Al was born with a scream inside of him. It was an unrelenting, unapologetic scream.
As a kid Al always wanted to walk into a field, right to the middle and let it out–let it out and then die there in the grass, choking on his own vocal chords.
Al got older, and the older and older Al got the more he realized that, left to rot, this scream would poison him. It would creep around inside of him, getting in his eyes and nose and lungs; make him say things he didn’t want to say, do things he didn’t want to do.
This scream had a mouth of its own, you see. It liked the smell of cigarettes and salt. It had ears too, big fat ones–they liked the taste of pornography and a nose that liked the touch of pain.
It had eyes too, of course it had eyes; they liked the look of you, in every way you don’t want to be looked at.
It would get quiet, rarely. If he yelled or broke something, it took a little nap.
It didn’t like people who deserved to be liked. It loved people who didn’t want to be loved. It ate, on occasion.
It sang when he took ecstasy. It laughed when he did cocaine. It talked him out of brushing his teeth at night so that in the mornings his mouth still stank of whiskey.
Sometimes it whispered.
So, Al found a field, a great big one. It took two days getting to the middle. On all sides there was nothing but blue. Someone had been mowing. Al stood in that field and looked around at the great wealth of nothing.
The scream didn’t cower. It didn’t beg or plead or hide. It waited. He sat in that field for a week with peanuts and a bottle of water.
At the end of it , he sighed, stood up, and walked home.