crazy maddie haunts my wall
by Iggy Sarducci
maddie killed herself at last, blew her head off with that gun she bought, but even then her soul was not at rest. her spirit continued to flit nervously through the atmosphere.
a handful of mourners met at midnight like a pack of vampires in the abandoned bedding warehouse where we once joined for diego’s wake. we were there to attempt to put that spirit to rest, i imagine.
no one was comfortable speaking to the group. none of us had been on good terms with maddie at her exit. none of us could claim she was the positive spirit that kept a smile in our hearts when we needed it, as folks had said of diego. no one knew what to say. had she been a friend to any of us? at times, yes, to each of us, but in the end, no, not even to one of us.
when i began to speak i stumbled in my confusion and turmoil. i remarked on her fire and passion which had sparked me, her unique nature, her sharp, quick wit, her sense of intrigue, and her blazing genuineness about coarse subjects.
but then i broke. i was compelled to describe her as she was. maddie was one of the rawest souls I had ever known. she lived on the edge of chaos awash in harsh vengeant bitterness and paranoia she was unwilling to make peace with her skeletons. she’d slash her flesh and turn herself inside out bleeding before she’d apologize for her caustic hatred.
she was too volatile to go on at that high-spun pitch for much longer. in truth we all knew it but there was nothing any of us could do. she controlled her own destiny and in the end, you can burn only so many friendships before you no longer feel at home in this world. when you are alone on your cold cement floor there are only so many fragile psychic masks you can wear and smash and piece back together before your clay is too shattered to be anything but charged dust strewn across the concrete.
after the ceremony, everyone looked at me like i was nuts to have said what i said. maddie’s loose spirit would haunt my crux, they all knew. punish me for my honesty with razorblades, spit, and twisted affection.
i wound up arguing with her molester father over her inheritance but i wanted her notebooks and her sketches, not the miniature nude self-sculptures of her body wrapped in snakes, chains, and crucifixes. i especially wanted that self-image she’d sketched in coal with streaks of purple across the eyes, wildly tinted, beautiful, and sad.
i wound up settling for a glossy color photocopy of it and now, five years down the road, that image of her face hangs on the wall in the studio where i do my writing and my own sketch work.
from the wall she continues to sneer at the power of my false image of stability. she continues to ignite beautiful sparks in my rabid madness. her shimmering dimple continues to smirk from that flimsy tattered sheet. her stinging critical eyes continue to pierce me and force me to face the harsh edge of humanity in my works.
This work is protected by copyright by Iggy Sarducci. All rights reserved.No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. For more writing by Iggy Sarducci, please see http://hubpages.com/profile/Iggy+Sarducci.