At Dark, I Become Loathsome

by Eric LaRocca

At night, I become guilty of crimes I haven’t committed, much less even contemplated. I become a caricature of my former self—a creature to be persecuted, loathed, reviled, detested. At nighttime, I’m something to be tortured until condemned—someone completely and forever misunderstood.

I’ve learned that human decency only exists when it’s convenient. The rest of the time, we’re feral creatures tirelessly spinning against the whitewater current of rapids bearing us down and carrying us toward an infinite black sea.

That’s what I am—a secret to be kept, away from everyone, in a dark room.

“Heaven is a dark room,” she said. “There’s nothing for us there.”

Will there always be a part of me that yearns for what I cannot and should not have?

I can’t help but envy her. Because of me, because of my dedication to those who are suffering, she’ll find herself on a voyage into another realm—an infinite chamber where it’s neither night nor day, where time and reason are absent and, more importantly, unnecessary, where the constellations sing poems and sizzle hot like the dying embers of a fire extinguished long ago.

You see, when we begin our lives in this world, we begin as creators. We are constantly building. Our lives are spent creating, inventing, designing. I always knew I was building something, starting when I was very little. I only wish I had known it was a grave. My grave.”

That’s a thing people don’t talk about enough—that there are people who will judge even the way you mourn your loved ones.

“I realized I loved your cancer far more than I could have ever loved you.”

All this happiness makes me sad. I think of how true that statement is. Indeed, all this happiness makes me sad. For I will always be sad. I will always be the miserable and wretched thing

“Children lose their innocence when they realize that adults can hurt them,”