I should have named Virgil “Cash.” Then I could say I have Cash at the house. But I was looking for the path out of Hell, so I got Virgil. Only keeping Hell “LIT” means burning money. Books, boobs, and the boys. Braxton’s Benjamins, Virgil’s Vittles.
Wednesday, July 24, 2024
Meditation 023 ~Braxton’s Benjamins, Virgil’s Vittles~
Bless Me, Echo,
For I have sinned. I didn’t take care of my son. I don’t take care of myself. And Virgil lives with it.
How do I know? Because he stayed beside me all night for once. I guess. Protecting his meal ticket. Braxton was protecting his best friend. An unfair comparison, Echo. Noted.
But my heart is still empty since I lost Braxton. Empty? It’s still broken. And again, that’s unfair when it comes to Virgil. But as the song goes, “But love is a long, long road.”
Inspector, am I being petty? Ha-Ha, Tom Petty! Anything beats being scared, like last night. And I keep saying it… Whenever I feel frightened and/or fiendish, I think of the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Being born is the second. Braxton’s death, first.
My son died on an empty stomach. What cash I had ended my boy’s suffering.
When I was young… More like “When We Were Young.” Sometimes, I would starve myself on purpose. My pathetic hunger strikes because I wanted to die. B wanted to live.
I remember getting back from the hospital once and my Ma telling me that Braxton was nearly out of food and his water was dirty. I wasn’t ashamed of wanting to die. No. My shame is that Braxton suffered because I wasn’t taking care of myself. I was/am his father, dammit! Keeping my son alive meant that I had to stay alive. Then Braxton wasn’t.
Inspector, it should have ended there. Only an hour after Braxton was “euthanized,” I was buying a picture frame. And then in a BBQ drive-thru at my Ma’s behest. Sigh.
You see, Echo, thinking about my empty/broken heart from losing my “soul pet” means I’m not thinking about my stomach. But I’ll pick up BBQ on Thursday. If I’m not broke from the auto shop. One place is closer to me, but I like the piggie potato from the other place. Why don’t I look and scream, “Feed your head!” Uh, I’m reading Morning Star.
Yeah, and Darrow is escaping from a prison where he was nearly starved to death. Inspector, I’m empty of a conscience, too, with how I’ve been writing these days. Seriously. There’s money and time, which I have none of, which explains my exhaustion, Inspector Echo.
But Virgil has needs. Food, finding meds, and friendship. Living for Braxton’s Benjamins, Virgil’s Vittles.
1270 Days Without B III, Day 711 of Virgil’s Arrival
B.L.M. Braxton’s Life Matters,
Will