#Haunted by the past....Lost to the pale tides of mourning. Welcoming the pain just to feel the memory nearby.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Having the Pool Dream again, handsome?

[hateswonderland-blog]

Your life has always been malleable, soft in the hands of any who knew you well enough to play with it a little --- words of encouragement would go a long way for a man with no sense of direction, and the world seemed to know this all too well.

        There was a time, once, that you embraced change. Growth separated the survivors from the victims, the smart from the helpless; you would ride this tide of changed minds, or you would drown. This is how you learned to live, adapting to the fickle thoughts of those who bore power, those who worked for a higher cause --- you questioned not their motives, nor their newfound needs, born one moment then buried the next. Your part in this play was small; what place did you have discerning reason from rhyme? There was little to gain from such knowledge, and perhaps ignorance would help you to sleep better at night, anyway. You only drew from conversations a plan of action --- extraction, delivery, payment; rinse, repeat, start again. This was routine, a method amidst the madness, and you embraced such a life. You welcomed each job with open arms, bearing a grin as the details were explained, a map of criminal intent spread across the groundwork of a madman, and you loved every second of it. 

        Strangers knew not that the illustrious thief possessed a wife, though a few close acquaintances caught wind soon enough --- this was, perhaps, your fault, as you thought it unnecessary to hide such an important factor of your life; after all, she, too, broke the law. She, too, worked as a mercenary, leaving her own trail of ill-intent behind, a trail untraceable, invisible ( here one moment, but gone the next ) --- she gave you hope, however slim the thought, that there was happiness to be found here. There was a future here, with this woman scorned, this loaded gun; a wedding was set, and you soon found yourself settling down. There was a home now, and you learned to leave your worries at the doorstep; trust came slowly, but it came, like a late winter, or a whispered ‘I love you’.

        A few years later, your wife bore a daughter. You were twenty-four years old, still learning to grasp the reigns of this life without letting go --- you knew nothing of parenthood, nothing of being an acceptable role model for a child; your own upbringing was less than kind, though none knew of this. None knew of your abusive father, who used words as daggers, drawing blood from those he was meant to care for the most. None knew of your mother, whose best was never quite good enough --- you ran from home young, never looking back ( though you occasionally wished to, when loneliness caused memory to feel warmer than reality ). You swore to give your daughter the life that she deserved, no matter the cost; history would not repeat itself, not again.

         She begged you to leave your work behind. Too much was at risk now, or so she insisted, but what else was there for you to do? This life was the only one you knew --- this home built upon instability and theft would collapse soon enough, and though you and she would learn to adapt, your daughter would not; she would perish, death among the debris of this kingdom you built for yourself --- time would not be on her side, and you knew this. And so, despite your best wishes not to, you retired from your life of crime. Savings would only protect your family from poverty for so long --- little jobs here and there, minimum wage amounting to nothing but spare change; this was not the life you dreamt of, nor was it the life you and your family deserved.

        Your daughter was two years old when you caught wind of a silver lining, your salvation dancing in front of your eyes. Your wife grew angry, all snarling attacks and empty threats --- how could you betray her? How could you possibly choose death over your own daughter, she asked, though you still held to a familiar faith; the fates would protect you, just as they always had, for what danger did this job have that any other did not? How could this adventure end your life if none before had even come close? You promised her you would oblige, if only to appease her; then, by nightfall, you were gone, like a ghost, or the life you once knew.

        You still have nightmares of rope chafing against your wrists, of forced immobility preventing your escape ( of no end in sight, of repetition, repetition, repetition --- ). Time became but a distant dream, minutes melting into hours, or seconds, or days, weeks --- you do not remember how long you were gone, nor do you recall how you came to be here in the first place; what was it you were doing here? What have you done? Questions slurred, thoughts indiscernible, and yet you remember your wife, crystal clear, like a beam of light, or a saving grace you did not deserve. You recall the chase, the adrenaline pumping through your veins, your body learning again to run, to escape, to prove itself worthy of life.

         You remember a shot ringing in your ears, like a song too beautiful to hear again; your wife fell to her knees, body trembling, cold like a winter that should never have arrived --- crimson coated her clothing, a sea of red against a pale frame. Your body operated on auto-pilot then; to run, to escape, to return home. Your daughter was two years old, and you were her only hope for a future. You, covered in your lover’s blood ( you, mourning a loss that she still was too young to understand ).

         All criminal ties, finally, were put to rest, put down like a dog too stubborn to die --- poverty didn’t quite suit you, but you would learn to adjust. You always did, after all, though this change proved harder to swallow than most. Two jobs at once, minimum wage again amounting only to spare change, to thrift store hand-me-downs, to handmade toys and dolls --- frequently, you dreamt of death, of giving in to this deeply rooted desire for nothingness, but what would become of your daughter? Who would care for her? None knew her the way you did, and none bore the responsibility that rested heavy upon your shoulders --- this was your child, your own flesh and blood, and you would learn to survive for her. You would learn to change once more, if only to ensure her survival.

           Your daughter was seven years old when a past employer reappeared in your life, promising you prosperity if only you cooperated one last time; your assistance would prove most beneficial, and the payment would be enough to bring your family from rags to riches in no time. Despite the temptation, you insisted upon staying behind; you weren’t going to abandon family, not again. Still, though, they shared the details of the mission, and the location was a familiar one ( one that still, to this day, haunts your mind, phantom pains of rope against your wrists, of your lover’s blood staining your skin, of repetition, repetition, repetition --- ).  Reluctantly, you agree to participate. 

            Naivety always was your downfall. Trust did not exist, but hope --- for wealth, for glory, for fame --- did. Perhaps you hoped for the prosperity promised to you; perhaps you did this to ensure a cushioned future for your young daughter. Whatever your reasoning, these walls all came crashing down as your partner made their deceit clear; once more, you were held captive, though change grew while you did not; this stint proved much more violent, and still, you wear the scars of your mistakes ( in fingers calloused, a faded trail of red threaded across your throat, in repetition, repetition, repetition --- ).

            Upon your return home, you found your daughter taken from you; for cause of neglect, or abandonment, or a father too stubborn to care. Again, loneliness enveloped you, false sympathy coming from those who were never expected to care in the first place --- finally, you were alone once more, just as you were meant to be. Though unspoken, you knew that they wished for your return; the illustrious thief, the madman notorious for caring only for riches and mayhem --- you would lose your mind for amusement no more; with encouragement from an employer, you relocated to New York City. This decision, perhaps, was a moment of weakness; with so much loss, you chose to cling to this false sense of security, of safety. You began to see a psychiatrist, and thus began your descent, once more, down a rabbit hole of mistakes, of trauma, of mental illness you were too stubborn to acknowledge.

             You lived this way for so long. You took your medication, busied yourself with minimum wage occupations, with pointless hobbies; you were lost, a life with no sense of direction --- were you meant to regress to what you once were? Who was left to get hurt now, you wondered, left alone with all of your mistakes and scars --- what did you have left to lose? You were older now, and unbeknownst to you, things have changed, you have changed; would your former occupation again welcome you with open arms, or were you destined only for poverty? Only for spare change and a pocket full of dashed dreams?

              Your life has always been malleable, soft in the hands of any who knew you well enough to play with it a little --- words of encouragement would go a long way for a man with no sense of direction, and the world seemed to know this all too well.  Fighting to regain custody, finding steady employment, reliving your traumas over, and over, and over again ( repetition, repetition, repetition --- ); steady streams of opinions flooded your mind, stacking upon themselves in rows as tall as the sky --- you accepted only a few pieces of advice, though one seemed to stick out the most in your mind. The thought of steady employment, shining like a beam of light, a saving grace; you knew exactly where to go, too.

              Finally, after so much time spent wandering, hopelessly falling deeper into your own mind, you possessed a sense of direction; you would redeem yourself as the acclaimed mercenary you once were. You would prove yourself worthy of this life, no matter the price. There was only one thing you have ever known yourself to be good at, and it could not be found in retail jobs, or desk jobs, or pitiful little nine to five occupations --- you thrived off of change, unpredictability ( instability, a trembling of motive ). You would live this way once more, no matter the consequences.