you fuck each other, sometimes out of hate, sometimes out of love, sometimes because there is nothing else left to do.
Up in the temple, a room we named because it was above all others in the converted barn, we sat on a cold December morning in a circle and waited for the councillor. Gemma sat next to me and must of been cold because she was wearing only tight black leggings and a thin wool cropped jumper that hug her breasts and exposed her stomach and arms. She wore perfume that smelt so good in the damp of the barn, like hope. “Right, who wants to live, and if so, what lengths are you willing to go too?” A thick Australian accent coming out of the mouth of a small humble figure of a man. He continued, “Today we ah goin to be talkin about free will, and weather ya have enny, split the room down the middle, good you’ah gonna be pro free will and you’s are gonna be antee, right?” We split down the middle and I was more than relieved that Gemma was still sitting beside me as we sat back down again on our side of the room. We were to discuss the possibility that free will exists to the majority of man. I looked at Gemma, as the others talked, at her legs and in-between them, the smoothness of her stomach, and the little hairs on her skin, and her catlike eyes. “I believe that all men have the choice to decide to better their life, through hard work, anything can be achieved, even the most unfortunate can turn things around.” A tall enthusiastic lad in full tracksuit and trainers started. I forced my leg further across so it touched up against hers, she didn’t move her leg. “Also, if we don’t have free will then who’s in control of it all?” The tall lad went on. Suddenly as if a switch had been flicked, rain came down on the roof, followed by a flash out the window and ended with thunder. It didn’t / wouldn't, stop me feeling the warmth from Gemma’s leg, not much could of.
III
Tuesday’s were work days on the farm, we were to carry out manual tasks to keep the place in good shape. I was assigned to gardening duties with Westly, so we took out the tools from the shed and walked over to the pond to begin. Westly was a confirmed killer and the first one I had met in person. It made more sense when someone told me he was, than when I didn't know. His eyes were bright and wild, and he shifted like a fox around pray and predator alike. He had committed the deed when he was still young, and now sent here to be rehabilitated, he was still young and in good shape. "You want the mower or the blower?" He asked. "I'll take the mower?" I replied. We set off in the cool crisp morning sun, pushing and blowing, me and the killer. It really was a beautiful place in the sun, the sea could be made out down through the valley, the blue giant was peaceful today. But being from prison, westly didn't notice, but instinctively twitched about like he was in the prison yard, hyper-vigilant, always thinking. You have to keep thinking, and the killers of the world are some of the greatest thinkers. Letting things go quiet up there is dangerous, for them and you. So, the high-pitched hum, combined with the roar of the mower was good sound to keep the silence out.
Keeping dishonest is another trait we had all mastered, or at least we thought we had, until it all came to a head. Whatever the authority, it was to be treated with contempt and challenge. We would earn our victories in sneaked cigarettes, sex, extra food and any other deviancies that could be thought up. The authority figures reminded us of what we were running from, and we made them gods, and therefore feared him also. "Want to have a smoke?" I gestured to Westly as he walked close by unable to hear me. "Sure!" He gave me a nod. We sat down on the bench and looked out at the sea and smoked. "Better than prison views hey West?" Small talk for the walking wounded can be excruciating and can make even a killer shrivel up. "Yeah, sure is." But it was about making the effort and then allowing the long uncomfortable pauses. Him with his thoughts and me with my own we sat and smoked. "You ever think they get payback?" Westly stared straight out to sea, his eyes sparkling in the blue of the sea.
IV
The Nights here could be scary, lonely, sad, or all three. Not willing to feel any of them for too long (one of the main reasons we were all here) other things had to be sort out. Some of us were chronic masturbates, some of us sex addicts, over eaters, but all of us "perverts". It was just that we had been caught and by default labelled so. I was more afraid of the repressed types who hide away and pretended to be CLEAN behind their justifiable hate. If you ever wanted to see what the biggest effect of religion was of recent times, then this was the place to come. We were all here, all the sinners, all the reasons to feel good that those on the outside hid it better, than us poor fools.
The smell of perfume arrived from down the hall before she was at my door. Gemma was feeling non too keen to be alone either, and was wearing shorts and a sports top, with her hair tide up on top of her head, letting the ear rings dangle by her neck. She closed the door and locked it. "You want to fuck me?" She whispered. I smiled as the drugs flooded my system, and I leaned back on the bed. She walked over and kneeled down on the floor and began to unbutton my belt, pulled down my jeans, and took me out. She teased and kissed and licked all around it. Held it in her delicate hand and licked the balls and looked up with her cat eyes. I looked down her bare back and her hips and buttocks either side of her shorts and down her legs. She licked up me and then began to suck me, I held her hair on the top of her head. She pulled her shorts down and felt herself, she climbed onto the bed and guided me into her. We fucked and forgot and enjoyed the briefness of the worlds second strongest drug: LUST.
"Do you think it ever gets easier to cope with the loneliness Sam?" She looked up from my chest with her wide lost eyes. "I think it does yes, there are ways, there has to be." I replied. As I spoke these words for the first time in a long time, I believed them. Gemma got up and pulled on her shorts and walked out the door, creeping down the hall and back to her loneliness.
I had recently begun to pray, also for the first time in my life. It was clumsy and embarrassing, but I thought I had nothing to lose. I had tried all the ways I thought otherwise possible, and they were all burning buildings, roads and bridges, that lay behind me. I tried to clear my mind of the images of what others said it was, and got down on my knees;
"God whatever you are, where ever you are, I'm letting you know, here and now that I surrender, I'm done with it, fucking help me."
With that got into bed and let the sadness wash over me with the silent darkness, not feeling entirely alone, but close to it. Interrupted only by the sound of dustbins being opened and closed, and the flickering of the security light, as the tall lad, out in the dark, rustled through the rubbish looking for pictures of women.
V
There weren’t many things that made the collective animated, quite like the town visits. Once a week we loaded onto the bus and were taken into the near by seaside town. Some of us got excited, some of us nervous, all of us feared the shame. The bus pulled up at the bottom of the high street and let us loose. We stood out, anything different always stands out, and is always treated with fear. This is how the "others" coped; we had sex, drugs, violence, crime, chaos, and they had the hate of all these things, and work. If you worked hard enough, you had the right to stare, the mutter, to tutt and to curse the freaks. The glare of the seaside's fun with its lights and merry-go-round, the smell of fried foods, and stale towns people; like ghosts of the past, no soul left alive. I looked at Gemma and took her hand, pulling her into the side street and down and away towards the sea, we ran.
Away from groups of warped old ideas, away from blind ideology, science they used to make you fear, away from things that make you ugly, and then sell you things to become pretty again. Away, away - to white noise, distance, air that you want to open your lungs too, the example of harmony, that moves like a child, who's anger is beautiful but always nurturing, even in destruction, necessity. To be lost to the hateful glare of man.
"Let's take a boat and leave, I know how to drive one!?" I almost yelled. "I can't Sam, where would we go? how? I can't, we don't even have any money, how would we live?" She looked scared, dressed in tight fitting sportswear and with a dolls face, that hid the fear a little, kept the colour in her cheeks.
I turned and walked towards the boats tied up at the harbour and began to look for a boat that did not need a key. The sea crashed against the harbour walls, in its wintery fierceness, biting down on the rock, eating it. The boat I found was a medium sized skiff, which had a pull start motor. I pulled and pulled, until it came to life, climbing in and looking around at Gemma now almost blended in to the grey towns facade, small and shivering at the harbour side. Unhooking and manoeuvring the boat out through the harbour walls, away again, into the will of the sea.