The Urge | Teen Ink

The Urge

November 18, 2007
By Anonymous

Today, I felt the urge again. It was more powerful than the others, more powerful than the very hand of God himself. I felt a tear, produced by overwhelming anxiety and fear, snake its way down my cheek. "I...I can't!", I pleaded with myself, "I musn't!". I then felt an illness rush over my entire body, forcing me to sink back down onto my bed. I sat there for what seemed like an eternity, almost as if I was attempting to hide from my psyche. I hoped it wouldn't find me, but as always, it did.

On the way to the local cemetary, I began to inhale the strangest of smells. I brought my shirt up to my nose, attempting to ellude it. Despite my best efforts, however, it never faded. I looked around for the source of the odor; a rotting animal, perhaps? It was at that moment that I realized I had to keep my mind on the business at hand. As I walked, I dragged the rusting shovel behind me, creating a noise most akin to somebody raking their fingernails across a chalkboard. That noise, and that noise alone, was my only companion. I stuck to my usual trail, which was through the forest on the outskirts of town. Nobody bothers to look for me there.

I gazed happily at the sign looming above me, which read, "Blackwood Cemetery". An easing sense of accomplishment from viewing this sign made me produce an awkward smile. It has been so long since I've smiled. I walked past it, and began to seek out my target. There were fresh graves and well-aged graves, barren graves and graves with flowers decorating them. I felt like a young child browsing the many aisles of a candy shop. I chose the first one I saw. The cracked tombstone read, "Jeffrey P. Lewis". Below it were the words, "Beloved father". I ran to it and rammed my shovel into the weed-covered dirt. I worked up a good sweat as I removed layer after layer of soil. I couldn't control it, and was rather embarrased when I began yelping out in pleasure. I sounded like a pained chimpanzee in the jungle, just after a poacher shot a bullet into its stomache.

"Hey!". The usual quietness of the cemetery was interrupted by a masculine yell from afar. My yelping stopped. I brought my dirt-caked shovel out of the grave, and felt a fearful shiver travel its way up and down my spine. "What do you think you're doing here?!", the voice commanded. I was paralyzed. I couldn't even blink, for the life of me. The shovel dropped out of my hand, creating a booming thud as it hit the ground. "I...I...I", was all I could muster to reply. The man to which the voice belonged approached me. He was clad in blue, with a shiny, shiny star attached to his shirt. The beauty of its glow made my mouth open in awe. I was startled, severely so, when a handgun was pointed at my chest.

"I said what are you doing here?", he asked again. I couldn't think of an answer, as my mind was racing at the pace of a jet airplane. He shifted his eyes from me to the violated grave, then to my shovel. "Oh my God", he gasped in utter shock. A burst of energy washed over me, and I ran. I ran more swiftly than I ever thought I could. The man pursued me with aggression. He caught up to me quickly, shoving me to the ground. My jaw hit the dirt very hard, making me bite down on my tongue. It wasn't soon after that that I tasted my own blood, blended with saliva. The taste made me tingle with euphoria. Without contemplating the consequences, I said to him, "Thank you, mister". I was met with the reply of "Shut up!". Steel bracelets were placed on my wrists, and I was brought to my feet.

Before I knew it, I was sitting in the back of a tidy automobile. I was still bothered, unfortunately, by the horrific aroma which filled my nostrils. I recoiled in disgust, making the man (sitting in the front seat), glare at me. His eyes burned with the fury of one thousand devils in the Stygian pits of Hell itself. It frightened me, and it must've frightened my body too, since I felt cold beads of sweat on my forehead.

Ever since then, I haven't seen my house. I haven't visited the Blackwood Cemetery, and I certainly haven't brought one of its occupants home with me. As I sit here in my ever-so-freezing dungeon, lined with white bricks and steel bars, I reflect on my life. The orange suit on my back feels itchy and not the least bit comfortable. The men with the shiny stars on their shirts say that I will be here for a very long time. I sigh, and look out the barred window, into the moon. As I watch it, frozen in outer space, I feel the urge, and I laugh.

One day they'll see. They'll all see.

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