Confessor. Confessing. Confession.

Sticking my finger down my throat now. Looking for the gag reflex. Any second now. Maybe a minute. But not long. Until it all comes spilling out; the acidic hell spawn of my insides.

- - - - - - -

Do you remember when I was born? How the skies appeared menstrual blood red that day? And the doctor looked a trifle concerned when he saw me coming.

Remember?

Smell the that day; the rich tones of the earth and the ocean spilling out of mother's slick portal. My head was like a soft, malleable canvas framed by thick black pubic hair; rough bristle-steel against the soft thing, which was I.

"It's just a lot of blood and fluid," said the doctor. "And pieces of your womb."

There was a look of disgust on his face. The nurse beside him vomited all over the place. Maybe it was the tiny fingerprints deeply embedded in the tattered-purple husk; tear marks, bite marks.

"I don't understand," said the doctor, helping the nurse up, pushing her out of there.

"What?" Said mother.

"I don't know how to tell you this . . ."

Mom cradled me in my arms and dragged me toward one of her ample tits. I bit down, but she didn't seem to mind. "Tell me what?" She asked, blissful and ignorant of all else in the world: So what if the sky was red?

"There's nothing there," he said. "Only the remnants of your shredded womb."

"Fuck you!" She hissed. "My baby's fine. Look at it. Just look."

- - - - - - -

I am a man now. I walk down the street; shit, smile like everyone else, but it never seems to make a damn bit of difference. I get stoned and drunk all the time; as often as I can. Most people would call me a mess, but you are not most people. You are reading this, for one thing. You understand that I exist in some form; that we all kind of have to. Even though it's different. For us.

All of my family is dead to me. Even my mother. Which was the hardest to let go. I even considered murdering her. Just to make it easier. Just to make sure that she could never regain control, ever. But I guess I would have to hate her, which is impossible. Believe me, I have tried. It's not easy. Not at all.

Instead, I avoid her, just like I avoid all familial connections. I have disconnected. Not that they give a shit. To them I don't exist, anyway; I am just a figment of mother's active imagination. At one point she even wanted to be a writer. Remember? Her chicken scrawl all over those long, yellow ledger sheets.

Yes, I remember.

Ghosts stories. She wanted to write ghost stories. The old fashioned kind. With haunted houses and pregnant moons shrouded in mist above tangled graveyards. She even read them to me when I was a kid: Poe, M.R. James, Le Fanu. Mom wasn't very good at it, though. The writing I mean. It came off as supremely derivative and trite. And so she gave up. Like she did most everything. Save for me.

- - - - - - -

OK. So a confession. That's why you keep reading, isn't it? Am I right? You're different, but you're not that different. We all have varying degrees of humanity living inside of us; some more thuggish than others . . . beating our insides to mush . . . asking us to reflect on why we have reacted in the manner chosen, curious to know if we are seeking forgiveness, thus salvation.

- - - - - - -

I've been drinking all night and my palms are sweaty. I consider masturbation, but I know, then, that I would lose my momentum. It's not an easy thing: To confess. There are times, several in a day, where the process might momentarily dilute your conscious thoughts. And you may think: I can do it. I can confess. Even: I will. And perhaps you can and will, but the thought is fleeting and can and will are quickly replaced by self doubt; even a strong urge for suicide.

So kill yourself. Detach yourself from your skull. Pan out.

Move through the universe at a speed that can't be measured by light and sound.

Look back? What do you see?

Me. Telling you. Confess. Materialize. For long enough to leave a little bit of yourself behind. Some sign. Like a red sky. Bleeding. Burning.

It is the cycle that we can't live without; the back and forth. And maybe we don't want to. It's easier to feel that you owe something; to the universe, or to yourself. The people in your life. They don't matter. Your family and friends. You owe it to yourself to be free of whatever it is that burdens you.

Still, it's not that easy. Your mind goes, too. Everything about you. YOU are relinquishing EVERYTHING; every single aspect of your existence, your purpose. You are coming to grips with what it is you've known all along: That the universe would be empty without you. And lastly: That it might be better off.

- - - - - - -

Mother was a Catholic growing up. And I remember, between ghosts stories, she would read The Bible, sometimes out loud. She didn't go to church or anything like that; not when she was an adult. Instead, she just read it; to me . . . to anyone who would listen.

"At confession," she had said. "We would make things up."

I was curious: "Like what?"

"Little things: Thoughts about boys. Bad words."

"Those things were made up?"

"Sometimes . . . Do you have any confessions?"

"I have said bad words," I said.

"Which ones?"

"Shit . . . ummm . . . fuck. Pussy. Cunt. As in: You are a cunt, mom."

"Why do you want to call me that?"

"I don't know," I said. "I guess I'm making it up."

- - - - - - -

Okay. So here it is. My BIG confession. I just hope I get it right. I'm pretty drunk right now. The words are beginning to blend and blur and crawl; naked black insects across the yellow page.

First, though, I go to the bathroom. To piss, you know. All that alcohol. My father was the one with the small bladder. If I drink enough I'll go every half an hour; like clock work.

My cock is numb. It is exactly like the surface of Mars. I stroke it a few times, but it's useless. There is just nothing there. Like the rest of me. Vacant except for the movement of my thoughts.

I look in the mirror. Still nothing. Eyes in a face looking inward.

And I feel like I need to vomit. Just like the nurse. At the start of my confession.

Bent over, hands braced against the sides of the sink . . . I jettison all the poisons my body has to spare. Some of which had lived there since the beginning of everything; the moment after God, eternal . . . but I would never confess to Him. I confess instead to you . . . through you.

Listen.


C. C. Parker lives in Seattle with his wife and daughter. He has appeared in over a
hundred anthology/magazine/ezine's, including Decadence 2, Chimeraworld 1, Flesh and
Blood, Lullaby Hearse, Bare Bone, Scared Naked, The Dream People, etc . . . He is also
a resident writer for Cherry Bleeds.