exorcism; or something like that

exorcism in ink


I am not here to explain away, to fill in gaps or to get beneath and uncover the truth. I am writing now only to tell something of what I know, and though I may address myself to you, to them, to it, I do truly write only for myself. This I must make clear from the outset, and if (and I know I will) I contradict myself then that is as it is, and I will feel no remorse for that. For, this piece is doomed anyway; it will never become one of your ‘nice’, ‘rounded’ works, for my education is not great and my use of words as yet not masterful. And besides, that is not what I want of it anyway.

The story we all know and you all have commented in your papers and in your documentaries – exorcism with ink I have come to call it. And though I have (and will continue to) maintain silence when questioned about it all; it has become a burden and a weight, a cross that no one, not even he, should expect me to bear. And so I write, once and once alone and that will be an end – although I am well aware that an end only brings another beginning and that that will likely turn just as bitter as this. But still, this must end, and now. For I am tired, and I must live even though he does not.

And so to the point: He was my friend and he killed his own father. A terrible thing I know. But, and although you have doubted this, he did feel the pain of remorse everyday. He was not cold nor was he heartless. Even before the act he knew the pain he would cause himself; and I believe that it was, in fact, for these companions – anger and self-loathing – that he did what he did. You see, he had had a happy life, content and well-fed, but how can a real man exist thus? Frank was a hero, but ours are not times for hero’s.

His father too was a great man, strong, in all its meanings and Frank had loved him, ‘basking’ in his strength. There was a time, when I felt (even as a small boy it was easy to see) that their strength, Franks and his fathers was one and the same thing. He told me this himself in fact: ‘at that time fathers strength was indistinguishable from my own, we were one single all encompassing entity, nothing could surpass us, because there was nothing beyond us.’ You see, he did think long and hard about his childhood – he too hoped for an explanation, but in that hope I fear we will all be disappointed.

But, of course things changed with time, eventually Frank says, he saw through his own “childishness”. And so, Frank grew up and grew strong and his father became weak, and this, I believe Frank truly could not stand…

But you see, already I am going wrong. I'm being led astray, to places I do not wish to go. It is truly all so vile, and I am forced to repeat: this is not meant as an explanation; for what sort of words would be needed to explain a life?

But even as I say this, I can hear a response: surely; surely I could at least try to isolate moments, the moment when he first thought of murder perhaps – that moment might help us to understand. But, I tell you, and of this I am sure: no such moment ever existed, and even if it did how could words ever touch it – words blunder, grab hold and weed-like destroy the very thing that sustains them.

But…now… even as I write this, and I see these words: these fraudulent entities that masquerade as thoughts; my thoughts, but really are just fraudulent. But, regardless, they have helped me here. For, now I see… This is in fact the point and that – that destructive power is exactly what I want of them. For, there is one thing, one event of which I wish to tell – simply it is a memory that has been haunting me of late and I guess that, I hope that, perhaps, if I put it into words then they will weave their dark magic and destroy these things that burden me.

They seem to work for you all, so why not me?

This event happened when Frank was in his teens. He was playing football in the garden with his father, I was there too, in goal of course. His father had the ball and was messing around in the corner, facing the fence and holding his son at bay, giving him little jabs in the stomach and chest. Frank was laughing, enjoying the playful contest. But after a slightly rougher poke from his father, suddenly things became more heated. Frank began kicking and pushing a little harder, and his father reacted to this, straining to keep Frank away from the ball. Though still laughing, the game had taken on a sinister edge, one I had begun to see in many of their encounters at that time.

Frank persisted and after a time their smiles gave way to grimaces as father and son tussled to gain control of a ball that now lay untouched and ignored in the corner. They began wresting as they often did and I laughed – loudly – trying to add a lightheartedness to what had ceased to be lighthearted. Eventually Frank’s father gained the upper hand, held Frank in an arm lock, made him submit and then pushed him off. Frank stumbled forward and fell - an accident. But that was a step too far for Frank, at that moment rage, pure and seething overtook him. He jumped to his feet and kicked out, hard, crashing his leg through his fathers catching him square on the knee. His father buckled and fell to the ground, his ligaments torn. Frank and I just stood over him, watching as he writhed in pain. I looked at Frank then, he was ghostly white and shaking all over.

Fear, he told me later ‘it was only out of fear.’

And so, I am finished and, but, you see – there it is, done. And even though I knew it was inevitable, this failure still hurts.

Fuck writing.