Now, dearest readers and subscribers, the sombre time has come for the author to answer the question: what is the actual fucking motive for all this? (Aside from that which you've already gleaned.) Time to reveal all—in a fashion. So I think I'll let Self (me) take it from here. And speaking of him, he thinks it's perhaps more than symbolic that the chapter in which 'THE EVENT' is being documented (this one) is the chapter which has inspired so much revision. Rewritten, rewritten, rewritten it has been.
In a previous draft, Self was trying desperately to 'ply with artful structure', as he put it, the contents of this most necessary part of the story. It began in prose form but then mutated into verse (poetry) of varying styles and numerous redrafts. No doubt because the writer didn't want to broach the topic of such a thing in such a naked piece of writing that would lay bare and unprotected the horrific thing that was done to him. He also thinks that a whole chapter of his novella dedicated to a relatively short burst of free verse might feel like ripping off any prospective punters.
Even this preamble is yet another form of avoidance—thinks Self as he writes this sentence. And the decision only to refer to the author in the third person is, quite obviously, just another deflective gimmick, however enjoyable, to somehow aid in sterilising the key topic at hand.
He actually referred to the previous draft (incantation) as excretory: 'Now let that be an end to this excretory verse,' said the writer in the ultimate line. No doubt because he didn't much relish conjuring a verse in which he had to describe how Jessie (you) beat his face bloody in front of his beloved long-time girlfriend on her birthday at the Riverside Park. Or maybe he didn't much enjoy attempting to convey via some abstract medium the memory of Self having a broken ankle whilst you beat him and how that so clearly meant to all persons present that he was unable to properly fight back. And after giving it just a lot of thought, he feels that describing how you raped his girlfriend, who he still loves very much to this day, in any other fashion besides the totally fucking detached style you're reading now just might be a tad too grim for his taste. Self thinks it's bad enough he's already had to spend so much time on this (you). And after chewing over all of that, he should think it a mere cakewalk to tell the ladies and gents how you brought a gang of your peers (sheep) to watch as you gleefully hopped over the fence and went straight to work on the unsuspecting Self's face, post-rape, for no good reason.
The writer fairly artfully (he thought) used his crutches that remained untouched beside him on the ground that afternoon as a sort of metaphor. He mentioned that, as you continued to pummel his face, his 'ankle remained lazy and lame', and his crutches were 'cold and flaccid'. Not bad, not bad, thinks the writer. He also said he would've preferred, or regretted the fact that he didn't 'bust your head open with a crutch most beautifully.' Which is assuredly okay. Further, Self went on to liken the writing of this work to a kind of transformative process of redemption wherein the remorse felt for not using the physical crutch in said manner at the time has now been exorcised in some way because 'the pen' is now his crutch. Or whatever… which is somewhat pleasing. Besides, he thinks the general point is perhaps vivid enough without becoming tasteless. But would YOU care to venture an opinion? No?
Anyway, Self very much enjoyed the colourful imagery used in some of the previous lines. As he alludes to, in the intervening time between 'THE EVENT' and the time he's been crafting this graphically cathartic tale, his view of you and that which took place on that day has to some degree evolved. Yes, the trouble it caused him in the ensuing years was profound, understandably. He wrote that it forced him 'down some hideous cracks in the night', wherein 'the floor is tar and sticks' and the 'walls are mush and retreating', evidently… But Self would now like to draw your attention to the fact that that doesn't reflect his current outlook, especially after writing this novella. Try these next sentiments on for size, for example: he said, and I’m directly quoting here, that he 'Laps at the scar you bequeathed' him and that he 'rejoices insidious at your ridicule'. And of his mangled tongue he writes that he 'unfurls it bloody and joyous to the grand old band that's playing the tune of your death.'
So, Writer has viewed all angles of that which occurred and contemplated the minutiae of THAT special day. He's able to see it from above, in the first person, in his dreams, and amongst other aspects: via the eyes of the many, many witnesses who were in attendance thanks to you (not just a helpful legal point, that last one; it also aids in the veracity and propagation of the narrative. For which I'm grateful.) And without launching into further rhythms or poesy, he has reconsidered the finer details of the incident: how long, for example, did the mouthful of blood and tongue he was forced to spew out stay lodged in the rubber cracks of the playground floor? And what were the collateral gains or losses to the wee beasties bathed in said blood and tissue? he ponders. Would he ever get a chance to revel in ecstasy at the death of your disgusting rapist ass? (He hopefully checks the local obituaries on a regular basis, just for that very jolly eventuality!) Or maybe he'd even be lucky enough to get the chance to end your miserable existence all by himself. Hmm…
And why is it that he can recall the nearby Parus Major who was unceasing in his wonderfully monotonous song throughout the whole ordeal? Granted, the author thinks it would be much more poetic, if a little on the nose, to claim that even the lovely little Tit broke off in shock at what he witnessed, but there he is. And if you think for a second that Self was the kind of small wimpy nerd that would have been able to identify that bird back then and thus deserved a beating, you're all well off the pace, bud's!
But why didn't he at least try to fight back, however lame he might've been? Well, he doesn't really know. Time is the great and untrustworthy mutator of perception, he feels. Writer has certainly evolved cerebrally a great deal since then—otherwise the writing of this tale simply wouldn't be possible. But Writer wonders if the same can be said of others. Writer suspects that Jessie will still be a total fucking prick… But perhaps, in some small way, he didn't actually mind taking a few beatings that day—he did, after all, have an angel to tend his wounds. Perhaps he thought that a solid metal crutch being put to such use was a bit severe, even on a tyrant such as yourself. (Self claims he wouldn't think twice nowadays.) Perhaps it was just a manifestation of him being wholly his mother's son? Though maybe it was just straight-up cowardice? (That wouldn't be his father's son, but he's sure it would be his father's opinion.) So he supposes, vaguely, that it could've been due to a lack of confidence or self-esteem but says ‘whatever’ because those sorts of things are metaphysical concepts and too difficult to quantify—or he's just being lazy, most likely.
But Self is now sure that he's fumbled around and digressed plenty enough about this joyous affair. Though before he does take his leave of this topic, he'd like to finally draw your attention to one of the closing lines of the various redrafts, which read, 'A thousand more lashes', he'd happily take regarding this endeavour. He also wrote that he'll 'forge on' with his 'pen in revolt and a windowless temper'. Stands as a pure commitment that, he would say, to the intellectual annihilation of a gormless little shit-eater like you, Ten Men. (And he isn't finished with you yet, boyo.)
Thus, in summary, the Author extends to you, dear reader, a great deal of gratitude for bearing with him through all this; he's aware that it's not the most savoury subject. And he hopes that at least some readers will agree that this hasn't been a totally wasted effort in service of the exposition.
Sincerely yours,
Self, Author, Writer.