Nailday

When you arrived, again, I knew you'd serve me your foul words. Drop them like acid rain, shoot them from your fleshy lips.

Again, you reminded me how smart you were, and that I was not. You shaped me with a cutting tongue and a thousand little cuts.

I would just nod. And agree. With all of it.

Oh yes.
I understand.
Oh dear.
Really?

Just to make you feel better. More confident in a world that you'd never understand.

Poor you.

When I drifted in the whirlwind of your hate, I finally saw it clearly like a sunrise. Your thoughts were born of mud and lost in a field of fog. You had no chance to know. Your thoughts pierced me with tiny needles, but all I felt was my heart flattening by the weight of a freshly cut tree. But I did not have the heart to tell you the truth about you.

I let you go on.
And on.
Poor you.
But also, poor me.

Over the years, your confidence grew.

You already buried your ears, and you didn't hear the stupid words that began as a creak but ended as a river, creating a stinking swamp of venom. Your personal Roman bathhouse. Ancient walls you build yourself, just to echo your painful phrases—a private Sutra for your closed ears only. Truth by repetition. A cycle, as endless and tiring as you.

Your truth, spilled—dirty as the oil dragged to light from the guts of the earth.

You left the path. Stripping away nothing but the grace of humans. Declaring, with the bold breast of an eagle, that even humanity must be earned.

But no.
No, brother, you are the fountain.

Who dug so deep?
Who planted the poison into the source inside of you that made all the roots evil?

Unlike you, I listened.
I know you always want one thing.

Live the one life, like always.
One barbecue a week.
One friend on Saturday.
One drink to start the day.
One job.
One wife.
One child.
Oh, wait, you broke your rule.
A joke amongst the cold stars.

You live it.
The monolife.
The cage that everyone must break.

When you told me, again, about the things that you hate, I made a decision.

No longer do I want to witness your fear. I loved you, but today I brought nails, nine inches long.

One nail full of life into the foot.
Screaming, surprised. You circled the tombstone I'd placed—like a seagull over trash, orbiting the stench of your life. Searching for what pierced you, what should not be in your narrow monoworld. I had to smile. Then I remembered, I feel no joy besides you.

One nail full of greed into the stomach.
Your breathing almost stopped as the river of acid flowed into your blood. Your stupid eyes almost bulged from your sweating head, swollen, grotesque pumpkins, and no color. When the stomach opens, you taste the whole earth. I was sorry to see your pain. Or so I thought.

One nail of wisdom into the forehead.
I know you'd try to resist, but I just stomped on your hand to keep you down. Good. Your breath was gone—now it became a quiet operation. I only hoped I would not fail. I sighed and did what I had to.

Klonk. Klonk.
KLONK.

Your head opened like a ripe tomato on concrete. Blood painted my walls, and me. Red drops kissed my lips goodbye, little oceans of fluid metal.
Bitter.
Like dried herbs should taste.

I am sorry it had to end that way. There were never guarantees for us.
The nail of wisdom was too big, too deep, too hard.

When our kin faded, I protected you. You came with tears, and I gave you shelter. But now, I can't let the world carry your weight.

The sacred bones ignored you.
The world denied you.
I do too.
All of us do.

No choice.
I nail.
Klonk. Klonk.
Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter.

Nailday comes.

And I do not carry a spear, but the hammer.

Maybe next time, I'll do better.
Or I forget about you.
Or I fade with you.

Who else speaks to me, anyway?

The term “Monolife” was originally coined as “Monoleben” by the German author Boris Koch. His story appeared in either “Hirnstaub” (1997) or “Dyonisus tanzt” (2003).