Jackson Warfield
"it's easy to be a bad writer, but it's hard to wake up each day and devote a chunk of your life to bad writing."
All work copyright Jackson Warfield 2009
A LETTER FROM ISTANBUL
by JACKSON WARFIELD
Dear Gerard,
I'm in deep. Deeper than I've ever been. I don't know what to do. I need help. I need something. Been here in Istanbul for a few days, maybe a few weeks. I don't know. I've been drunk since my arrival. I can't stop drinking. That's normal, and I wish that was the only problem. But it's not. It's much worse. I don't feel guilty about drinking. But I feel guilty for what I did. What I think I did. What I'm pretty sure I did.
Gerard. I don't know why I do, but I love you very much. I've always thought of you as a brother, maybe a brother I never had. That sort of thing. Something like that. Maybe I just wished I had someone to confide in throughout my life, and then you came along, selling fucking credit cards, you knocked on my door. I wish I could go back to that evening. I wish I could go anywhere but here.
Gerard. Please don't ever speak of this letter. Not with me. Not with anybody. Never. Nothing. No. Please.
Gerard. Brother. Friend. I've killed a man. It wasn't meant. It was an accident. God help me. I don't know if I believe in a god anymore but maybe I should. If I could go back and change things I would. I would go back and make it so that I was never born. Oh god. That's the truth. I wish I was never born.
We had been on each other's nerves since we met earlier in the day. I was drunk and maybe he was too. Probably not. My judgment is shit. I can't stop drinking. Beer. Liquor. It eases the pain. It makes it so that I can tolerate this chore of life. The task of living.
But this man. This dead man.
We'd been arguing, politics and religion. Dumb shit. I felt like I was going to put my fist through his face, like I was going to smash my beer glass over his eyes and gouge out his soul with the broken shards. I was very angry. So I left. I couldn't take it anymore. I was going to kill him if I stayed. So I left that place. I bought another beer, even though Ivor the bartender did not want to sell it to me. I took my beer and went out of the bar and up the stairs to the rooftop terrace. I needed some fresh air, some time alone. I was enjoying myself, looking out over the city, the lights, the bay. Everything was beautiful. Everything was just as beautiful as it should be. And I drank. I looked around and I took hits from my beer and everything else disappeared and it was the most beautiful experienceof my life.
But then he came up. He followed me. This bastard. He couldn't get enough. But I gave him enough. I gave him more than enough. More than he could handle.
He came up and spoiled my moment, my beautiful moment, overlooking this fabulous city, the night, the lights, the bay, it was all perfect until he came. And he started in again, spouting bullshit. He wouldn't give up. And of
course, Gerard, of course, neither would I. And words grew. They morphed. They changed. And we were nearly to blows, me and this bastard, and I told him to get the fuck out of there, that it was my terrace, that maybe I didn't own it, but that I'd give my life protecting it, preserving it, saving its dignity, its life. Saving it from vile him.
And he finally realized that, maybe, just fucking maybe, I was crazier than he was, that I was drunker than he was, that I cared less and fought more over nothing and about nothing. He finally realized this, and he began to walk away, towards the stairs.
But just before he ducked into the stairway, he turned back to me, and I could only see the silhouette of his fat head, and I couldn't see the outline of his mouth as it opened and as he said, "I bet your baby sitter tickled your dick when you weren't old enough to know better."
Gerard. I didn't drop my beer because, luckily, I was between gulps, and it was on the table. But if I was drinking it I would have dropped it. I charged across the terrace, intent on putting my fist through his fat, ugly face. And he saw me coming. He thought he knew what was coming.
But neither of us knew what was coming.
I reached him and gave the mightiest shove that's ever been shoved. It was a shove of the ages, a shove with the strength of my arms and my chest and my mother and father and the love I have for my dead grandmothers. It was a shove that came from my guts and my eyes and within it was all the hate I've ever felt for everybody throughout my whole entire life.
But, like I said, I've been drinking for days. I don't know here and there. I don't know left and right. I don't know right or wrong, but what happened, if there is such a thing, was wrong.
This fat, ugly bastard fell back. And back was down. And down was down the stairs. Steep stairs. He just tumbled, like a stunt man in a movie but this was real. And as sick as it sounds, as he fell, as he somersaulted, as he rolled over and over, I smiled. I smiled a wicked smile. There was a certain glee, a kind of, "what was that you said, you fucking motherfucker?"
His head banged against the stairs, his ankles flew up into the air and went down again. The sound of him falling was sick and mean and filthy and I loved it.
But then he reached the bottom. And his head hit something it shouldn't have. It hit a sort of spigot type thing. A sharp metal valve. A faucet.
Gerard. I'm crying as I'm writing this. The tears are flowing down. This fucker died. The metal edge went into the back of his head. At first I didn't know. I didn't care. I laughed. He was at the bottom of these stairs, facing up towards me, a look of astonishment on his fat, ugly face. I smiled and said, "how do you like that, you motherfucker?"
But he didn't respond.
The look of astonishment dribbled down his face as the blood began to dribble down his back. My eyes became very wide and then in an instant I ran. I rushed back over to my beer, back to my corner, and I sat down in my chair and I've never drank so viciously or with so much fear as I did then. And the people came. They heard him "fall.' They heard the very ugly sound of his death. And they began to yell and scream and shout and they called the ambulance and the police and that's when all the beer I'd been drinking, all the alcohol in the world couldn't make things better.
But I lied to them. I lied through my teeth. And I lied like I really meant it, like I needed it, because I did. I told them that he'd come up to see the view. He'd
enjoyed the view, and then he'd started back towards the bar. And he'd fallen down the stairs. He must have missed a step. I don't know. He was very drunk. I told them that. Maybe he shouldn't drink so much if he can't handle all that which he's drunk. I don't know. I feel bad for the man. He must have just missed a step. That's the only thing I can guess. The only thing I can imagine. I don't know. I wasn't looking at him. I was looking the other way, out towards the bay. I was watching the boats pass by. I was looking at the lights on the boats. I like to watch the boats and their lights and just relax and be at peace, and then I heard this tumbling type of sound, a thud, this hollow sound of death.
I didn't know what had happened.
Gerard. His life was ended. He was done for. Oh, god. I killed him. I fucking killed him. I didn't mean to, but I did. I can't believe I fucking killed him. He's dead now. He's dead because of me. I didn't like him at all. I disliked him very much. In fact, I hated him.
But Gerard, I didn't mean to kill him. Please know that.
Gerard. I don't know what to do. At first I was just going to run, to not even grab my bags, just run and leave. Run, run, run. Get the fuck out of this country. Get back to America. Get somewhere. But I didn't know if he was dead. At first, I didn't know if he was dead. I was worried that he would call the authorities, call the embassy, call somebody who would come after me. I am so scared. So fucking scared.
But then I came to learn that he had died. He was dead.
"I've killed a man," I thought. "I've actually killed a man. I'm so fucking sorry. I really didn't mean to actually kill him. Yes, I hated him. I despised him."
But I didn't mean to kill him.
So now I am here. I am still here. And I am afraid for my life. I don't want to run, to leave, because that will make me look guilty. Guiltier than I already am. I don't know what to do. I've thought about killing myself. I'm terrified for my life. I don't know what to do. If I go home, maybe somebody will find me there. If I stay, maybe somebody will find me here. I'm so fucking scared. I
don't know what to do. I can't stop drinking. It's my only solace. It's been my only solace for some time now, but this is different. I might go to jail. If they find me. Maybe they'll kill me. I don't know things about capital punishment in these countries. I know it will be terrible. Jail in these sorts of countries cannot be good.
I'm so fucking scared. At night, in the darkness, I wake up and realize I'm crying. There are tears just pouring out of my eyes. I reach out into the blackness and find my bottle. Refuel. The tears go out and the alcohol goes in. I sneak into the shower stall and lock the door. I'm so fucking scared. I should get out of here but I'm too scared that they'll think I had something to do with that fat, ugly bastard's death.
Why did he have to die?
Why did he have to come up there onto that rooftop terrace and continue to heckle me and to argue and to force me to shove him?
I can't believe I've killed a man. It's not that I cared about him. Like I've said, I disliked him very much. To the point of hatred. But I never set out to kill a man. I didn't want to be a killer. But now I am. Oh god. Oh fucking god. Oh fucking god. I'm a killer. I am a fucking murderer. I have to go. I have to die. I have to get the fuck out of this place and wash my brain and, oh god, oh god, I need to die. Do I need to give my life for his? Will that make it all better? There needs to be some sort of trade? Oh god.
Gerard. I love you. I couldn't wait for you to finish up with your teaching and come here and visit. I knew you'd like it. You'd love it. This place is a sort of paradise. It was a sort of paradise. Now it is a sort of hell. Now it is a hell. Now it is hell. I am in hell. And I have to leave this living hell. I have to disappear. I have to go. I have to now go and die.
Gerard. Please tell nobody of this ever. Never ever ever. Burn this letter or shred it or bury it under the sea. Let nobody ever know that I am a killer. Just tell them you never heard from me. I just stopped communication. Maybe I was murdered by bandits or I got very sick and died. Or maybe I went mad and ran out into the woods and never came back. That's what you can tell them. Tell them I went mad. Tell them I went mad and lost my mind and that it would be better to forget that I ever existed.
Gerard, did I?
A LETTER FROM ISTANBUL
by JACKSON WARFIELD
Dear Gerard,
I'm in deep. Deeper than I've ever been. I don't know what to do. I need help. I need something. Been here in Istanbul for a few days, maybe a few weeks. I don't know. I've been drunk since my arrival. I can't stop drinking. That's normal, and I wish that was the only problem. But it's not. It's much worse. I don't feel guilty about drinking. But I feel guilty for what I did. What I think I did. What I'm pretty sure I did.
Gerard. I don't know why I do, but I love you very much. I've always thought of you as a brother, maybe a brother I never had. That sort of thing. Something like that. Maybe I just wished I had someone to confide in throughout my life, and then you came along, selling fucking credit cards, you knocked on my door. I wish I could go back to that evening. I wish I could go anywhere but here.
Gerard. Please don't ever speak of this letter. Not with me. Not with anybody. Never. Nothing. No. Please.
Gerard. Brother. Friend. I've killed a man. It wasn't meant. It was an accident. God help me. I don't know if I believe in a god anymore but maybe I should. If I could go back and change things I would. I would go back and make it so that I was never born. Oh god. That's the truth. I wish I was never born.
We had been on each other's nerves since we met earlier in the day. I was drunk and maybe he was too. Probably not. My judgment is shit. I can't stop drinking. Beer. Liquor. It eases the pain. It makes it so that I can tolerate this chore of life. The task of living.
But this man. This dead man.
We'd been arguing, politics and religion. Dumb shit. I felt like I was going to put my fist through his face, like I was going to smash my beer glass over his eyes and gouge out his soul with the broken shards. I was very angry. So I left. I couldn't take it anymore. I was going to kill him if I stayed. So I left that place. I bought another beer, even though Ivor the bartender did not want to sell it to me. I took my beer and went out of the bar and up the stairs to the rooftop terrace. I needed some fresh air, some time alone. I was enjoying myself, looking out over the city, the lights, the bay. Everything was beautiful. Everything was just as beautiful as it should be. And I drank. I looked around and I took hits from my beer and everything else disappeared and it was the most beautiful experienceof my life.
But then he came up. He followed me. This bastard. He couldn't get enough. But I gave him enough. I gave him more than enough. More than he could handle.
He came up and spoiled my moment, my beautiful moment, overlooking this fabulous city, the night, the lights, the bay, it was all perfect until he came. And he started in again, spouting bullshit. He wouldn't give up. And of
course, Gerard, of course, neither would I. And words grew. They morphed. They changed. And we were nearly to blows, me and this bastard, and I told him to get the fuck out of there, that it was my terrace, that maybe I didn't own it, but that I'd give my life protecting it, preserving it, saving its dignity, its life. Saving it from vile him.
And he finally realized that, maybe, just fucking maybe, I was crazier than he was, that I was drunker than he was, that I cared less and fought more over nothing and about nothing. He finally realized this, and he began to walk away, towards the stairs.
But just before he ducked into the stairway, he turned back to me, and I could only see the silhouette of his fat head, and I couldn't see the outline of his mouth as it opened and as he said, "I bet your baby sitter tickled your dick when you weren't old enough to know better."
Gerard. I didn't drop my beer because, luckily, I was between gulps, and it was on the table. But if I was drinking it I would have dropped it. I charged across the terrace, intent on putting my fist through his fat, ugly face. And he saw me coming. He thought he knew what was coming.
But neither of us knew what was coming.
I reached him and gave the mightiest shove that's ever been shoved. It was a shove of the ages, a shove with the strength of my arms and my chest and my mother and father and the love I have for my dead grandmothers. It was a shove that came from my guts and my eyes and within it was all the hate I've ever felt for everybody throughout my whole entire life.
But, like I said, I've been drinking for days. I don't know here and there. I don't know left and right. I don't know right or wrong, but what happened, if there is such a thing, was wrong.
This fat, ugly bastard fell back. And back was down. And down was down the stairs. Steep stairs. He just tumbled, like a stunt man in a movie but this was real. And as sick as it sounds, as he fell, as he somersaulted, as he rolled over and over, I smiled. I smiled a wicked smile. There was a certain glee, a kind of, "what was that you said, you fucking motherfucker?"
His head banged against the stairs, his ankles flew up into the air and went down again. The sound of him falling was sick and mean and filthy and I loved it.
But then he reached the bottom. And his head hit something it shouldn't have. It hit a sort of spigot type thing. A sharp metal valve. A faucet.
Gerard. I'm crying as I'm writing this. The tears are flowing down. This fucker died. The metal edge went into the back of his head. At first I didn't know. I didn't care. I laughed. He was at the bottom of these stairs, facing up towards me, a look of astonishment on his fat, ugly face. I smiled and said, "how do you like that, you motherfucker?"
But he didn't respond.
The look of astonishment dribbled down his face as the blood began to dribble down his back. My eyes became very wide and then in an instant I ran. I rushed back over to my beer, back to my corner, and I sat down in my chair and I've never drank so viciously or with so much fear as I did then. And the people came. They heard him "fall.' They heard the very ugly sound of his death. And they began to yell and scream and shout and they called the ambulance and the police and that's when all the beer I'd been drinking, all the alcohol in the world couldn't make things better.
But I lied to them. I lied through my teeth. And I lied like I really meant it, like I needed it, because I did. I told them that he'd come up to see the view. He'd
enjoyed the view, and then he'd started back towards the bar. And he'd fallen down the stairs. He must have missed a step. I don't know. He was very drunk. I told them that. Maybe he shouldn't drink so much if he can't handle all that which he's drunk. I don't know. I feel bad for the man. He must have just missed a step. That's the only thing I can guess. The only thing I can imagine. I don't know. I wasn't looking at him. I was looking the other way, out towards the bay. I was watching the boats pass by. I was looking at the lights on the boats. I like to watch the boats and their lights and just relax and be at peace, and then I heard this tumbling type of sound, a thud, this hollow sound of death.
I didn't know what had happened.
Gerard. His life was ended. He was done for. Oh, god. I killed him. I fucking killed him. I didn't mean to, but I did. I can't believe I fucking killed him. He's dead now. He's dead because of me. I didn't like him at all. I disliked him very much. In fact, I hated him.
But Gerard, I didn't mean to kill him. Please know that.
Gerard. I don't know what to do. At first I was just going to run, to not even grab my bags, just run and leave. Run, run, run. Get the fuck out of this country. Get back to America. Get somewhere. But I didn't know if he was dead. At first, I didn't know if he was dead. I was worried that he would call the authorities, call the embassy, call somebody who would come after me. I am so scared. So fucking scared.
But then I came to learn that he had died. He was dead.
"I've killed a man," I thought. "I've actually killed a man. I'm so fucking sorry. I really didn't mean to actually kill him. Yes, I hated him. I despised him."
But I didn't mean to kill him.
So now I am here. I am still here. And I am afraid for my life. I don't want to run, to leave, because that will make me look guilty. Guiltier than I already am. I don't know what to do. I've thought about killing myself. I'm terrified for my life. I don't know what to do. If I go home, maybe somebody will find me there. If I stay, maybe somebody will find me here. I'm so fucking scared. I
don't know what to do. I can't stop drinking. It's my only solace. It's been my only solace for some time now, but this is different. I might go to jail. If they find me. Maybe they'll kill me. I don't know things about capital punishment in these countries. I know it will be terrible. Jail in these sorts of countries cannot be good.
I'm so fucking scared. At night, in the darkness, I wake up and realize I'm crying. There are tears just pouring out of my eyes. I reach out into the blackness and find my bottle. Refuel. The tears go out and the alcohol goes in. I sneak into the shower stall and lock the door. I'm so fucking scared. I should get out of here but I'm too scared that they'll think I had something to do with that fat, ugly bastard's death.
Why did he have to die?
Why did he have to come up there onto that rooftop terrace and continue to heckle me and to argue and to force me to shove him?
I can't believe I've killed a man. It's not that I cared about him. Like I've said, I disliked him very much. To the point of hatred. But I never set out to kill a man. I didn't want to be a killer. But now I am. Oh god. Oh fucking god. Oh fucking god. I'm a killer. I am a fucking murderer. I have to go. I have to die. I have to get the fuck out of this place and wash my brain and, oh god, oh god, I need to die. Do I need to give my life for his? Will that make it all better? There needs to be some sort of trade? Oh god.
Gerard. I love you. I couldn't wait for you to finish up with your teaching and come here and visit. I knew you'd like it. You'd love it. This place is a sort of paradise. It was a sort of paradise. Now it is a sort of hell. Now it is a hell. Now it is hell. I am in hell. And I have to leave this living hell. I have to disappear. I have to go. I have to now go and die.
Gerard. Please tell nobody of this ever. Never ever ever. Burn this letter or shred it or bury it under the sea. Let nobody ever know that I am a killer. Just tell them you never heard from me. I just stopped communication. Maybe I was murdered by bandits or I got very sick and died. Or maybe I went mad and ran out into the woods and never came back. That's what you can tell them. Tell them I went mad. Tell them I went mad and lost my mind and that it would be better to forget that I ever existed.
Gerard, did I?
"Gerard. Brother. Friend. I've killed a man."