Monday, October 15, 2012

Open letter to my family about Rape and Death-Farms.


                    An open letter to my family about my RAPE entry.
                         When I say family, this includes close friends.
                                   To me, loyalty means family.
                                     My closest friends hold me

                       the link below should be listened to with this entry

                                   I originally sent this to Gretchen.

Personal note first and foremost.

Gretchen, M'dearest.

This one is true and very painful to many. I am sure of this but had to write it all the same. I hope as it goes further it does not cause you distress as you feel so many stresses now.

There are so many elements I need to add to part two.


I take so many areas of human feelings and emotions and break them down into areas that make sense to me. To me, they are elements, fragments, slender threads those that ask me to put into words for them. They say they're lost and their shadows keep on changing. These wonderful people are not schizophrenic, psychopaths or sociapaths. They do have families, possess friends and passerby acquiantances. More often than not, those closest to them dismiss them and strip them from their lives. . I have witnessed this more often than not with WASPs <white anglo saxon protestants>. They seem to love animal causes and can't stand people.

                                   About Death-Farms )nursing homes(.

               Unlike so many nationalities in the USA, WASP's  without any sense of heritage, other-land background sense,  more often than not negate their failing family members. So causually, like  placing a pair of stinky socks into a soon discarded locker, they meander about their lives feeling justified as they do their best.

              Seeing this as I visited what I would call a  Death-Farm, nursing home, several times a week. All this patient needs is the caring attention of one that would place their life on hold to care for them and bring them back to either health or meaningful passage to death. Didn't this needy person do the same for us back when as they raised us?

              This being my blog, I don't care who would argue what I say. Frankly speaking, no one here in the United States comments whatsoever about what I say. No Sweat: You probably need more ego boosting media amp'd Viagra to fill you or where women are concerned, fuller tits to make you both feel important.

             Sure, I'm an idiot. But why do I see the majority of those in nursing homes <death farms> so tiny in frame that a 14 year cannot turn them to prevent bedsores? Why can't a child born of them take the time to learn the simple motor skills they taught us?

               How hard is it to place Playdough in their fragile hands and ask them to roll it out to the shape of a worm and squish it flat? To help them to stand as they regain the strength of legs?

              Most of us with enough coin can afford this when retirement benefits fail and Medicade <sp?> runs amok. Over 75 percent of all those in nursing homes have at least 2 married family members living within 30 miles from them. Most of those would rather spend 10k on a deck, pool or further living space.

                       I have learned much in the past 10 years. What I have learned, saying little positive about what makes us human, I believe most of us to be predators.  Going far and beyond what Dr's. Cleckley and Hare research discribed, we've taken this to such an acceptable level reaching a sick norm in society.

                       Who cares? Someone is making money, right?
                     Let's blow them off like bright autumn leaf.

Mark William Darus 10152012


Raped. (story of a woman failed by the system she supported)

                                   Corporate Security failed me.
                                Alone in camera covered parking lot.
                                 As I became a whore down the road.
                           The story of another by Mark William Darus.


            After leaving her call center job for a major insurance, moon rising solidly that chilly September night at 11:05 PM, wishing she had a sweater to add to the below length black skirt and flowery pink top. Bidding goodnight to her coworkers she walked toward her car.

       Reaching into her tan purse for her keys, taking in the brisk air as fall approaches once again, feeling happy about the shift just ended. Overhead lights beaming down in circles across automobiles and cold concrete.

       “Excuse me, missy. Can you tell me how to get the Denny’s?” a shadowed voice asked from a dark Lincoln Continental.

       Stopping short of her beige Camry, she turned to him. “Sure. Just go down Wilsons Bend to Zeta Drive and it’s on the corner in front of Home Depot and Kohls.”

      “Sorry, call me slow.” he exited his Lincoln carrying a sheet of paper and a pen. Walking to the cars hood, he bent over to write directions. Wearing a skull cap and thick glasses he glanced at her.

     She innocently walked to him, meeting him at his vehicle.

        There are many security cameras that cover every inch of this parking lot.

        “Okay, you leave the lot, go straight ahead-”

       He spun around her, placing one gloved hand over her mouth and his other firmly around her tiny midsection. Over-powering her, he threw her into the car.

          Her mind, filled with horror, eyes opened wide, her limbs struggling to no avail against him. She saw his look of hatred and evil smile as he began to punch her in the head and stomach repeatedly. Losing consciousness, gasping for help, going into the black place of ‘shutdown’.


       Coming back from the dark-lands, taking inventory of self: ‘I can feel my arms and legs.’ Lifting her head slowly as a force smashes it back to the floor. She sees dots fill her eyes and a swimming sensation in brain, ‘why can’t I bend? Why can’t I stand?’ she thinks.

       “Oh, no no no no, missy! You’re not going anywhere. I got ya for a turn and bit! Lord yes, I do!” he chuckled happily as his saliva sprayed on her. On his knees, bent over her right hand flailing about as his gloved left hand, again, planter her head violently to the ground.

        Cold air rolling over her. So cold. Oddly she felt her nipples not erect but digging in. Nearly paralyzing frigid air but not quite. Her eyes caught him looking away from her. Raising head once again, tears running down her cheeks, realizing. ‘MY FUCKING GOD! I’M NAKED AND TIED!’

        Desperately yanking her arms and pulling her legs, screaming frantically, “HELP ME HELP ME HELP!!! FOR GODS SAKE HELP ME! HELLLLLLLLLLLP!”

        Twisting his head back to her and then looking upward. Laughing with a low voice, he throws his arms behind him stretched wide like Elias in the movie Platoon. Eventually looking down at her while smirking, ‘momma, who’s got you now,’ his mind churns about like maggots devouring spoiled pork.

        There is a stirring in this abandoned Cleveland warehouse with her cries. Lighting being only that of 55 gallon drums burning wood and cardboard for heat as reflected off the chipped painted ceilings. The hive-mind of the Homeless begin to rise from their stupors. Possessing different minds, wanting something apart from their norm, they amble toward the sound like zombies in a landscape seldom seen by most without bad movies and video games.

      Her head turns to the right and left. There are back-lit shapes heading toward her. Help arising for her.

        He looks around and sees what she does.

         Vile breath fills her nostrils as his face meet hers. “Missy, you think they’re gonna help you?”

       She meets his eyes, “:Please, don’t,” she mutters.

        He reaches into his left pocket and grabs a wad of singles. Holding this high above his head as vast array of lifeless packaging descends toward them. He yells: “YOU WANT YOUR MADDOG? YOU WANT YOUR CRACK? C’MON, I KNOW YA WANT YOUR FUCKING STARBUCKS!”

       The risen horde stop short and watch his hand.

       He hurls the cash.

       They go for it like hungry carp at the Pennsylvania Linesville Spillway, flopping over one another in a mad dash to maintain.

      “noooo,” she sobs. The world above her a choppy landscape of pale shadows of flickering light.

                                         Where she lay: Held. Tied. Racing heart.

          This warehouse off west Sixty-Fifth street has seen so much in its history. It once made military parts for WWII, car parts since the 50’s and other things. It is has witnessed workers going nuts as their wives left them, sadness as children passed before parents and several Mafia slayings during closed hours. It has smelled the sweat crossing strong brows and the smell of gun powder. What it has heard over time: the crying, the pleading, industrial sounds before Unions and the death pangs. Haunted? Must be.

         The failing and ever chipping ceiling looks down at her. She is spread-eagled upon dank and filthy floor. ‘she is tied to my pillars. We can’t have this here.’ This building gives a shudder as if in an Earthquake.

        He crosses over her, gun in hand and tells her to open her mouth.

        Placing its barrel between her teeth, he says, “You’re going to shut the fuck up, momma! No one cares around here.” Looking around them, stating, “Do you see? DO YOU!? They only care about their fix, momma.”

        Tasting the sick flavor of oil on her tongue, knowing where this is going, she relents.

        “Oh, I am so gonna take you! I am going to hurt you!” Unbuckling his jeans, panting breathing like an asthmatic, lowering his pelvis toward her.

          ‘No! Lord, For gods sake, don’tletthishappenpleaseno!”

             Thrusting into her dryness, she felt a ripping as if sandpaper had enter her, pain. A pain like nothing she’d ever known. The hurt, anguish. The full throttled running of her blown away mind.

         “Owww, ya, getting’ smoother, momma. Wetter. I feels ya!” he grunts as he pounds her splayed body.

           Thunder vibrating as rain falls from above. Lightening flashes casting blue light around her.

         Cutting her, slamming about her unwilling vagina, feeling his liquid in her as his dick moves in and out. Wanting to throw up and being unable to do so. Lost…


                                         End of Part One.

Mark William Darus 10152012


Authors Note: I met a woman last week that told me a tale about her life. How she had been raped and what she remembered about it. She gave me what she saw, smelled and felt. Who hasn’t known some female that hasn’t been raped? If you were close enough to them at all, hearing what they spoke, cried hysterically and shared. Please share what crossed your mind.

                 This woman's story hit home to me. Well, a past home that is.

She worked for the very same company that I had worked for over ten years and how her capture happened in this companies parking lot. Their very own cameras, so high tech in 2011 to give employees comfort, could not justify her abduction. Well, one paid off ex-employee did speak up when she was terminated. This woman witnessed this and went public.

I'm glad I remember the value of research from when I in college. Talking walks into public record areas, viewing microfilm, hammering away on ancient Smith Corona office typewriters. The Internet makes this so much easier.

Corporate Security Cameras are only there for one purpose: To record employees sharing unhappiness, idle threats toward bosses, massive violent threats to the company or sharing thoughts toward getting a Union inside. These cameras are only there to protect the Company.

I needing to find some place in writing this, I had to find some comfort to level me out. I found this with one of the best choirs I have ever heard. Given to me from my blog friends in Iceland.