HEZEKIAH, tobias elick

[tobias]

now the walls have closed the doors
wanna drag me down for more
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU
i42.tinypic.com/33wvbq8.png400X200 of character here

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TOBIAS ELICK HEZEKIAH
toby. 158 (is) 31 (looks). male. heterosexual. ghost. darkness.
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I BITE MY TONGUE SO

Preface.

Bittersweet. A paradox. Life was always such a bitch, it was never just good, and it was never just bad it always took on both of those qualities at the same time making something very fucked up. You wonder how I came up with these lines, being the unfeeling jerk that I am, but it's in my blood. Even a century and a half ago I was a writer, though obviously now it has become more contemporary, if the profanities are anything to go by. And right now, sitting here, in the shapeless haunting form that I am, I can materialise my fingers to lay ink onto paper, I can make my history known, worthwhile, because a life like mine must be told. Must not be repeated. I know that. And I'm sure you'll think that soon too. My name is Tobias Hezekiah, and you must know me, you must know this.

Chapter One.

Here we must start, one hundred and fifty eight years ago, I was born. My father having been a slave plantation owner, and my mother a fair white coloured maiden. I don’t know if they were in love, or maybe they just had me because they wanted something to fulfil their lives with, to carry on the blood line, or whatever else. So, I was raised racist and hating people of colour. I was raised superior to all others, and my father taught me from the age of three, that if you’re not in power you are … nothing. It was all and everything, and if someone shows signs of any sort of superiority, I had to show them that I had more. However, I wasn’t able to do this at first, being a merely fragile child, too scared to do arguing or fighting, too young to deceive. I believe that this would be rather hard for any three year old. But it did not end there, at any sign of weakness I was treated like one of my father’s Negro slaves, beaten until I could hardly move, so by the age of seven I believed that I was superior, a God’s gift, and took the whole world for granted.

Chapter Two.

I treated the black kids the same way. I would see them, and anger would explode in me, I would get my stick and beat them till they could hardly move. I didn’t even flinch when they begged me to stop, to stop hurting them. Soon, they fell quiet because they knew that it would all end quicker if they just didn’t say a single fucking word. And oh how right they were, because I was a careless asshole, and they suffered. I made sure that they felt every hit to every bone. When I was eleven years old, I killed the first black child on my father’s plantation. Sure, I was hard and cruel, but that had been my first kill. I was scared, terrified, but my father sat me down, and told me that it was okay. That he had deserved to die. I cried myself to sleep that night, but the next morning I woke up hard as stone. Not even a mention of the night before.

Chapter Three.

When I was sixteen, I raped the first girl. She was dark skinned, her name had been Olivia. She was so sad and innocent looking, and so, so tempting. I told my father this ashamedly, that I wanted to fuck a slave. He looked at me for a long moment then he smiled and said cheerily. ‘Then take what you want.’ He had said, so I just thanked him and left. I found her with the horses, she was brushing the lovely mane of Stallion, a lovely russet coloured horse. It kind of took me a second to think of why we discriminated against brown coloured people and not horses, but that thought was quickly pushed aside as I gripped her shoulders. I heard her gasp of fear before I covered her mouth with my hand, and dragged her to the wall. That was when I raped her, her eyes filled with tears, and when I was done I spat at her and looked at her in disgust, wiping my hands on my clothes as to get the filth away. I left and never looked at her again, having gotten what I want. And even until this day, I get what I want.

Chapter Four.

I had a few high class friends. Jarvis for example, was the perfect example of a high status boy that was a bad influence on you. At dinner parties he was a charmer, and flirted with all the girls that I didn’t have the guts to flirt with. He would take them upstairs, and come back twenty minutes later fixing his clothes with a smirk on his face. I was so jealous of him, blond hair blue eyes. All the girls wanted him, and I looked on in the sidelines as he took what he wanted. But then I remembered what my father had taught me with the slaves. To take power, to take control, or I would be nothing. With Jarvis in the picture, I could not get what I wanted. However, an intention to break his legs had turned into another murder. But now, I was even more scared so I hid the body. You do what you gotta do to get somewhere in society. I threw the body in the river, and never thought about it. Then I took the lime light, at twenty years old, I was on top of the world.

Chapter Five.

As a young man of status, I often slept around. The promiscuous life style had always been for me. However, then I laid eyes on one Isabella Salean. She was beautiful, strong, and just what I craved at the time. I was deceptively nice, and caring, and loving, willing her to fall in love with me because I was lying to myself that I had feelings for her. I loved to kiss her, and hear her laugh. In my mind I kept wondering what the fuck I thought I was doing. I showed her beautiful rose gardens, I didn’t let her anywhere near the slaves. In this process of a building romance, my father passed away leaving the slave plantation for me to take care of. Next year Isabella and I were married. I proposed to her in moonlight, asking her to make her mine forever. She agreed lovingly. I never thought I’d seen a sight so beautiful as her eyes that shone at the proposition.

Chapter Six.

It did not last long. Sex with the same woman got boring after a while, and I wanted more. That was when I met Veronica. She was my mistress and very good in bed. She was sweet, and loved to be caressed. Her touches were like jolts of electricity and I loved every moment of my promiscuous life. That was until the slave plantation started losing money. That was when I turned to the drink. The lovely Bella had objected to this, she wished to stop me by shouting and screaming at what I was doing. She had no clue about Veronica. A year into the marriage was the first time I beat her up. I had been drunk and had found her to be particularly whiney that night. Her voice was just the catalyst to my actions, and I slapped her hard across the face. She hit me back, so I kicked her. She no longer hit me. She looked at me with detest in her eyes, and I just went back to my drink and to Veronica.

Chapter Seven.

After I got bored of Veronica, and life had become fucking shit, I turned worse. I beat the soul that was Isabella almost every day; she no longer hid her bruises. I refused to let her out of the house in such a degrading state. She had been twenty-four then. We hadn’t had sex in a while, and I no longer got aroused by her. Her bruises. Her weakness. You had to take control to be something… she was nothing. I thought the world of her, she proved me wrong, then I thought of the drink, and realised it had become my world. A week after she turned twenty-five, I beat her to death. Not intentionally of course, but through a blinding surge of anger I split her head open. She got buried in a coliseum, an angel looking after her soul. I was sorry to see her die, and that was the first time since I was eleven that I had cried. Sure I loved her no longer, but I had loved her and she didn’t deserve that from my hands.

Chapter Eight.

Drink became my best friend. I seeked sanctuary in it every single day. It gave me liquid confidence. I never fell in love again, but I fucked. I treated the slaves’ worse every day. They deserved it. They were scum, and they made me feel better about myself. I had the power. I was something. When I was thirty three, I died. You may want to know how. I’ll tell you. I was walking drunkenly back home, a bottle in hand. All I see is blurriness and the alcohol that will be running down my throat. However, I knew that I was hallucinating, because the fog that greeted me formed a person. I staggered back in horror as Jarvis’s face came back to haunt me. I cried out in fear, his teeth were glinting, his form solid now. Those blue eyes blazing into mine. He looked upon me in disgust and I knew I must be dreaming. However, my dream Jarvis spoke harsh words. ‘Toby, Toby, Toby, not so big now are you? A stinking drunk you’ve turned into, but now it’s time to end it.’ I was confused and in a haze, the next thing I feel is pain like I had never felt before and then nothing. Black.

Chapter Nine.

I didn’t know what had happened, but I was lying in the middle of the woods near my plantation. I knew this, because it was the path I had hunted on. I looked around in a state of utter confusion, to see a heart wrenching sight before me. My body laid there, dry blood on my white shirt from the place where my throat had been cut. The bottle in my hand. I was shocked; I walked to it wondering what the fuck was going on. My hand reached out to touch, to check that it was real, but it passed right through it. What the hell? I tried again, panic welling in my chest. The realisation dawned on me pretty quickly, and I scampered off, not wanting to see the dreadful sight. I walked to the plantation, the only place I knew where to go. However, I was dumbfounded as I saw other shimmering shapes, all transparent as they milled over the plantation. The slaves that I had killed and I wondered what sort of horror this was? It was dreadful, and I was scared. So, so, scared.

Chapter Ten.

They turned on me. The slaves. They were after my blood, and I ran as far as I could. I could not make it far, but it took me the one hundred and fifty years of being dead to figure out how to be a ghost. How to materialise myself for long periods of time. How to haunt. How to everything. But most importantly, how to escape the plantation. It took time, but I moved away. The modernity of the world astounding me as I moved through the decades to the present year. Never rested. Never sated for the need that I have to know why I am still hanging around. Why I am needed. It is two-thousand-and-eleven, and I am writing this as a memoire of my life. I hope you read it. I hope you don’t repeat any of this, but it’s too late for me now. I am what I have become. What my father made me. Nothing more nothing less. I still think sometimes about the beautiful face of miss Isabella, but somehow I don’t find myself to feel much remorse. I hadn’t loved her for a long time, so why is she hanging around in my head?

Epilogue.

Bittersweet. A paradox. And now you know.

THEY DON’T HEAR ME

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