Depressalin: Chapter One “Displacement”

And here’s One, for what it’s worth. Once again, I feel it can be exapnded… but here you go. I also need to figure out to tranfser the spacing better. Goddamn… it’s barely readable for fuck’s sake.



I don’t like this place at all. It makes me wonder what I’m here for. — [:SITD:] “Displaced

“You don’t seem very depressed,” said the rather fetching woman across from me at the club. She was around forty and looked very fit and pretty. Someone I should be into. Someone I could take home. Someone I could love, if for just a little while.

“Oh, I am,” I replied over the thumping music, “I am. I just have this vodka here making me feel a little bit better. It’s all really artificial, you know, ‘cause I don’t really give a fuck about anything anymore—not even myself. Except for my kids, of course. And even then I wonder about that. I don’t know what the fuck is going on in my head any more than I know about panda repopulation.”

“What? You said something about vodka?”

Thanks, loud music and booze. Probably better that way. My voice is really low, anyway, and if I don’t make it carry I just sound like this rumbling thing spouting off a few discernable words here and there, like “vodka” and “fuck”.

“Well, y’know, Steve,” she continued, “I like you. You’re a good guy with a lot going for you. You should totally Facebook me… you got my name, right?”

Facebook? Seriously? This chick is around five years older than me and drops the social networking card right off the bat? Where the fuck have I been this last decade?

Oh, right: Married. And the only thing I really used social networking for was comics or writing industry stuff and a journal only my friends could read.

“I feel it’s better we go back to your place so I can fuck away all the memories I have of me and my wife.”


“I said, that’d be great! I’ll drop you a message once we’ve friended each other and maybe we can get together for some tea or something!”

“That’d be great, Steve! You know, I really do already like you. I look forward to hearing from you.” And then she kissed me on the cheek, yelled something like “Thanks for the drinks!” and then she rejoined her friends.

Another thirty minutes of my life. Fucking. Wasted.

Maybe not. I mean, she was obviously into me and all that crap, but I just wasn’t feeling it. No, ever since about a month before when the woman I loved more than anything told me to get out and that she had stopped loving me, I’d been a little dead inside.

Okay, a lot dead inside.

Okay, okay: I took Inside out to a forest, made it dig its own grave in the frozen earth with its bare hands, warming itself only with its sobbing tears, shot it thirty-seven times in the balls and head, and then I dropped it into the hole and pissed on what was left of it.

Then I called its family and told them I was coming for them next.

One thing was for sure… I made it a personal military objective to get wasted myself that night.

When Charon left me I was instantly destroyed. And unlike past relationships, I couldn’t just drink and fuck her away. I couldn’t move to somewhere else and cease communications. No, we have kids together. Two beautiful little boys. I was there for their births, cut their cords, told their mother how much I loved her and would never stop loving her—you know, the usual horseshit. But I meant every fucking word, every feeling, every motion. I loved her more than life itself… and when she said she wanted me to go and move on, when she said so insincerely she just wanted to be friends… that love became a living hell. It was a hell there was no escape from. It was a hell that gnawed from the inside of my ribcage like a hungry beast desperately trying to free itself from its own personal hell. It was… It was worse even than Detroit, what can I say?

The real painful part was knowing just how transparently sadistic Charon was being. She made it seem like this was something we both really, really felt to our very cores; that we needed it. I had no idea what her motives were on an intellectual level, but I knew in my gut what she was doing. She was setting up her own motorcycle built from dead baby hearts so she could skin Steve McQueen, wear him like a clown suit and jump that bike over the fence to freedom. And goddamn, did it ever work. Pure, sick genius borne of a girl who was always mocked for being stupid and a spaz by her peers growing up and had made it her life goal to leave them all in the dust, choking on her success. After that she took Husband Number One out for a quick spin and tossed him like a ninja disposing the body of some drunken prom queen in a dumpster. Point is: I, as Husband Number Two, should have expected it. I should have known. My nearly insane love for my own intelligence and wit doomed me from the first second of everything. I was immolated by my own arrogance. Crippled permanently by my own conceit.

Jesus fucking Christ, catharsis hurts like a million suns imploding in my ass.

I suppose that’s the genius thing about being a writer. Even when life crams this hideous, evil shit sandwich down my pie-hole, I can write about it and maybe even intrigue and entertain others with the tales of my bitter triumphs and glorious follies. My life has always been about one or the other, with very little in between. I’m either doing great and stressing about it, or I’m on my face in a puddle of my own puke and enjoying every second of it.

This is where what I call “depressalin” comes in. It’s a mix of severe depression and a burst of adrenaline. All of it, all at once. Awake and asleep, hungry and full, I always have depressalin coursing through my veins. My brain is a bio-chemical power plant run and maintained by mad train engineers whose favourite pastime is playing canasta with rabid marmots.

Sometimes my depressalin levels are compounded and exponentially increased by incredible amounts of alcohol. And by “sometimes” I mean “often”. Especially now that I’ve been thrust out into the world; a strange cave fish being tossed into a photography class and being told to be the top of its class. You see, when Charon and I were together, I was a “house husband”. This meant I stayed home with the kids. And so for almost seven years I did just that. Stayed at home and raised the boys while she worked an involving corporate job. Then, about two years ago, we moved from Seattle to Victoria, British Columbia, in Canada. This meant I was in a new place, knew no one here, and if things in the relationship went south, then I was supremely fucked.

That’s exactly what happened, too. Things went south, waaaay south. And my relationship with Charon swiftly fell apart. Those little things that annoyed us back in the States were exacerbated here in the city of Newly Weds and Nearly Deads. It took just over two years, but Charon finally said “fuck it”. And to be honest, she said “fuck it” almost a year before the divorce; so, really, it only took one motherfucking year for things to go to shit. It didn’t help that the vicious harpy she calls a mother got sick and her parents moved in with us. It also didn’t help that Charon’s job, one that was supposed to be better once she was here, fucked her left, right and center. Then there was the stress of the kids, with our older boy being autistic; and even the stress of her cocker spaniel, which woke up all hours of the night to bark and piss everywhere and had more mental issues than even the most fucked up reality show star. I didn’t help things either, as I was working on a writing career, mainly focusing on comic books, and I was depressed and moody.

Our sex life was the first tragic causality. While I’m not the most perverted lad on the planet, being rather vanilla and non-experimental, I started to get frustrated. Charon was never one for doing anything more than three positions; her favourite being me on top and just grinding her. Boring if you’re a guy, honestly. No talking, no real noises, just her with her eyes closed, deep in concentration and pleasure.

It was pretty creepy, now that I think on it.

Anyways, even though sex was nothing all that awesome, I still missed it when we weren’t doing it towards the end of things. I really liked her boobs, too…

I digress. Point is our sex life seriously nose-dived. We’re talking Stuka bombing runs by a drunken cyborg from the future here. In the last year or so of our relationship, Sharon and I had sex twice and she said right afterwards during Time One that she just wasn’t into it and that I was “pretty lame, honestly”.

I know what you’re thinking: “And her dumping you was a BAD thing?”

We’d never been all that intimate. She’s not a kisser, really, and hates holding hands. This made it really hard for me to gauge where she was at emotionally… not like I could ask her, as she felt talking about a relationship always led to bad things. As you might expect, I would eventually I would get frustrated and lash out at her verbally.

I can be a real dick.

No, really. When I say “lashed out at her verbally”, I mean I opened up the floodgates of Pure Asshole Steve, annihilating her and countless civilisations.

Around May of the previous year she told me on her way to drop me off at the comic shops to Free Comic Book Day that she didn’t think she was in love with me anymore. I was immediately devastated, and a little deserving since I was badgering her about how I suspected she was seeing someone else. Later I would discover my gut instincts were very correct, but  at the time I didn’t know if I really believed that had happened and I basically felt, in some fucked up way, that I could just get her to open up. And open up she did, and until December I did everything in my power to try to make her happy—except curb my occasional dickishness.

I could never stop being a dick, you see.

It’s most likely because I knew deep down our relationship was over. I was merely helping things along, making everything crumble faster and faster and faster until you could have built a particle accelerator out of what I had achieved.

I felt the name “Charon” would be an excellent replacement for her real name, by the way. I can’t be going around writing a book about my life and have real names, right? I’m a writer, not Uncle Scrooge’s building-sized bank vault.

The name is fitting. She’s the boatman who ferried me to the life after my Life. Thanks, honey.

I do feel a lot better and less dickish after cutting gluten out of my diet, though. I’ve been celiac for years—who knew?



3 Responses to “Depressalin: Chapter One “Displacement””

  1. Ink for the Ink God!
    Why forget when you can fester, and draw from a well of hate and loathing?

  2. Ha! And oddly, there’s no hate and loathing now. But it sure makes for a good yarn… the previous hate and loathing, I mean. 🙂

  3. […] your convenience, here are the other chapters in order: Chapter Zero Chapter One Chapter Six  Chapter Seven “I’m Not Really a Writer” Blog Entry: Just Ask Any […]

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