Apocalips: Palace of Exile (Inspired by True Life Events)

Copyright © 2016 by S.B.WILLIAMS.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Unless otherwise indicated, all scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®). Copyright ©2001 by Crossway Bibles, a division of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Rev. date: 11/04/2016

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

751675

TO: JESS WILLIAMS—my love.

In the dark of night, those faces they haunt me. I wish you were so close to me. Yes I wish you were by my side.

—INXS

2 Timothy 3:1-5, 8-9

Godlessness in the Last Days

But understand this, that in the last days there will come times of difficulty. For people will be lovers of self, lovers of money, proud, arrogant, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, heartless, unappeasable, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not loving good, treacherous, reckless, swollen with conceit, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God, having the appearance of godliness, but denying its power. Avoid such people. (ESV)

The doomsday derelict wishes the world to end.

He unleashes his prophecy through potent paragraphs aimed at the people gathered at the transportation center.

His mouth rains fire and brimstone.

He says the sun will hand the world its apocalypse.

He says death is only for the un-living—the lifeless.

The lifeless, boarding busses and trains shuttling them off to dead-end jobs…dead end homes.

He says the sun will deliver this death.

Not the son as in Jesus Christ but that star burning at the center of our solar system.

I watch. I listen.

This man had a fixed gaze. His mouth is the warning instrument of their destruction.

The sun giveth and the sun taketh away!!!!

His madness reveals a radiant, yet euphoric delirium.

I sense his conviction boiling in his skull. The sermonic prose, intoxicating, with more clarity then the church hour rants from any pulpit.

I watched him. I listened.

I locate the sun….not the Nazarene but the sun. The blazing star that hangs motionless in the sky.

Its enormity and energy are forces not to be challenged.

I imagine all the death it would cause in its absence.

Maybe the derelict had something—spoke a truth beyond the flocks’ comprehension.

A flock that knows everything about misunderstanding—that knows everything about misinterpretation, manipulation–fabrication for self-gain and power.

But everything in existence depends on that star.

The derelict knows it. I know it.

Come to think of it, maybe the derelict had something.

The sun giveth and taketh away.

The seasons…spring forth to pass slowly, surrendering to a death winter.

We’re thrust into a mystic cycle called life.

Psycho-sexually repressed clergymen, philosophic monsters and narcissistic teachers don’t understand.

Why is it we keep sowing generations of narrow-minded followers to cult worship?

This is the song of the unman, living their tiny lives, minute specks lost in a comfortable oblivion.

This derelict that daily commits to regurgitating his prophetic wisdoms must be applauded for his loose sanity.

Bishops sell their rants at least once a week.

Raging reverends, drunk on God, the Son, and Holy Spirit all have their say. But the derelict ingests the sun for his communion.

Not Jesus Christ, but a star. He is on fire…slowly falling into himself, dying.

When the star goes, we all fade…vanish.

The sun will not save us.

The sun will not be nailed to wood beams in a humble flesh sacrifice.

The sun will not delay its dying to promise a thief eternal life in paradise.

Perhaps 2,000 years of misinterpretation has kept us in mortal darkness.

I surrendered to the derelict a few minutes of time before pressing on in what he would call my apocalyptic existence. The derelict has something….a belief. He owns an ounce of conviction that far outweighs my skepticism. To think, this majestic phenomenon of a world pretends to understand…like God, some god, who created everything but will only save a worthy few.

The rest of us, left behind to sort out the comfortable hell of life.

The sun giveth and taketh away.

And for the elect, I’ll bet in that heaven they too will have their turn to fuck up the afterlife.

They too will be waiting for a sun…all in time.

"Did you see the purple stars last night?

I have one trapped underneath my pillow.

And I know at least 25 people who will not see God when the world comes to an end.

DON’T YOU TOUCH ME! DON’T YOU…

Is the sky really blue or do we just call it that?

And those white things up there look like cotton balls.

Did you know God cleans the sky with cotton balls? Dirty…dirty sky.

I SAID—DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME!

I can read thoughts but I have trouble with words.

Don’t believe them. Don’t believe them—don’t believe the ones who say they’re righteous—don’t believe what they say or do. They will hurt you in the end—hurt us in the end.

Did you know that we die…we die…we’re gonna die alone?

My star is such a beautiful purple—wanna see—huh—wanna see?

But I don’t want you to touch it.

SSSSHHH! Be quiet.

My Purple star says, ‘Number 26, you’re going to die alone. You won’t see God.’"

"Why do you do that—that—looking up—pointing up when you reference, God?

God ain’t up there, son.

Not in some air space, some celestial realm, star or planet.

You do know that don’t you?

People do that pointing thing all the time—up, up and away!!!

Pointing up—at what? No.

Thought Jesus Christ said something about God being inside of you—your heart.

About searching your heart for God.

Next time you reference, God—point to yourself.

Got that?—cause he’s right inside of you, brother.

Right there."

"I don’t think God is finished —you know when he created us. I mean, he created man in His likeness, right? Well, since we don’t fully understand who or what God is, than I’m sure it’s going to take a considerable amount of time to evolve into that likeness. And I don’t concern myself too much with the afterlife, with the rewards of immortality like all these religious fiends who run rampant trying to suppress true living with their scribblings. Love and treat others fairly—the only codes you need to live by. The rest will take care of itself.

I believe our creation is a long process, slowed down when we fall away from Love. Science is just another method of trying to understand creation, unraveling God so that we can know exactly who we are. Why is it that we complicate things—why must we?"

"Yes. No one is innocent. But what happens when the innocence is taken, raped from your spirit?

How could they do it?

A family member, a cousin, and a close friend of the family…

How could they do it?

I was such a little girl—their victim.

I must have been enticing to them, to their will to lust, to prey on me.

They violated, ravaged our love bond, and fed their inner craving and sexual explorations.

I was touched in unspeakable ways by my cousin.

A bud of innocence that should’ve been preserved and willingly opened to that special someone, someday, lost.

As the pornography played on the television upstairs, a reenactment took place in the basement where he took me.

The wrong happened.

Then over and over again in the darkest recesses of my mind the episodes would play—the touching.

Repeated physically and mentally throughout the years.

I become recreational flesh for them.

Transformations were the result of…life collisions.

A chain reaction of dressing provocatively—exposing my body through clothing that accentuated my developing curves.

Revealing body parts by carefully selecting what would catch the eyes of the opposite sex.

Because they should want to want me.

Because this is what they’ve shown me they want.

Next it was a friend of the family, his hands reaching into the bottom of my bathing suit, separating my sex to insert a finger.

Always the lustful explorations—going deeper to traumatize.

Always disorienting my mental health, twisting and tainting my perception of my sexuality.

I was tainted.

I reflect back as an adult on the time I ventured to do laundry, braless, with a see through top—my pubescent breasts exposed, praying for a man to notice.

Yes, I was promiscuous.

Yes, I would do the things I’d been introduced to and learned to satisfy my lovers over the years.

But I’d never forget what happened when I was a little girl, because it shaped me.

They shaped me into that temptress.

Years pass.

Did they forget what they had done—so long ago, the yesterdays?

When we’re at family functions, I ask myself, ‘do they ever think of what they’ve done to me?’

Does it ever cross their mind when they rest their eyes upon me? ‘Do they ever think of how their immoral actions could’ve affected my future relationships?

How I think?

How I feel and function from day to day’?

So I discovered what becomes of the girls on the receiving end of forbidden touch.

She learns to fear more and to trust less—not even herself.

Her choices, reckless as she abandons moral reason.

She believes she’s an object of desire, and to ONLY be desired and not valued, because those who were there to protect her from the fucking animals, instead salivated and sank their teeth in her.

Her esteem penetrated.

My esteem.

How could they do this to me?

How sensitive I’ve become—now that I have a daughter.

And how I’d kill a motherfucker who thought about an inappropriate touch, or stare at my daughter with those eyes.

I know those eyes—well.

I must protect her. I must shield her.

Those savage relatives, the suggestive television programs and music laced with their innuendos.

I see she has an interest, a serious curiosity.

And it scares me.

Because she can’t become that girl—the girl who loses her innocence and spends the rest of her life trying to find it."

"What do you say now that she’s whorishly dressed? Detaching herself from the little girl Daddy held in his eyes—where she’d turn hostage that fine spring.

Daughters shouldn’t be allowed to grow—they should be majestically bound to quirky intellectual questions about the sky, stars and God.

Should lose themselves in play and soft angelic sleep.

Should immortalize their father as a heroic clown—who always tortures her funny bone whenever he suddenly cracks a joke at dinnertime.

But their freedom comes in 28 1/4 day cycles.

The heart becomes the superficial chalkboard for the masses to leave their mark.

Suddenly, memories of Daddy’s proud smiles are drowned by amplified voices pointing out her flaws.

Female products hidden under beauty magazine publications—blood rag evidence, preaching lies of being ready for the world.

Puberty hardly has grace periods—none devoid of inconsequential wisdom.

And random fuck-ups feed the swelling hormones, raging to be mated with chance.

Time is reduced to blinks and now she’s a teen—ferociously budding into the rose scented woman.

Daughter have I ever told you, that you live in a world where you’re rarely judged by the radiance and resilience of your petals?

Thorns will make you who you are.

You’ve baited the line prematurely with false feminism and caught sweaty, semen cocks, ravenous to rape for your attention.

I’ll watch you lose yourself through the changes—the way cosmetic life becomes—the suggestive fuck seductions of appeal and innuendo.

One day you’ll reach the familiar depths we wiser ones have found—among a sea of befriended executioners, that will bruise you into crude maturity.

And the only attire that will matter is the light that embraces your spirit through these experiences.

Through this, always remember, Daddy loves you."

On the nape of her neck the word Beautiful" was beautifully tattooed.

Maybe she didn’t hear that word enough as a child.

Maybe her special someone never thought so—refused to utter the word to describe her. Maybe she was the direct opposite—unbecoming. Maybe—once upon a time—maybe—the word was lost or rather stopped short on her mother’s lips. Maybe—once upon a time—maybe.

Some words never see the light of day.

People need reminders of just what they’re striving to be but more or less reminded of what they were—need something to propel them forward.

Some need more self-love to form their words, their song.

Rely on visual stimulation. Look at the brush patterns on the soul’s canvas.

We’re all decorated with paint strokes, those scars—remains of both memories wanted—those still unresolved, floating in some wild tide. It all holds a certain beauty often unexplained, rarely investigated.

We just live to tell the story—sometimes trapped in the chemistry of a breath.

Seldom we experience reaching the rainbow’s end.

Fewer dive into the treasure-pot of learning for the greater good.

But we learn—something, without being bathed in gold.

Hey, Beautiful.

Is that mark a self-reminder of some void—something traumatizing—something tragic—the yucky medicine swallowed that helped close the wound, finally?

Is that mark narcissistic, self-destructive vanity, the virus, plaguing lustful-fuck women who seek acceptance by the dark souls of men—who never appreciate the essence of what’s beautiful?

Hey Beautiful.

Do you see beauty in all things—in the deplorable, the wretched?

I hope so.

Because all of us have been mishandled, dropped or broken at least once.

Let’s say our beautiful whole is the equivalent to the sum of less than attractive parts.

The Beautiful Hell of it all is trying to understand the cracks that keep us wrestling questions to answers that lay rusting in life’s salvage yard.

Hey Beautiful.

Don’t tattoo your heart ugly.

Crave to beautify the world around you.

Etch that word on your soul till it drips off your tongue—knowing that you are… Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow."

"Every second of my adult life has been about them.

Daily investing valuable ‘ME time’ into thinking about what they could be thinking.

Wondering what they’ll say next about me in conversation. As a child into my early teens it didn’t seem to matter much—their ideals, thoughts, words, their reason to point or stare. It all got lost in the flowing streams of innocence and being a free spirit. That’s my excuse.

Now something’s changed.

More time is spent in the mirror—probing—second-guessing.

More of their venom, and me ingesting it all. Anxiety—I worry a lot more—trying to fit in, make an impact.

More emotional strain when striving for their ‘perfection’—I must emulate the trendsetters.

It’s their expectations that keep me reaching for naked validation. Doesn’t matter the time Mommy, Daddy, invested to help build my self-esteem—pouring the foundation for where I should place the building blocks of maturity.

Because FRIENDS that have committed to UNFRIEND ME matters.

Their comments and criticisms become convictions of inadequacy.

Romances with depression quickly spiral into a routine gangbang of suicidal tendencies.

I’ve decided there’s only relief in transformation—becoming what they want.

Funny isn’t it?

I do all that and still I’m reminded of how fake and unwelcomed I am in their circles.

I will never please them.

I’m not prepared to handle this—so someone has to pay.

You know…I hate them for teaching me how to hate myself.

I think about them—but differently now.

My hate is the purest light burning inside.

I can think about that while figuring out ways to hurt them."

"You and I have a wonderful relationship.

Yes we do, sweetheart. Yes we do.

I thank God that you and I can talk openly about things.

You don’t have to hide anything…do you hear me? ANYTHING.

I know, I’m your father and it’s not normal to talk about the personal things that may come up in life, especially as a teenager—the peer pressure in school—boys and… well, I’m sure you know what I’m getting at.

ANYTHING!

You can trust me.

Now, we’re gonna go to the mall and do some shopping.

I know you see all these girls walking around half naked—with their breasts all squeezed into little bras and their rear-ends exposed with their jeans and tights—their tattoos and weird, funky body piercing.

That’s not the essence of womanhood, of femininity.

That’s sexually suggestive expression—downright whoredom.

Do you like that sort of thing?

I hope you don’t find that appealing, sweetheart—that sort of clothing you see on girls—females that want others to notice them.

Decent females with self-confidence, pride, class and some self-esteem don’t have to put themselves on display like that. Good girls don’t look for wrong attention—or should I say, the attention that will only hurt them in the end.

And whatever hurts you, will hurt me.

UNDERSTAND?

GOOD.

And the sad thing is that most of these girls don’t love themselves. They think freedom to dress like a bitch in heat is liberating? Sorry….I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.

Sweetheart it’s true, they don’t care enough about themselves to realize they’re abusing their bodies because their minds are broken, underdeveloped.

There…you see that girl over there?

Yes her…with her butt hanging out the top of her pants, wearing that see through top with the lacey bra, lifting her breasts?

LORDY…LORDY…you can see her underwear!

How old do you think she is, huh? 14, 13 years old?

Now what statement is she trying to make, coming outside dressed that way?

What is she trying to tell the world—that "I’m a slut, a piece of meat waiting to be propositioned by some guy who’s only looking to tear my innocence to shreds?"

The bitch…

Sorry.

That’s not going to be you, sweetheart.

Not my daughter.

Go ahead; take one hard look at that whore.

Okay, I’m sorry. I don’t know if she’s actually a whore but I bet she’s not a virgin, pure.

She’s certainly not pure—I’ll bet my bank roll on that.

Do you see—do you see that triflin’ shit?

Sorry. So, so sorry, sweetheart.

But I know you’re going to make me a proud father.

Thank God I have a daughter that can tell me anything—and you can.

Just promise me you don’t end up like that girl and most of these bitches you’ll see in the mall.

Did you know I met your mother at the mall?"

She was only 14.

Her imagination only drew sketches of the American dream.

It was a period difficult to navigate life’s drastic turns.

Her shoulders, sadly slumped forward while she took the test.

She stares at the symbol emerging on the magic paper.

Positive.

Pregnant.

Mother.

But nothing about life’s equation prepared her for that role. In eight months and some weeks, life would hand her a series of physical and emotional changes. Her mother always told her to be aware of life altering decisions. Always told her to deal with age appropriate matters.

How does a young girl become a mother in the second phase of childhood?

She went to great lengths to convince herself the conception was Holy. After all a