The Dump

As I was cleaning out the attic this weekend, I found all sorts of old junk that I had forgotten was even there. Of course, when I first stumbled upon my “treasures,” I wanted to keep everything I saw. Why would I have kept them in the first place? But, after pouring through box after box of broken toys and ripped parchment, I convinced myself that my “treasures” were ready for their final resting place. Being as this was Saturday and that trash pick-up day wasn’t until Wednesday, it required a trip to… the dump. Even now, I wince at the thought of having to brave the ever-present gloom that reigns there. The dump is a strange yet repulsive place… a place where people tend to bury the human spirit along with their trash.

From the main road, entering the dump looked like you were entering the grounds of a federal prison – and we’re not talking “Club Fed”. The perimeter was surrounded by an eight-foot high chain link fence with barbed wire invitingly curled around the top of each section. Following the slow procession of vehicles to the front gate, I noticed a man peeking through the blinds of a dirty office building. The building’s grey exterior was peeling away, the result of prolonged exposure to the toxic environment of hair spray cans, dirty baby diapers, and rotten banana peels. As soon as the man noticed me looking back, he hurriedly closed the blinds.

A man in filthy grey coveralls was standing out front to interrogate each passerby about their garbage. “Do you have any used batteries?” “Are you disposing of hazardous materials?” “Are you dumping used oil?” The list of questions went on and on for what felt like forever – until you were ready to surrender and admit to smuggling in a bag full of non-biodegradable Styrofoam containers just to make the man leave you alone. You’d even be willing to sign a confession in blood just to make this guy quit asking the never-ending parade of questions.

As I drove on into the interior sanctum of the dump, I noticed another unsightly building high upon a hill, overshadowing the recycling bins. This one had to be twenty-five feet tall and draped with rusted old sheet metal. The building looked like it had been rammed into by a wrecking ball at least a million times, and that it would collapse upon that million and first time, taking everything in it straight to hell. Trucks full of furniture, brush, and tree limbs were unloaded inside of the building – the dump’s own execution chamber. Within the walls of this building contained the largest crushing machine on the premises. When it activated, it made torturous scraping noised accompanied by splintering crackles. You could almost hear the death screams of each abandoned couch or chair as it was tossed into the machine like yesterday’s newspaper.

The stench was overpowering, unbearable – an odor of death mixed with the acrid aroma of despair. The wind stirred and brought along with it the stench of long-forgotten, abandoned, used baby diapers. I pulled my shirt up over my nose, trying to filter the bitterness through the lingering scent of fabric softener and my body spray, but it was too much for my crude attempt to hands.

I choked back a gag as I saw a fat rat fumbling with a half-rotted McDonald’s bag, oozing slimy aged lettuce and ketchup as it did. Weeds bordering the fence were littered with plastic wrappers, Styrofoam cups, and other non-biodegradable materials. Polluted water was seeping out of the dumpsters and had formed stagnate puddles infested with thousands of tiny, spasmodic worms.

I wondered how anyone could work in this foul environment and remain healthy, either physically or mentally. I also wondered how the county could afford to pay anyone enough to work in this harsh, alien terrain.

Most of the people at the dump all had the same blank expression on their faces, void of any emotion except perhaps disgust. They came in like robots, emptied their trash, and sped away as fast as possible without running someone else over.

There was, however, a sub-culture at the dump – those people disdainfully referred to as “Dumpster Divers” by most of the public. One of these dumpster divers, a man whose pants would not stay up and had dipped low enough to reveal a full inch and a half of his butt crack, was crawling through a dumpster full of old washers and dryers. At one point he surfaced, wiping his sweating face with one grimy hand, and paced back and forth furiously like he was contemplating the meaning of life… the world… and everything. Suddenly, he dove back in like he’d discovered the world’s greatest treasure at the bottom of this metallic coffin. No one paid attention to him… they all pretended his existence was nothing more than a mere shadow or trick of light.

At the next dumpster over, a young man was throwing away heavy, black plastic trash bags full of roofing shingles. The reason I know this? One of the bags caught the corner of the dumpster and ripped open while the young man was hurling it into the dumpster, causing shingles to rain down on the ground like torn piece of black hail. This caught my attention because he was standing almost directly under a sign that read, “ABSOLUTELY NO CONTRACTOR OR CONSTRUCTION DEBRIS.”

Within minutes, a man wearing a coffee-stained T-shirt and hat bearing the county’s logo approached the young offender. He asked, “Hey, sonny, whatcha got in them bags?”

The young man shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Just some old garbage.”

Knowing that the young man was lying, but not really caring enough to call him on it, the old man sneered a sinister yellow grin and said, “Them bags look awfully heavy, son. Are you sure you don’t have any body parts in there?”

They both laughed, and I decided to leave them alone. After all, my task was now finished.

So I left that eerie, malodorous place. I drove away from the dump as quickly as I could before I could bury my spirit – my very humanity – along with the trash I had dumped. The dump is death personified – a graveyard laden with the excesses of society. I ran away – far, far away – from the dump before it could sink its claws into me, infecting me with its decomposition and melancholy.

A Dark So Heavy

You know me. Deep down in the depths of your psyche, you know me very well. I am the thing lurking at the very edges of your world, where reality and illusion blur together. I am the ravenous creature that fed on your fears as a child – the monster in the closet; the bogeyman hiding under your bed, waiting to snatch you when your defenses were at their lowest. You didn’t realize what I was then, did you? Only when you were older… wiser… and more alone than ever did it dawn on you what I was. But you couldn’t verbalize it – couldn’t find the words to describe what was happening.

You have always thought me a monster, and I am. I am your personal monster. Your parents always told you I wasn’t real, but you never believed them. You could feel my cold icy fingers reaching for your heart in the darkness of midnight. You could feel the weight of my presence pressing down on you like that of a lover… a lover more concerned with your pain than your pleasure.

You cried tears into the pillow after your parents left you, assuring you there wasn’t anything there – that small pillow with the daisy-patterned pillowcase that your mother fluffed for you every night before kissing you good night. Once they left, you could feel me invading, and the tears would flow, staining the cotton case through to the pillow itself. I liked those tears. No offering could have been more delicious. I licked them off your pillow… from your cheeks, your lips, your eyes. Savoring their salty, fear-tinged taste, I licked you to sleep.

You should thank me. I was the only one who would ever touch you. Even when everyone else claimed to love you, I was still the only one to touch you. Every time you touched yourself, I was there – hiding in your fingers, wrapped around your skin like the lingering scent of a rose. Want to be touched now? There’s no one else who will do it – it’s just you and me. Together.

It was more fun as you got older. Feeding on your fear, that is. More pain – from your friends, your family, but never from me. I would devour you once they had finished destroying the few dreams you’d built around you. Sucking out the hope with deep strokes of my tongue. I made my home in that heavy pit of emptiness within your heart. Grown sick of closets, that’s where I felt my most comfortable – finally one with you.

Did you feel me there? Could you feel my icy touch when the one you wished to love pushed you away? Just a little push at first – a nudge, really. Then harder when you didn’t go… harder and harder, words and actions cutting you to the quick and searing your soul. Again! Again! It was good for me. Was it good for you too?

Feeling a little strange now? Don’t blame me. I wasn’t the one who placed the razor in your hand. It was slick for me though… and so sweet. The cuts from the razors left a small tinge of burgundy and that salty, acrid taste of blood. The taste was a million times sweeter than that of your tears – blood that told of the emptiness welling just beneath your breast.

You surprised me, you know, when you started to hit yourself. Just a few smacks here and there – your shoulders, your head – in an attempt to drive me away. But you can’t drive me out in such a cowardly way. So go ahead coward, bash your head against the wall; beat your shoulders; bruise your chest. Only one thing will drive me away, and that would take guts. And inverting into yourself – into that pit I made – is a coward’s way out. And it makes your blood sweeter. The smell is exquisite – blood tainted with orchids and vanilla – and I only grow stronger. I’m like an undertow – so dark, so heavy, and so cold.

What do you expect now? Standing there naked as you are, razor in hand. Do you want me to take that first cut? I won’t, you know. I’ll make you inflict that upon yourself. But when that first stroke of the razor does come, I’ll be ready. I’ll be there to lick at the blood as it drips to the floor, feeding and taking away the tears from your lips.

Trapped in my chains of loneliness and sadism, I’m all you have.

It’s almost complete, that special place deep within that only I can touch. It’s the part of you that knows. No longer lurking under beds, behind the dresser, or in the closet, I am with you – the only one who loves you. I’m the only one who aches to touch your lips, feel your breath, kiss your skin. I will feed forever with you as we are bound by a dark so heavy.