The Scribe

This is a piece I wrote back in may, a character development piece for a screenplay I'm working on.   D'Verse is having their weekly Poetics prompt, and the topic is trying to get into the head of someone and write as if you are the actor playing that person, or are that person.  Obviously my choice is a fictional character.  And just a warning, the piece is pretty disturbing.

Someone’s always left alive,

To bear witness,

I’ve spent all my life a poet,

And today, for that, my life is spared,

To watch such violence,

As your flesh, now Picasso-like,

Composed from friendly blood,

To keep composure,

To numb,

To silence,

All the aversions,

Your mind will surely throw,

For if you survive and cannot recall

You are no use to him at all,

Hours long he keeps them tied,

Radiators,

Desks,

And stoves suppress,

Your eyes,

Distorted,

Tainted forever more,

Must look away,

When they cry for you to help,

In such, confusion's solved,

They never wonder

What side you're on,

What role you play,

A role they will never understand,
In fact, I can't say that even I am so aware

When all the days have exhausted,

As all the bleach destroys stain,

Pack he does,

With myself in tow,

Locked into an unseen panel,

Of a van he will flee in,
and the darkness there is a refuge, a reprieve

No light to occupy,

No sounds to churn,

Just the noise of rocks,

Or stone-

Kicking tires,

Scraping chrome,

Then the journey shall anew,

A bantering from beyond,

I can almost see the realtor,

Smiling as he takes the hand,

Unknowing,

He would be the first,

To have his limbs severed this day,

Into the bowels I am cast,

Bound and gagged,as

They file through,

Some dirtied, others bruised,

Rarely though are the signs acute,

From sleeping victim to begging thief,

The portrait changes over time,

Branching out as before,

Never a shortage for the well to shore,

Documenting each one of them,

A plethora of character, endless though,

As often it does seem,

Fear has left me….Numb

Desire for releasing, to be the hero...quelled

I've envisioned my closing argument,

Pleading for forgiveness, I'm A VICTIM too,

I remind the jurors of,  to whom my future relies...Alas,
but this is but fanciful imagination

Justice offers, or owes, me nothing

No day in court, no bargaining,

No sentencing, only sentences

Creative, albeit from a monstrous womb,

To pass the time,

Between each chapter,

I play a game, if pursuits of play

are even appropriate...but it binds me from implosion

He always takes a souvenir,

Where it goes I dare not guess,

But with each new face,

I survey their person, for additives to persona

And, it keeps me from asking, "How many more?"

My greatest work, how sad that sounds

Characters so real, because they are

So richly layered and with depths of shading...unprecedented

Fathers, daughters, sisters, mothers,

Lovers, partners, strangers too...

A myriad of outlines; no credence or bias toward,

To which, I must analyze the way he operates into,


I must confess, I've plagiarized
From each and all...as the exact words,
born in that split-moment, just before finality,
Are the kinds of voice, that simply can't be reproduced fictitiously

Is there a difference? Between his mind and my own

Is there a pattern? Am I really that different

Can I hypothesize? Do I owe him a debt of gratitude---

Should I dare attempt define? Or a pox upon?

Each moment of calculation,

What every path represents

A variable, a data set,

For what I can not,

Nor, at this point, care to know-- Yes, I'm that far removed 

Just today, if the separation of day even still exists

Three men,two women Lions & lambs, both ripe for the slaughter

Each day I pray, yes pray... For a plot twist, or just any new development to siphon boredom from routine

When they are here, the innocents--which by his account, none truly ever can be, the smell of fear protrudes their pores....as it should...I'm still a realist...I still know the mind....now more than ever

Only the subtleties of accent, set them apart, hint to distances travelled, from where... It doesn't matter, but it certainly assists an accurate rendering of characterization...ever slur, twitch, tic and dialect, differentiates the countless extras needed...when this becomes film

yet agonizing pieces of morality tend to throb...."WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO?" I'd shout internally, as my other shoulder begins to tingle, "they're all the same, if not them, then...well, you"

Yes, they’re all the same to me, they're not real, simply props for my artistry, yes, that's it exactly...craftwork...where research is key

The misfortune of others has lustered my personal status, blinded me with egoism, I have a very pleased Id, yet periodically, the cancer grows, that temporary shift in mental subtext, back to a time when mental composure was everything....

Who am I-

that I should be the one to survive?  Back in my prior life, I wouldn't have been able to convince myself the answer, I would've sniveled in distortion, shedding a ballast of tears....But the man I have become, the evolution of self, well...the answer's simple...I have a gift, a gift he needs...a symbiosis... a pairing, he and I....he performs, and I document every detail, significant or trivial...that's why

His motto, his only creed,

Always leave one to breath,

Always leave one alive,

For a very long period now... that scribes been me, illustrating a masterpiece, one he seems pleased with, as am I

So hardened by the facets forced, I may have begun to feel invincible, a linchpin of sorts...an indispensable importance in his scheme

Today though,

All this may have changed,

As it’s come to my attention,

The number of writers,

In this place,

Is now two.. and the voice in my head fears she's better than me...but it can't end this way, I've at least, at minimum, a paragraph left to write...  


Unchained he left me alone with her...Hatchet in plain view, Was he testing me?  Who's he talking to up stairs? Who's there with him?  


Question's of similarity flooding.  Wood feels no different than any other appendage.  Her eyes flooding, mascara drowning her dress...What have I become?  Who am I now?  and with one fell swoop, hatchet compromises bone... Never questioning..."should I try to leave?"

Frayed old man descends the stairs...He heard the screams...this I'm well aware of...Drenched red, from hair to shoe...A smile enveloped his frown, glimmering through the darkened room...

A smile that turned to a disapproving grimace, as he sees her all but whole, except for the writhing hands upon the concrete pool..."Smart...but don't feel so secure....one day, it'll be you or some other her." Sighing as he leaves....and I do as well... never questioning the scent in the air, the deafening scream, the taste of blood that's painted poetry upon my lips...Will I ever be strong enough?  Will I ever live up to expectation?  Perhaps...one day... Perhaps, one day I'll win his love

So it looks as if a sequel's in store

If I survive to pen another tale,

I may never,

Finally,

Be set free again