There is a badness inside me, and I don’t know how to get it out. I don’t know who I would be without it, but for the sake of argument, I think I would be perfect. If there weren’t these deep, reeling emotions tucked down inside me, curdled and rabid, metastatic and virulent. The badness breaks out of me in silent moments, slipping out sinister into my daily interactions. Tugging on the sleeve of every valiant emotion that is supposed to make me feel good about myself. As I toil on, trying to be good, but then there it is, yet again: the badness inside me.
I am compelled to do things at which innocent bystanders scoff. It is foolish for me to be like this. It is awful for me to be this person. To be shackled to the sin within me that is dying to get out. Although I ask myself: should I live a life without pleasure? Should I deny myself the world? What would I gain if I killed the badness inside me? If I spent every night slowly suffocating my animal urges with a pillow. It would be messy, to murder my need to fuck and to feast and to experience pain both in the first hand and as it is inflicted upon other people.
The demons inside me tell me that this is okay, I am just a curious person. I merely want to know why people scream while they are bleeding – is it because they are weak? Or because the world needs to know that they are bleeding? Is it a natural reaction to pain? So I find a way to watch people bleed, so that I may observe, and then I may ask, “Why do you scream when you bleed?” I bleed myself, too, at times, and I try my hardest not to scream. Just because I want to know what it feels like to bleed silently, and if it feels better or worse than screaming. I haven’t decided on an answer yet, which is fine, because I haven’t stopped bleeding for years now.
But the rest of the world is not okay with this. Apparently, when I see someone bleeding, I am supposed to call 911 and apply pressure to the wound. Standing there and watching is frowned upon. Asking questions is even worse. Trying to understand the human pain I inflict on other people is a sign of malignancy in my mind. But as I look around the room, feeling chastised by some invisible, higher moral force, I wonder: if we’re supposed to be running around, stopping the bleeding, and making everything okay, why is someone taking time out of their day to tell me that what I’m doing is wrong? Shouldn’t this person be acting as medic #1? As opposed to someone who has pulled me aside to tell me that I am bad. I look around the room, and as I am receiving the inevitable lecture about the morality of watching people bleed, and how that is bad, I realize suddenly: everyone here is bleeding. And there is no way we can possibly stop it all. It doesn’t matter if it is my fault or someone else’s: we all bleed eventually. What is so wrong about wanting to know why this massacre is happening, or what if this is not a massacre at all, but this is just how we are. What if this constant state of pain is just the homeostasis of our existence, and there is nothing wrong with wanting to know, but it is easier to point and say that I am Eve, the original sinner.