Friday, 31 December 2010

Papercut. Chapter 22

‘What are you doing after classes?’

I gulp, pretending to see nothing now and then. I correct the eye feeling my hand shake, the lines crooked, the lines now drawn by the blonde. If it was impressionism it would do but academic is upon us, with the borders we can easily break if knowing. I could feel my hands shake, as the blonde laughs into my ear. I can see Lola sit on the desk, smirking, playing with her skirt, as she takes me by the scarf, even if the name isn't hers and tries to kiss me, as I close my eyes to french the air.

Lola asked the same. She stood there, her head against the lockers, books in hand clutching them close to her chest so hard, that I’d give my soul now to be that book. Who needs a soul when you can press yourself against a girl's breasts? But back then, the algebra seemed to lurk in my mind as well when the teacher had no ruler to punish with. I looked up, confused, algebra fighting with boobs. She opened her mouth and repeat, a lovely repeat, a light tint on her cheeks, as she looked at me straight.

We were both in this literature project, basically we were partners in literature class, but asides from that it was it. I would glance at her whenever I’d be single, but never really counting her a girlfriend possibility. When I was single, she was taken and otherwise. I guess I have been single for too long. Then her lips moved a muted ‘so?’ I never felt an urge like that to press her lips against my own.

I pressed my own head against the lockers, feeling a grin build up on my lips, as I watched her grow impatient. I had an image to maintain so I shook my head, boosting up her feeling of failure. But soon enough when she was about to turn away, I captured her lips. Was I the ice queen?

Push me hard, love and she did.

"Yes?" I asked or rather confirmed. Tease from my own, as I still had no idea what a date was or what it should be, when parents seem useless if to be honest, as it's your mistakes which count.

“Anyway. Seven thirty. Brand new chick flick. You blew your chance for the new action film.” She smirked, walking away, stuffing her books into her bag, not looking back. She never did, that was what I wanted for myself, because I always looked back, afraid that I might've dropped something on the way.

I yawned my way threw out the whole soapy film that made me gag as the couple broke up and made up, that I fell like throwing my dose of popcorn at the Hollywood actors, which couldn’t play. Lola’s eyes never tore off the screen, not even when I made a move on her, when I did she simply pushed my head away, giving the right according to her angle to my head by yanking my chin.

In the end I got so bored that I was counting the seconds to the ending, praying for some explosive to kill them both or a massive meteor or octopus. She didn’t cry when the main guy asked the girl to marry him in front of their countless exes. Instead she grabbed my hand, pleading me to get the hell out before she’ll gag of the soapiness. I showed my tongue at her saying that I wanted to see the epilogue with three billion sons and daughters listen to their parents tell their story.

“Oh, screw you.” She snapped, grinning and sitting back in her chair looking rather bored with the movie she chose. She glanced at me from while to while and in the end she leaned herself giving in. The credits began to roll as we made out there in the middle rows until we got kicked out.

I blinked looking at the sketched invitation.

I couldn’t.

Even if I wanted to.

Chapter 23

Wednesday, 29 December 2010


I like the naked trees
In winter
They look as if they were burnt
As the snow looks like death
Trying to swallow
But then it did
As their souls went black
And they stretch
To achieve something above
Not knowing that it's just
An abyss
They show patterns
Their bones colouring the sky
As my eyesight gets worse
As my eye closes
As the sunlight burns
I'd feel myself sink
The snow muching on my feet
The cold around
As if it were a hug of ice
Would they fall down
If they'd never reach it?
Or maybe they have
Glowing against the globe.


Saturday, 25 December 2010

Papercut. Chapter 21

Then I stare at my converse as I feel a guy end his introduction, as if silence was leaning for a kiss. I raise my head, feeling a drop of sweat fall from my forehead on my cheek and slowly travel to my jaw line and then I lose the feeling of it. I watch her stand up, flick her dark hair back, playful dancing in her eyes. She tilts her head, the grin never disappearing from her face.

“Alice.” She nods at me, as I watch her lips mouth every single letter.

“Sixteen.” Alice looks back, glancing at the back rows, a different smile and another sparkle in her eyes. Then she turns back, causing her hair to move with her. I watch her silently, feeling dazed from my memory loss. I open my mouth like a fool, trying to find an answer.

“Aquarelle.” She catches my eyes again, not blinking, leaning against the table with her legs. My eyes travel down looking at the short plaid skirt and black stockings. I swallow my eyes traveling back up, as I feel different thoughts invade my mind, but I shoo them away, despite their efforts. And with that she sits down, now turning her attention to her neighbor. The brush of jealousy given to me, as I paint with it mechanically. The guy next to her an enemy, as I take him and dunk him into paint, watching her raise an eyebrow, as he shrinks, his fingers barely visible and he drowns.

She whispers something into his ear as he fixes his glasses, before standing up. I give him the time to hesitate.

He ruffles his dark hair, dark eyes widening in fear behind the specs. He clenches his teeth together than I see him blink in pain, as the nails dig into his skin. Alice catches my gaze finally, an amused smile on her face. I watch her cross her legs, as I swallow again, not bothering with the geek struggling with his words. I ignore the paper ball heading straightly at the geek’s head. It hits him with a small thump and he turns around using a literate curse which I do not know.

“Matthew. Matt. Pastel. Seventeen.” He mutters rubbing his head, biting his bottom lip, as he takes off his glasses, his eyes focused on me. Are they fake? I stare at him, as he winks at me, puts them back on, faking a frown again as he slowly sits back down, pressing his chin against the desk. I stare at him, as Alice seems pleased with herself for a second, before looking at me straight in the eye with a daydream in mind. I look at her, realizing that perhaps, I have sinned.

But is that bad?

I ignore the other two teenagers which are about to tell fascinating facts about themselves as I let my gaze travel on her face, licking every inch of her ideal skin. There seems to be no trace of bad skin, as I’d usually have Lola wearing a facial mask every Sunday, which she labeled her beauty and school homework day. She’d sit near her table, chewing the tip of her pencil, doing everything possible for the awaiting week. Sometimes I’d join her, sometimes I’d just watch her, sometimes I’d distract her.

Sometimes… I didn’t love her, did I?

He never liked her, as she’d rant on my mood swings, my dazing out.

Did I tell her?

Would I tell… her? I stared down at Alice, her gaze jumping from her teacher to her fellow classmates. Would I tell her? What would I tell where was the line to tell and where to keep the mouth shut, as the ring of denial seemed to be hidden somewhere under the bed.

How would she react to me becoming someone absolutely different and then back to myself in a while? What should I say? That I had a diagnosis. That that would mean unstableness in sanity, sudden move swings, no guarantee of anything actually. I could change without any reason or for any reason any at all.



I could change in the middle of a kiss.

I swallow, ignoring the students raising their voices to attract my attention. But none would run towards me to pull me by the collar so that I could lean against the floor, my lips swollen and eyes closed of thoughts bursting my cheek open with the wound the new paint for the walls.

I could lose the sense of reality. I could lose control. I could-

Your son seems stable, but if anything shows-

Shut up.

I’m not the one who will disappear.

I can. No, I can’t.

I look down on her, wishing for her face to be closer, I wish to tangle my fingers in her hair, like that… that daydream. I feel a sudden pain as I try to recall it. I watch the last student describe himself and afterwards I open the closet looking rather epic, trying to resemble a teacher at least in my actions.

I drag out a rather heavy skull and throw it upon my desk, ignoring the fact that it might crack.


“Right, kiddos, draw. Pencils only today. We’ll start with something basic, so I can see your possibilities. No helping each other, I’m the only helper her. Off you go.” I feel my voice crack at the end of the line, as I feel my breathing proceed in a harder way. I’m thirsty. I feel my body heat up, as if I am about to mutate. I am. Without any explanation, I run off into the corridor gasping for air. I press my spine against the wall, feeling myself slowly sliding down, but I hold myself. I push several steaks back, as I watch them fall back into place again.

I am staring at her full lips.

I am staring at her starry eyes.

I am staring at her, devouring her with my eyes.

I'm not going to compare her to anybody as she looks better than anyone, as I keep throwing away, like old clothes, the memories of my ex, out of the window on the head with the basket. Enough, enough, I’m no soapy good guy who will run up to her, throw roses at her feet and kiss the back of her wrists traveling with my kisses up until I’d reach the highest sin, her lips.

But I’d do that to Alice, let my lips travel all they want, because in this my lips’ mind isn't on its own, it actually was following my commands. I could feel her heavy breathing as she’d kick the door open. I could see her pressing her forehead against my own, surprised at my sudden kisses around her face and neck, as I pull her closer. She pins me against the wall, pressing her lips against my own, not waiting for anything to interrupt us. I dig my fingertips into her hair, pulling her closer.

The kiss never starts off slowly, fucking innocently. I’d laugh in their face, the moron who got one, when it was supposed to be mutual, they didn't care about the person then. to see that. The first kiss above all is hunger and longing for the action to take place and doesn’t even hint the smallest glimpse of innocence, yet it is rather sinful as your heart is in your throat, not holding the pleasure which is received.

Then I fell her drop her hands and fiddle with the bottom of my shirt-

My imagination goes wild and so does my mind. I open my eyes to see nothing, aside from the opposite white wall, screaming for something bright to colour its essence, like my own personal love life.

I exhale, banging my head against the wall, feeling a dull pain or rather an echo of it with millions of applauses and a few random tomatoes. I wrap my scarf looking as if I just put it on and with my hands in my pockets, I press myself against the door and walk inside, half the scarf, half my face, eyes lost and longing as I see the girl. I try to avoid her gaze, imagining the taste of her lips on my own. I start from the last row, slow torture, as I see her pressed against the desk, walking past the pierced guy, who isn't as bad as I expected, weirdos can draw, fuck the media, fuck, they can.

Some seem to scream of failure, but instead I sketch a few helping lines causing the seventeen year old Melee to show a week smile, praying that her mistake isn't as fatal as my face shows it. I smile, showing that it isn't that bad.

I had problems as well, not in portraits but with other tasks. I walk up to Richard whose skull was nearly done with a nice curse above it, showing some coolness, which in his opinion the skull lacked and myself included. I raise my eyebrow, holding myself, I tell him to rub it off, repeating it calmly. He curses as he rubs it off rambling what a fucker I am only in another context, pressing the eraser so hard that I expect a hole to the center of the earth with him sitting and showing off his tongue which just got pierced by the weird guy. I walk on, realizing that I didn't memorize any names and I could swear that most of them seemed new and unfamiliar to me as if the student which is sitting there was abducted by a slimy green alien with tentacles growing out of his face, a big white eye and pointy teeth, ear and tongue moving from side to side.

Despite the countless times I raise my gaze everybody still seems brand new despite the black haired girl, who, I hope is concentrated on her drawing. I really do, as I walk up, slowly as if creeping on her. I smile at her, as if I couldn’t imagine her leaning against me, as I was the one who pinned her against the wall, capturing her lips, crashing her body against my own. I took her pencil correcting the skull’s left eye or rather were the left eye was supposed to be. Then she taps her finger against the left corner of the page where my elbow was. A red tint crossed her face, as I look down.

Lola made the first move too.

Chapter 22

Friday, 24 December 2010

Papercut. Chapter 20

I am her teacher. I stare at her hands on my neck as I look down, they are there, stroking as my eyes are closed, her lips trailing up as they are above my lips and I open my eyes. Her silky hair on her shoulders, like a scarf around her neck, different steaks scatter. She rubs her thumb against my neck, her hand traveling up. She brushes her thumb against my cheek, now her lips repeating the same pattern her palm did.


I gulp, as I notice half her face now covered by a black feathered mask, her eyes boring into mine. One violet. One emerald. She leans in, not tearing her eyes off my lips, as mine are locked on the eyes, a love triangle. Her fingertips stroke my hair, going deeper until she could feel my scalp, she grins at the fingers piercing the skin, as she holds her distance, eyes now up. I could feel her breath on me a few days ago, but now it's gone. She does not let me move as if it were all based on her actions. I lean in, as she smiles, a grin forming on her lips. How long was this taking?

I’m her teacher.



Three years, when I had started dating Lola.

“I like you.”

I don’t know who said it, everything a blur of delight, as she leans her lips against my own, the kiss never there. She leans back, tearing off her mask, her hair bleaching out.

“Say hi to Roman. From Lola.” With that she kisses him, as I feel myself take over his mind. I breathe out, my breath a pill. I stare at her. I bore my eyes into her, feeling a sudden pain. I look up at her, everything moving, shaking, blackening. I make a move but nothing, I just stand my hands pressed against my head. There some hatred lull inside, I should crack open against the wall to watch the ceiling crack as I'd stare onto the sky, watching eternity.

Wake up.

Instead I see her sip from her Starbucks cappuccino brought out of nowhere. She sits there in nothing, her eyes both birth, holding different colours. She grins, biting her thumb and then she stands up. Lola throws her mask away and before it hits the ground it vanishes leaving nothing.

I feel somebody’s hand upon my shoulder. Kayleen.



She had two coloured eyes.

I stare at Alice in shock, my dreams shattering.

Same hairstyle.

Same eye colour.

Same gestures.


I snap out of it, staring at the dark haired girl. She’s a fucking copy. I feel sick. I feel desire. Get rid of her. To kick her out, to scream into her ears, to suck the air out of her lungs. Instead I stare at her for a while before hardening my gaze, getting rid of the soapy softness. I get sick, I loathe her… because she reminds me of Lola.

I can see them both laugh, singing songs, each holding a big oval mirror in front, beating the life of the floor, as they stare at each other, grins held open. They look familiar, as the grab each other's hands, glance and then turn their attention towards my own, tearing it apart into two divides.

I lean against the desk harder, feeling a sharper pain that causes me to shiver. It eases me, as I watch the kids embarrass themselves, I don’t care about their names. They can wear fucking name tags if they want to. They can pour milk out of cartons into each other's mouth, the liquid spilling, eyes full. I glance at them, imagining the load of blood in their bodies, exposing wounds bursting the liquid out, draining the life out of them.


Her hair is red.

Not a bloody red.

But red.

I spring up, my body standing straight, as I watch a nerd explain biology which I should have learnt at the hellhole called school. Blood. Scarlet red. Knife. Light blue.

Were her lips a bloody red colour? Would I taste her blood? Would I want to? Did I want to make her scream in pain, in my arms, defenselessly, crying out for help. I hug myself around my torso, skipping three students in a row, her screams clouding my head.

I don't.

I don't want to cause her pain.

Not her and nor Lola, for Kid’s sake.


Papercut. A big massive chunk of my life, as the story went, the first draft for five months, the plot and Roman himself changing in the first month.

Tomorrow shall be a year since the first draft was done and left waiting to be published and the biggest to date, each losing at least several k in length.

The ending came all of a sudden.

It's the eve of Christmas and, me, being in love with Papercut, never hiding it, the eve of the end went everything was told.

The end was left unknown, different and the actual ending papercut had supposed to have was the end of part one until I decided to rest for a while and the thoughts that is actually the end and the epilogue burst into mind,making myself jump and in a minutes Papercut was finnished, making me look back now, to see that I have subconsiously known the ending all along.

I started from telling the ending as it starts the story, now if to look at it. Massive spoiler. Massive author's note.

How Roman was created, the soundtrack and behind the scenes.

Anyone actually interested in the story behind? Anyone want to know what the real ending was supposed to be like, please tell either in the comments, twitter or poll (to your left, scroll a bit) about to find everything else behind the scenes.

To mark the year, tomorrow in a few hours another chapter shall be published.

It feels like New Year, I'd like to thank all, even if I'm still here, posting, advertising, bothering people with questions, searching for ideal songs, writing whenever I can and losing topics due to thoughts, I love it.

I can't really write author notes if to be honest, feelings coming in front, revealing my nature rather than what I want to be.

Thank you for being there.

Happy Holidays!

Chapter 21

Tuesday, 21 December 2010


I want to walk these streets,
As I'd get woken with a knock
With a plain
Hello, I love you
I ranted the night about the night before.
There'd be no candy to desribe emotions poured by others
Letters flowing
Instead of split blood
I'd see, feel
And describe.

Not the streets
Which surround me
With the melancholy
And rumors of weed
But those I see
As the feeling of love fades
The one which people believe here
I am bound the blame
The month which feels like many

And the songs
I return to
As if I were
For the first time.


Saturday, 18 December 2010

Papercut. Chapter 19

That thought makes my eyes spring open and I begin running from the bench on which I sat. I feel as if I'd been bitten, eyes in front of me, I can't remember whose and what colour as it lingers away from my mind. I am not late but I can easily, be. I can’t shake that thought off as it is sadly or not true, it's there with the handcuffs between my back and theirs, I feel chained with fear and the blindfold held in my hands, as it fell down and I had tied it around my eyes just to feel the adrenaline.

Some people are afraid of losing their virginity, being a father, jumping with a parachute but I had something else that terrified me. I always stared at my teachers praying that I would never look like them and yet here I was. I feared their melancholy, as they'd ignore the rotting bodies with bags under their eyes, looking at the window waiting for something which cannot be saved.

Teacher Roman.

That thought terrified me and the fact that I shall now be known as Mr. and my last name. But then I can ask them to simply call me Roman. That’s it.

I’ll write my name on the board and that will be enough, after all I’m not that much older than them. Three years? Two? One? Four?

With that easing thought of getting compared to my previous teachers I walk inside the rather modern looking building, which now was where I would work from now on. I can't really collect my thoughts as they are scattered in my mind, like marbles. I can't touch them and don't feel the need, I just watch them roll by, some would brush me gently, barely touching me while others left bruises. But then it seems exciting. I am a teacher. Can I change their lives?

Can I yank them by the hair and throw their empty heads against the desk, cracking thier skulls to see a pink liquid immerse in a foggy cloud? Drugs.

I feel a light tingle of revenge. I could show them what I felt, like my teachers would give endless homework, the reason to my split personality, even if I knew what the real reason once was.

I can shift onto another thought, try to forget that I'm the only one in this body. I am the intruder? I have too many memory gaps. How much does he have, as he lays consciously in front of the scream, laughing with popcorn flowing out of his mouth. I want to gag. How come I ended up so close to Kayleen then? But then he thought differently, if he smoked that didn’t mean that I did as well. He did smoke, I remember waking up in my mind, an empty box and a name scribbled on the lighter with a brief yours before it, the name had started with


He had snatched it, yelled and thrown me backwards into myself, I couldn't wake up, I was suffocating, water in my lungs, as he massaged my neck, biting my neck, scarf gone, nothing sexual, just a way to make it end.

We are different. I am different, but then we are alike, like that damned reflection in the mirror. So much fuss about that, what is that looking at you from behind the mirror, isn’t there? I don't understand the commotion around it. Maybe because now that wasn’t just my reflection. I don't bother because my reflection is alive. I don’t just see that copy of me.

I feel him.

And he takes over me.

And I can’t do anything about it.

He’s not the evil twin, he’s the lookalike only corrupted or in other words the real me.

But despite whoever I am, I walk in. Much to my dismay, of course, there are no marble walls. I pout, smirking that it is not that fancy on the inside unlike the outside. As if it were a big strawberry sweet wrapper and it's peppermint inside. I walk on, seeing that this could have possibly been some university or school before it was taken over by corruption or whatever the generation believes in. I feel a light numbness as I feel the numbers drawing nearer to one I need.

The big moment arrives.

I swing the door open, as I peek in. Maybe they notice me, maybe they do not. Instead I just swallow heavily, as I might add loud. I don’t see many people crowding the class. I am early, early for an art club, as I have been in some up to this point in my life. So basically what I see is one really tall guy leaning against the desk lazily, iPod headphones in his ears the white wire repeating the path of his body and into his right pocket. He opens one chocolate eye lazily, as the other follows. Maybe he was day/morning dreaming. His hair is shorter than mine and a sort of slightly faded away deep brown. Hazel eyes shows no interest in me, mouthing some curse in a proud way.

“I am your teacher.” Jesus. That sounded lame, so thankfully, I believe that he didn’t hear it as he pulls out one headphone and stares at me. The awkward silence pierces the air making it amazingly intense as I dare not to move. The he nods, crossing his arms on his chest, raising an eyebrow, not taking me seriously. I blink and feel annoyance hit my body like a sudden wave, an unwanted tsunami.

He nods, taking an arm and scratching his head in a light ruffling manner. Hair on the back of his head sticks practically vertically, hinting the fact that he used gel or he has the nice gene going from generation to generation which is called ‘my hair is weird, deal with it’. I examine his nod as a muffled or mute phrase with the ‘who the hell are you? Jesus Christ, you are two heads shorter than me. So who the hell are you?' context.

“Hello.” Fuck you. “My name is Roman. I am your teacher.” Chin up. “You’re in my class.” Stand on tiptoes, he doesn’t see behind this dumb reeking of school presence, not literally, desks. “Your name is?”

He quickly eyes me, before taking off the second headphone, but it takes less than a minute and soon enough, his chocolate eyes bore into mine in an unfriendly way. Then he quickly says his name and I catch it.

“Richard.” Is his name. I get several associations, followed by another but somehow I feel that he’d be the next association I’d ever get now. I stare at him for a while before several more students follow. I never leave him in the lack of my attention as teenagers walk in, chatting, bragging, hum to music. Soon enough I take a big black marker next to the whiteboard and I write my name on the whole board, such ego, such desire as I feel the decease of a teacher bore inside me, as I lean my head back, long fingers stroking it and sticking inside, as if my skin were goo from the touch, as I see two coloured eyes. It made me feel as if I had a big ego, a huge one, but I can't just rub it off. I can't lick it off either even if I want to, it would taste like cherry. Allergies. I feel uneasy as the letters dig into me.

“Right.” I say clearing my throat loosening my scarf a bit, letting it hang rather useless around my neck. I walk in front of my own desk and lean against it, crossing my legs. It all feels so formal, the way the desks are positioned. I ruffle my hair, trying to focus on my next phrase.

“I am your teacher. As you can see I’m-“

“Ro-man.” A jumpy looking guy yells out as Richard elbows him, leaning closer to the poor guy and giving him that deadly jab. He pouts as he turns his blonde head towards Richard showing him his tongue. I hold myself from a surprised expression and showing worry that chocolate eyed could easily break jumpy-blondy’s nose. Instead Richard shrugs with an eye roll, pressing his chin against the desk, letting his mimic muscles rest from further hints of disgust.

I let my eyes rest from that sight which calls himself Richard. I switch my gaze to the next row of desks, getting nearer to me as Richie is sitting in the back. They resemble Melvin and Frankie, only no bromance between them, as Richard looks pissed and the blondy doesn't give a damn. I look at several dyed hair kids, I don’t count making sure that the gender ratio is even. Then my eyes stop on a black haired girl. She looks at me with interest her face in her palms, as she brushes several pitch black steaks from her oval face, giving me a small smile. She straightens up, revealing her different coloured eyes. Lenses? One, her left was an intense emerald green as the other was some sort of bleached out violet.

Her nails were dyed a dark blue, the nail varnish looked new, maybe she had done it today. I remember Lola's bright colours, as she'd never bother to recover, the dye sometimes gone of the tips, as mascara would be lightly smudged, by the time we should both stand from the bed, as she sat, asking if this were forever.

But then there was no special occasion, was there? Plus dye your nails for your art class where you can easily lose that intense blue. Gone. I could see myself taking the dark haired girl's arm, kissing her fingers, watching her eyes react to my actions.


I shake my head, realizing that I have held the pause for long, everything started, as the clock start to tick, counting what's left, stare at her and possibly and most likely give out myself. I press myself heavier against the wooden-like desk, feeling a sudden ping of pain in my back. I tear my eyes off her, still having a ‘teacher for dummies’ guide in my head. I need to find out about the students, even if I had to listen Richard introduce himself all over again, as Frankie seems like Melvin to me now.

I want to know about her. Stop.

“Right, so everyone tell several phrases about yourself.” I scratch my head, calming myself down. “And your possibilities, what exactly are your interests in art, so that I can know your passion.”

Fuck, I sound like a professional wannabe. And now dresses off, ladies.

Professor Roman, please to meet you.

Oh, God.

“Can I start?” My thoughts break as I see a hand bolt up and wave at me in a maniacal friendly way. I give a small nod, noticing a familiar blonde head. He jumps up, his hair jumping up as a grin appears on his face. I smile at him back, knowing that I cannot answer a smile with a frown and with the fact that I am the guy’s art teacher. His light at the end of the dark tunnel called school days. A fighting veteran, just like I was, against the monstrous teachers and useless lessons.

“Antony. Tony. Sixteen. Sculpture.” He says quickly with a nod at the end, his hands against his desk, as I wonder if he wants someone to pin him against him, if he has a girlfriend, as I had wanted that colour at his age instead of my light brown. He wears a white button down shirt with the sleeves pulled up, revealing his skinny elbows, and several bracelets on the right hand while the other had dark spots on the nails which I assumed to be black nail varnish once, as I see Lola dying my own, blowing, blonde on her lips, as I pull her up into my lap and kiss her.

I give a nod, praying that soon I’d see the black haired girl stand up, her eyes fixed on mine, with that mischievous grin spread on her angelic face. I gesture for Antony to sit down, as he flopps down with a thud, leaning his head back, staring at the ceiling. It lasts only for a second before he sits up straight, looking at me then at Richard, who by the rules, if starting from the back should have been first.

He stands up, headphones hanging lazily around his neck, as he speaks for the rest. I don't concentrate on his words, stealing several glances at the different eye coloured student. She couldn’t help but glance at me several times as well, her eyes locking intensively into mine. I loosen my scarf more, gesturing Richard to sit down for the sake of all humanity. Right, he preferred classical pencil drawings. I caught that last bit ignoring how he introduced himself, as I didn’t bothered if he preferred to be called Richie or Richard.

Screw. Him.


“Yeah, you.” I smile, as a girl gestures at herself, hiding her face behind her chestnut brown hair. She stands up revealing a face full of naïve freckles. A hand was ruffling her hair as she spoke, the other with her nails digging into the table. Her face a bright red of the embarrassment and the amount of attention she was receiving. “Nadia. Nadine. Nad. Doesn’t… really matter. Oil. Seventeen.”

So, I had a seventeen year old. I smile at her, so she’s at ease, after all I knew what it was like if on your first day the teacher glares at your attempt to smile and look all proper student smile thing crap. I nod for her to sit down and she exhales, bringing a hand to her forehead closing her amber eyes in defeat. It's all ahead and I'm glad that's not for me.

“Miles. Just… Miles. Oil, pencil, pastel, water colour? Basically everything, just… Fifteen.” He shrugs under his chin length or even longer jet black hair which seems dyed. He doesn't bother to shrug his hair off as it even covers part of his mouth. He has a lip ring, his ears pierced and I think I can make out a tongue and eyebrow ring. Silver crosses are as rings in both ears along with different hoops and plain circle or other shape ones. He brushes a steak of his hair revealing a piercing baby blue eye with kohl for a single second before his hair falls down again covering it once more.

“Joanna.” A girl stands up, tearing herself from a conversation she was holding with her friend. Her light hair is held up high in a ponytail so neat that I can't see a steak sticking out. I see her morning, as she combs it, her face concentrated on the awaited long gone day. Her lips are a heart shape and her applied lip gloss makes a rather heavy 'look at my lips' accent. Then she smiles, revealing her teeth in a friendly, un-Hollywood like way unlike her neat hairstyle. “Seventeen. Pencil lately, since I’m not really got at it, I’m kinda practicing, y’know?”

I give a nod and a sign for the next girl to stand up. She stands up, giving a quick eye roll to Joanna, fixing the end of her baby doll dress. Her dark blue eyes look around for a while, scanning her surroundings. “Melee. Yes, that’s my name. Sixteen. Oil.”

With that she sits down, fixing her dress again and returning to her conversation with Joanna. I wonder if me and Lola looked like twenty when we were their age. Her dark brown hair is neatly cut and arranged that it looks straightly from a stylist or maybe I got it right. She laughs from while to while ignoring my gaze and soon enough I drop it, knowing what exactly art lessons are always like and I usually am dragged into or make the conversations myself.

Then I look back at her, her gaze fixed on something else, something behind. I watch her turn back, giving out a small fascinated smile. Then she looks up, watching the top of my head, her eyes capturing,

Searching for my brown roots.

Chapter 20

Tuesday, 14 December 2010


The longing gets intense, as new portraits hang around smiling, looking all sexy and seductive.
Try to lure…

But into what?

The curtains are closed from the morning light as the clock hits the magical glittery four, as questions mumble out of the mouth, as blood from the open wounds, bones breaking through the flesh, eyes closed, breathing ceased,


Friday, 10 December 2010

Papercut. Chapter 18.

I wake up on that Saturday, feeling rather numb, the reminder of waking up as if my skin had been torn away as I'd lay forgotten somewhere cold, everything freezing, the eyes shut tight as if I were drinking tea with death, as he'd grin at me if he could, as I sat naked, my hair spiked all of a sudden, my eyebrows raised, as if I was going to end up as a sex toy. Out of character, I know. Watch me change, baby.

I think I got ill. I walk numbly, I brush my teeth numbly, I pull on my clothes numbly and I jump down the stairs numbly. When I was sad I used to pick out a word and stuff it wherever I could. It was supposed to be fun, when missing an episode of Pokemon seemed like tragedy. As I make my way into the kitchen I can already hear Kayleen’s laugh with Morrissey telling me to stop in my mind. She peeks out and greets me with a nod, as she takes a sip of the cup of tea. I don’t bother to nose myself or listen to her conversation, I feel sleepy and I believe that my lack of sleep will be the one who shall keep devouring my days, something which had been dancing with me all along. I make toast, glancing at the clock, feeling uneasy, all phrases rushing back and forth.

Half an hour.

I will be there on time.

What should I do? With the time and lingering ideas?

Storm in, rip my shirt off, snog some girl? Swear at them, throw papers at them with pencils, curse the day they were born? Should I wear glasses, should I be nerdy to those whom I could've still been with if I was eternal? I keep thinking as my toast nearly gets burned in a neat way with hearts and duckies, then Kayleen hangs the phone, sitting on the chair, her thoughts plastered but in a foreign language as I am no female or whatever to read faces or minds. She gives me a quick smile, holding the phone in her hand, thinking about something, stealing several glances at me, maybe hearing nothing, as I seem to breathe and that's not silence, but so does she.

I glance back at her, not understanding what her glances actually hint, but then there's no cheek in the tongue or whatever girls were told to get guys from. I get the thought of a possibility of a flirting note in it, but I call myself paranoid, as I seem to fear girls, but not in the way, that I shall scream and choke from my own spit and soon enough I drop the idea. I get another jar or marmalade making my options wider by buying different flavors that day, still have got money, will ponder when I won't. The silence seems to pierce the air and I cannot think of a nice topic to bring up.

“I’m gonna have some friends over. You got any plans for today? What about that call, did you get the job, Roman? You never really said it, you just stared as I was watching TV and then I didn’t really bother to raise it.” Kayleen says, since some reality show was on, with some celebs I might've seen, they looked like bunnies only no eighty year old in a silk robe was seen, so doubt that Hef was showing off what he bought the other day, thousands of words in a second, as concern is written on her face. Friendly concern, I correct myself in my head. Who cares what my other self thinks of her? If my other self was suicidal, I don't have to bite my veins, do I? I bite my toast, clearing my head from that sinful thought, chewing. I swallow.

“Boyfriend?” I say that taking another bite before I stop myself. Maybe Morrissey had some secret to tell. Great, I’m showing interest in her love life, but then isn't that what girls talk about, surely not about kohl 24/7, which absolutely in no way should concern me unless I wanted to be her next and am praying every night that they would break up, she’d then storm onto my room, tears running down her cheeks and then I'd kiss her movie style, because they don't really french in the movies and french kissing is kind of straight forward, but then no use being shy. Then I’d hug her tightly, kiss her forehead, call him a bastard for dumping her due to two timing her/saying that her parents would never approve of her dyed red hair/saying that tea kills your brain cells/no exact reason at all/ not saying it aloud but his dumb face clearly hinting two timing or a hot new girlfriend/ sudden one night stand and admitting it. Then she’d cry her heart out and then I’d suggest watching some soapy chick flick she loves and most likely kiss her if the plan to french and have sex fails. Then comes marriage and babies, loads of them.

I blank out by the sudden prediction of future that I barely hear her answer. What creeps me out is that it doesn't sound as bad and flicking the channel to Paris Hilton is nearly useless, as I had flipped through Lola quite a few channels ago. I apologize and she repeats it again, realizing that she was speaking rather quiet, so there was no possible way that I could have heard her.

“Mmm, not really. More like a girl’s night. Don’t worry we won’t be late and most likely there will be a sleepover. We won’t run around like mad at three am, I promise.” She smiles, not tearing her eyes from the cup, maybe she was hiding something or maybe she was plainly tired but due to the need or organization got up rather early. I just nod in agreement, feeling another question about Mr. Kayleen on my tongue, but I swallow it and take another bite of toast. I try to picture him, if he had a six pack and if he likes her.

“Sure.” I say out loud, not really understand why she said it, why she even asked, but I don’t bother, ok, maybe I hadn't made sleepover friends, but then imagining Melvin sleep is highly unlikely. Soon enough, I finish my breakfast, feeling that I may have eaten a truckload, well, it feels like that and I head out. I say goodbye before I leave and she makes another call as soon as I leave and I hear her laughter as I close the door with a thud. I imagine her calling her girlfriends, even if she'll see them soon and replying everything when nothing had happened.

I haven't drawn after lessons, fiddling with the lost internet, until I had fixed it with a few calls and a few arguments and accuses from the other side and then just sitting there, trying to chew with the fact that I once had a past and now there's nothing holding me, the taste of freedom and ability on my tongue and I can do nothing.

I lock the door with the key in haste, soon enough I am on my way to the bus stop. I find myself walking way faster, a big lump in my throat. I wonder if I'll chew it'll go away. I find everything spin, as I realize that basically this is my first ever job, as I never got payed for my drawing skills. I watch buses go by, as I do not see the needed number and neither can I draw one upon, even if the lie will be there I won't make others belive or the owner of the given lie. I never thought I’d get one, maybe they didn’t care about the resume, I dropped by. Or maybe they wanted to say it to my face, to see how I looked never reaching one and seventy.


“You’re a psycho.”

Psycho Killer.

Qu'est Que C'est.

Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better.


“So what? I think it’s cool, basically I’m two-timing you on your knowledge.”


“You think it’s that cool for that to be an excuse?”



Denial with physical lack and rough contact.

I see her there standing, her icy gaze locked into mine. I see her leaning towards me, desiring to cause me pain, it's inside her, I should rip her chest open, I belived souls to be white, I'd blow, the blue I gave would devour me and I'd be there no longer and she'd sew it herself. I lean against her, I feel the softness of her skin, as I kiss it gently, but then I realize that it’s just the morning air getting warmer. I raise my head and see the number.

She’s not here.

She never will be.

I caught her eyes.

They were too big, so I spit them out.

I’m sure I did back then at the airport. Of course I did. She should be here somewhere, reading to jump out, her hair hanging messily, due to some celebrity image she was aiming for. I still feel her, I feel her fingers against my scalp. I desire to feel them, even if my dreams are divided into two. I press my head against the window once more, music blasting in my ears, as I watch everything go past me, just like life.

Did he dump her?

Did I dump her?

I can’t figure it out.

I simply dig my nails into my skin as I watch the area redden lightly until the pain becomes noticeable and I stop, but the pain doesn't, it whines, a smirk shown as the reddened skin. Just like that in that one movement in one sudden decision everything can change. It can ruin you, it can save you, it can kill you.

I search for Frankie once more but I see none, not even a head which could be taken just to call down with a familiar back of the head, as if I'd be interested I'd imagine my fingers lacing his hair, as I'd tilt him back. I search for Melvin. Not here. I search for Jill. Neither. She's the one who's stroking Frank due to duty. I search for everybody who I can recall. All I get is suspicious glares and mutters about my music being way too loud for their own liking. I do nothing and they get off to my pleasure.

Why should I care?

Why should I fucking care about somebody I do not know?

I feel the urge to paint everything around me in other tones.

Just like I would do.

I am going insane.

I stare at the glass. I press my palm against it.

I want it to crumble, I want it to dig into my skin. I want it to kill me. I want it to get me to Lola. But she's not dead, but I'll wait, watching buildings crash, as cars whizz past me, as I'll sit in the busy street, my hair never changing, no roots to dye and no one checking my forehead if I'll have fever.


I never took her hand, let alone pressed it against my mouth.

I want her to look at me bleeding to death, since it is her own fault. I could see her own blonde locks pressed against her forehead in concentration, her eyes filled with tears.

Why would I want her to feel pain? Because I'd feel it, I want her to share the moment with me.

…Why would I?

I stop and get out of the bus, realizing that I am a stop early. I need the fresh air, I bend in two, feeling power leave me. I look up, I see no blonde red locks. I see nobody. Nobody stops, they all whizz by this is the center after all. They just go past, like in movies when they show how everything passes quickly, all I see is different colored spots. I see someone mutter about a drug overdose, that it is cool to be a fake celebrity. Can I get a robe, I don't want to lay naked, as the clothes will be taken away, as nothing will grow out and the scream will be silenced with my body, mouth opened wide, eyes shut and that's how I'd die. I want to launch myself at them, tear their throat apart with my teeth. I am sweating. I make it to the next bench and sit down, breathing heavily.



“Go away.”

It is my imagination. I look up from my Converse. Blonde locks, light eyes, troubled smile, bracelets hanging on both hands, heart shaped face. She smiles until she hears the go away. I repeat it again, my mind not making the connection. She's so faint.

She turns around, as I try to call out to her. But she’s gone.

Like always. I curse and close my eyes.

I’m gonna be a teacher.

I'm gonna ruin lives.

Chapter 19

Tuesday, 7 December 2010


If I let melancholy take me over,
would it still be the same,
as I'd sit with headphones falling upon my nose,
as I'd wish I were five, with the same mind,
I'd listen to cheesy, what you call alternative pop rock
with sunflowers dancing
above in the deep blue sky
as I'd suck on my lemon lollypop
wondering who were the one to give my third kiss
were he the one who gave it to me last time
were his eyes blue as the sky above
was the skin white as if it were the sand
would his voice be as if it were from the luring waves
would his jealousy be as if he were a seagull waiting for a sub
would he wrap his arms around me
as the music would fade
we'd both become old
and forget that we both once existed?
Then I'd want to be five again,
the thought above the golden gates
as I'd be hung
the melancholy gone,
as I'd reach seven with lies kissed into my ears
then then
I didn't finnish school,
Nothing to tell,
as then the thoughts go white with fear
I'd ask you how it was
you'd be silent
as if you were a seashell,
so be one,
I'd kick you out,
be five again,
sucking on the six
slowly, as I'd regret
the five years
because that's what we do
rant and complain
on the thoughts which we get
on a plate
as they emerge as if they were dead fishes
we just bite their heads off
the eyes rolling upon the pavement
with the movement
as they climb upon
and eat our own
that's how kids are born
I drink my coke
and throw it into the ocean
I don't want to be eaten
But I'm sure I'm pregnant
with the thought green and eco
and lifeless
and still
and dull.


Friday, 3 December 2010

Papercut. Chapter 17.

I see him there.

He resembles a nightmare.

Whenever he inhales, closing his eyes, savoring the bitter taste with fragments of thoughts, as it turns into smoke, blinding.

He ruffles his chestnut hair, mimicking me, the same grin, the same oval shape of the face. The same thin lips, same length of eyelashes. As if he were shattered and glued with frozen duct tape, as if he'd take it off or maybe he had wrapped it around us both, running in circles around, as I'd watch myself do it. His hazel eyes meet mine as a grin appears on his face, he opens his mouth revealing his teeth. Not as white as they can be, due to that cig sometimes showing between his lips, whenever he takes one out of a box, looking down, eyelashes together until a hazel burns underneath. Whenever he flicks his lighter against it.

He tugs on his mossy green scarf, as it goes longer, I blink and it's gone, the neck exposed, as if the scarf were given to me, as I feel another layer or arms around my own, as the fingers crawl above. It's back. Loosed around his neck, exposing a part of skin. His eyes, an intense brown yet seem like dark honey, a familiar broken moon.

I feel the need to ask his name, stretch out the hand to stroke the imaginary flesh my mind draws, as I try to find peace with myself, even if he'd be holding a knife cutting his nose off, as he stares back, as if I voiced it aloud. He shakes his head, muttering that I know the answer myself, the knife splitting his bottom lip, as thoughts break.

He seems older, my age, than that other time I saw him.

He matured in the face, his eyes revealing a light bloodshot due to the lack of sleep.

He paints, draws, sketches. He believes in impressionism, he loathes realism, he believes in himself.

He tilts his chin up, despite his height, which is average.

Building the world around him, as if he still were thirteen, in the given to him utopia.

He blows smoke in my face. I didn’t see him light that second cigarette, as the first was eaten by myself as he mouthed words, the scarf around both, as if it were mutual. He snatches my hands away from myself, as if I could pierce them, as he twirls me, fast and faster until we are in a circle, in position. Several bangs fall on his eyes, shielding himself from above, he seems taller, as I seem to shrink, as if he'd show me myself with the undisclosed desires written on the insides of my mouth as I'd speak them out, he'd sit down, knees around his self, as he'd look above, his hair growing out, as we both grow old and nothing will do nothing.

We are watching ourselves.

“And you are?”


It's an injection, a reality overdose, flashes of light everywhere, as the small boy had grown, the flashlight in his hands, as everything goes gray, he looks up, blonde from brown and he flashes it at me, opening his mouth, eating the light.

But there is no light, no young boy, just an echo of myself.

There is the chestnut haired boy, there are the soft whispers in my ear, there’s the soft white around, as he soothes me, his mood shaking, as if he were hung.

I stop the dance, releasing myself from the grip. He smirks and begins to laugh nearly bends in two, hair divided, his eyes changing, as I cannot tell. A frown appears on his face, leaning against the air. A wall?

Break it down.


Pretty please.

With a teapot to break with a baseball bat, as I had known all to idolize.

I think I shall commit suicide at the peak of inspiration.

He writes it on the wall with a marker, only to lick it off with his tongue, saying that it tastes like candy floss.

“Nice to meet you, Roman.” He looks up, breathing out, the gaze held in the smoke with a rope of desire to speak mutual.

“I’ve known you before.” I mutter that, feeling my voice squeak, as he somehow manages to cut it off afterwards and I feel the blood moisturizing my throat.

“Likewise.” He smirks, inhaling, eyes glued. He smirks, voice shaking, breaking a laugh, which colours his face. His eyes go wide as he leans, examining my face, identical as his, taking me by my chin. I see my reflection. I see how pale, how skinny, how Romanesque I am. He brings the cig to his mouth inhales, closes, exhales and then presses the end of the cig against my mouth for me to inhale. “Inhale.”

I shake my head, feeling my body shake. He smirks again, not tearing his eyes, slowly moving the cig back to his mouth. He leans back, his hand patting my shoulder, his hands stroking the exposed skin under the scarf, as the fingers go through it, it is his, before he winks and walks off, his hands deep in his pockets.

Dream over.


I wake up.

Just like that and I stare at the ceiling.

It’s still night-time, maybe somewhere around three. I still feel his presence. But then he always was there, laughing, as several bangs fall on his eyes, he brushes them off under music, dancing.

I recall everything that happened today, but then I regret it, trying to push everything away as further as possible, as thoughts linger both mine and his, the broken and torn by his own teeth to which I had created an envelope, let it be there, as I feel sick. I don’t feel homesick, I just feel homesick for something else, something I can’t recall, something I don’t understand but something I long for.

I turn to another side, the voice of Thomas in my head.

Tomorrow was going to be my day, I was going on this Saturday to teach. I was going to be a teacher for those sixteen year olds who know nothing I had known, as I had stuck and laughed out. I could see them now, laughing, poking each other, making out.


The thoughts horrid as I had known nothing.

We started dating at sixteen. Teachers would yell at us for our behavior for snogging on classes, disgusting other students, like they said, as if we have had sex with them all and hung their virginities between our faces. But then who didn’t snog everywhere at sixteen? I’d like to look at that person in the eye, asides from my teachers who seemed to even lack the fact of knowing what a kiss on the cheek even was, believing that people were born from strawberry ice cream or barbie dolls. So maybe that was explainable.

Then I turn onto another side, closing my eyes shut, trying to think of tomorrow, that everything would be ok. That getting a nice check was all that mattered, not the snogging sixteen year olds which would make me think about Lola.


Maybe I’ll find myself a nice sixteen year old girl. Or her older sister. Or somebody in the university? Then an image of Melvin asking Jill out got stuck into my head. Maybe not.

I keep switching sides, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. I can still feel her, then a glimpse of red hair is in my head. Now, stop. I turn around, not caring, because the thoughts about Kayleen, are certainly not mine. Lola, Lola, Lola. I'm I flooding my own head with her? Is she my excuse to purity not to start thinking about somebody else? Is it her curse or my own? For the beliefs I always held? Was that what she meant when she raised her voice at me, when he just stood there?

I put my head under the pillow, feeling its pressure and the heat of being under it, as it were a body. Kill it, stab it, suck it. I throw the pillow against the wall, my head on the mattress. I open my eyes once more and stare at the gray ceiling, colour it in rainbows, trying to keep my mind blank.

Now her voice is ringing in my ears, melancholy written above.

Do I want it to leave me?


Chapter 18

Wednesday, 1 December 2010



I saw a badge today with ‘I want my virginity’ back.
I could’ve bought it.
But I’m still a virgin.

It was as well as I’ve said that I want my first kiss back, as if I regret it.
But then I do.
It was experimental.
Was I drunk?
Was I in love?

I wanted to wake up the same, lying in the same sheets reeking of something else than sleep and a body lies besides mine, the covers warmer and emptier than usual.
I want to tell her to get out, have my hands in front of my face, as my actions and perverted dreams turned into reality as I close the door, the window wherever I’d kick her out.
I’d smoke.
But I don’t.
Until now, as my friend gives me one and I drag it easily,

because it’s the end of the year.
Of fucking school of the teachers yapping what the fuck should you do, when you fucking shouldn’t and tear you away from reading another chapter of Kafka or either watching some random reality show to catch up a cheesy line and laugh it out loud in front of your friends.

I have friends who are running in front of me, more girlfriends, relations lasting more than four days.

They have no on and off relations in their heads with pop stars, as the pleasure comes from a glance and the vivid dreams of the past decade wraps up the mind until it bursts open in front of a computer screen, while chewing on a pencil thoughtfully, trying to resemble some mature poet.

I saw my ex today.
The girl I’d give my virginity to.
She clinged to some guy.
I stared at her, eating my ice cream forcefully, slowly licking it up and down for a determinate look.

My friend came wearing the badge smoking and poking the badge proudly, because he’s not a virgin and he wants it back. He gave it to me saying that then I’d get laid quicker.
I could whisper it, grasping the badge and get myself a one stand,

but what for?
The letters don’t even shine.

They are bleak.
Like the possibility of getting laid.
With the consequences, blood and possibility of being a father, holding the hand through the screaming, cursing and facing where the fuck did you come from to stare at a small, corrupted reflection of what happened to your fluids, if everything went wrong
                                                                                                      or right judging the mother’s face.

I consider it a while.

I want it back.


Request more solo Richey fanfiction in the comments section below.

Friday, 26 November 2010

Papercut. Chapter 16


What the fuck is wrong with everybody? It's as if they are part of some cult, their hands held up, waving frantically, doing some tree dance with pop music in the background. White, white, pearly sick, frightening white. I had an urge to stain it even with my own blood. They're the ones laughing at me.

“Architecture. Yeah, I kind of like it and my parents gave me approval.” Melvin says with a light chuckle. Giggle. Wait, who the hell's dad, he looks like a talking to fish druggie.

Is that what it is about? Being a fucking good son to have your parents’ approval? How miserable. I eye him, feeling disgusted. How annoying, how foolish, how naïve. His blood would make a proper red instead of the white.

It was the white I was threatened with.

The white pajamas with my hands tied at the back.

The fucking white walls.

The fucking bed with white covers.

The washed to holes white floor.

It was so sick.

That's what the definition of sick is, not some dreams and pictures of fears and back thoughts.

“Yeah, only. I’m not that really into it. Architecture, I mean. I want to be an artist and that’s risky. I agree with my parents on that.” She smiled back at him, not even glancing in my direction. I tilted my head watching her insignificant corpse standing there.

Parents’ approval?

What the fuck was good in that?

They'll die anyway and there's nothing we'll ever be able to do, but then we die as well with no one to look after the grave and maybe our ashes won't ever be scattered even if asked, as then everything we ever had will be burned or thrown away, as the thoughts will be stashed away to the last moments, as someone would wish they knew what death is like and maybe then they'd summon the pile of ashes stuck to a crab or a rotten skeleton taken out of the grave with one rotten eye in the mouth.

Life is short, without any risk there is no champagne. Who wants to spend their life being stuck in middle class just because of that plain denial that your parents gave you with a pat on the head, just to never get ill of winning something, that you started breaking everything anyone has ever achieved, your name sparkling in your head and you'd say it's enough, smile and keep going.

But then, wasn’t that when I broke loose, to actually give something to burn for the flames to try and get someone who shall be sitting in the front row, our names never exchanged. When I had tears streaming down my cheeks?

When I shoved my paintings towards them? When I screwed school, my girlfriend, who I did not love, I kept breaking loose, like an overdose of drugs, drawing maniacally, sending everything ever possible to universities and contests, which I wanted and what did I get?

“That’s weak. That’s what it means? I am not dating until I’m thirty because my parents think that is unacceptable for a lady? Screw it.” I snap, flopping myself onto the desk, bringing my legs with me, my gaze piercing her essence, trying to at least, never failing, life rule. C'mon. Melvin’s head quickly turns to look at me. His eyes look at me in shock, trying to cope with what I said, no mate, I don't care about you or your attempt. Hah.

“What’s the point in sacrificing your existence, the lonely years of sanity into something your parents approve? What is the point of that, love? If you'll turn into a parent someday, a misunderstanding towards the new generation, which might actually try to do something.” I stand up and lean towards her, her breath on my own. I glance towards her lips then back to her piercing blue eyes.

“Coward.” I say and turn towards her future boyfriend, maybe even husband despite on how much they were zombiefied. Melvin stands frozen, I think that's his name I wonder if Roman stood up from his coma with a megaphone and fell back down, stay there, whispering my name before losing all belief. Oh, he is so wrong. I so am not the kid. I'm not as foolish as he is. “And you? An architect? What art is that? Sleeping with a freaking ruler drawing plain lines screaming about your dullness which creeps in your soul? Let it out to let people live in it? Useless. Let it devour you, let it eat you, if you even have it in the first place there's enough to feast on!" I throw my arms, exaggerating, but I feel it inside me, so I let it out. "Of course, why risk? Why let my parents down? No freaking guts to tell them what you feel! Let them live in what their son created!"

I raise my voice at the end of the sentence, smirking at them. Fools.

Then I look at them again.

Those two insignificant corpuses, standing there dumbly, despite their animal attraction, try to be my friends. I used to grab the first skirt I see and barely talked to any geeks, whoch Roman spent his time with, closing his eyes and describing Lola. I glance at them feeling myself ease. This is new. Should I play with it?

Maybe there was a point in tying me up. To make me relax, to look at the numb white which people reach out for, trying to lose, only to gain in a while, when they can or maybe to lose once more.

Maybe there was a point in letting me die, letting myself die, as my last moments consisted of staring into that numb white. I feel my eyes dry out and then something wet moisturizes them, not going deep inside but screaming to get out.

Those two, stare at me, their heads tilted towards each other, their eyes looking through me, as if reading me.

Maybe I should let him go.

Maybe I should let him live.

“I’m sorry.”

“You want to be an artist? Devote your whole life into an endless risk? That’s…” She seems to ignore my curses, accuses, as her eyes sparkle in pride for me, not pity is it, love and I trace no sarcasm. Ok, I am tired if I do not see it. “…brilliant!”

Melvin nods, wrapping his arm stronger around me, he is the wrapper now, I feel like Roman the need to lean my head against someone else's to feel the blinding echo, the smile not holding a flirting characteristic in it. Instead it is warm, soft, welcoming, just like Jill’s piercing blue eyes.

Maybe I am the fool.

“I think you’re amazing, mate. Not anybody can take that risk.” Melvin says it, means it, ruffling my dyed blonde hair, pulling me closer to him. Jill throws her own arms around me, blushing at the light contact with Melvin through my body between them. Orgy?

Maybe I really am.

Maybe that’s why I let myself cry, just in front of them, letting the white classroom walls swallow me. Or maybe it's all in my head, a dream and I'm still stuck with no popcorn left and the books read or maybe there never was any popcorn.

But I'm between them, both of them, holding me unlike those pajamas with love bursting from both of them, protecting me, from the sick white. Or did I want to go back or did I want a numb corner to lay on the lukewarm water resembling floor with cut dyed blonde hair? From the white which could be my death. Which was my death. I lean my chin against their shoulders brushing against each other. I bite my lip, feeling Melvin’s hoodie go wet as well as Jill shirt’s white fabric go wet as well with my thoughts.

Then in that perfect relaxed feeling, I feel a small tingle in my right arm, go up and upper. My body is going numb, I am losing balance, I feel my eyes blur out and fall out. The images in front of me out, the white taking over.

Is this it?

No, then, there, it is her.


I whisper, but it doesn’t go loud, my lips move, before my face goes numb.

I don’t die.

I don’t faint.

I just let him take over.

For a while.

No longer.

For I have something to fight for.

Chapter 17

Wednesday, 24 November 2010


I'd like to thank everyone who supported me, who believed in me, who coped with my questions concering their own experiences at thirteen and simply those who believed.

13 is an Utopia is my novel, which I shall publish and the link will be up, when the book shall be available.

Once again, thank you all.


I keep digging my hands into my pockets, because there just there I feel my eyes digging deeper and deeper until it seems vulgar.
But not as much, until he opens his mouth.
“You’re talented.”

And it gets more vulgar with sloppy kisses upon the tongue.
But the thing is that you never realize it or maybe realization comes mixing, adding a numb taste a ‘get the fuck away’ hint, like thought, ripping as you keep counting wondering where had the numbness gone.

It’s like taking another mouth all at once, not sure how and you keep thinking that it shall repeat, the bizarreness, the uneasiness. But it gets bold. As the demands get higher, like in a contest when it should be more and more.

Carved. Only when it’s carved inside you with stitches leaking out mixed with liquid you get the wound kissed by another wound, a big black gasping wound with the tips of it shot upwards that its found someone else.


(2014) Until now I pretty much just hid it as a regular short story, but it was written with the Thom/Michael pairing really.

Request more Thom Yorke/Michael Stipe fanfiction below in the comments section.

Friday, 19 November 2010

Papercut. Chapter 15.

The bus ride doesn't seem anything special, seems usual, as if I had seen these houses sleep all my life, as people crawl out and for a second a feel as if there is something pressing against my back.

Nothing, but I see him eating an apple.

So I'm I, sleeping.

You're home, call down, Roman.

How can I?

It felt as if memories from three days ago were something I saw in a life or my past life, as if there were a nightmare I had woken up and somebody had been feeding me grapes the past three years. I'd say some Goddess, but the only one I've seen I have lost.

I could feel the music try to blur out my thoughts and I obey, pressing my head against the window feeling the morning cold get divided from me by the thick glass.

The morning was set on replay, as I was looking at my split-personalities lost album which he had written above the faces who was whom or rather why was Kayleen close and why was she holding a knife. She seemed frequent in his memories. Was I the split-personality as well? Did I have something for her as well? She keeps asking me as I look at my Converse. She takes my face in her hands, trying to open my eyes, as my split-personality stands or rather sits on the seat in front, chewing something, I hope not my
liver or something. The talks between them seem to end quickly, as if she suspects something strange and soon enough the door clicks in a sad way. Door? I press my head against the cupboards.

Was I home?

I could feel another hair ruffle and a smirk.

I wasn’t gasping at everything and in every way my symptom described. I was sane, my body was simply a vessel for the both of us, really, as we'd take turns and have a poker night to choose who was going next
and how much.

But despite the fact that I could spill my heart out again, I saw no possibility to get rid of it. The pills had an amazingly funny effect, which I didn’t bother to describe now.

It was either living with it or she could leave.

Yeah, that would do.

I looked ahead trying to see a glimpse of dark hair and a black haired girl, in other words Frankie and his girlfriend. I saw nothing that resembled them and proceeded back to my window gazing. Everything was
passing by, trees, buildings, people with coffee in their hands. I even felt a sudden urge for coffee, as the bus made a stop.

I walked outside watching students whizz by in the grounds. Some lay on the grass, not bothering with the start in five minutes, others hesitating, some clearly running with pencils behinds their ears falling down as they nearly tripped on me. Oh, my damned height. I walked on, not getting bothered by anybody. I should be the one who should bother.

I raise my chin, wondering where did I find self-obsession, stepping aside giving way to those who run inside as if it was the way to salvation. Maybe it was the light side after twelve years of boredom now left for others to swallow. Let them, huff and puff the first five minutes. They'll do the same for the next generation. Let them lay forgotten by the teachers, who sharp their teeth with chalk and markers, in the grass. But I walk inside at a normal pace, ignoring the world, the teachers in my head, as I saw farewell, as I embrace my
first full university day. Simple, just like that. No more bites on the neck as parents tend to believe that I screwed girls when it was mere school.

I walk on as a familiar voice makes me stop. I get a hold of the ending a mere ‘..kie’ floating in the air by a few familiar notes building a simple voice. Now it gets louder with heavy breathing coming closer to me, is this an intimate moment in my nineteenth year and how everyone describes uni as being a rather kinky place but then I see no cool naked dudes? I seem or at least try to concentrate and I do not feel like seeing them as I have heard that voice before.

Indeed, I have. I see a familiar guy run nearly past me in a green hoodie, with a white drawstring and a black one on the left both hanging. He doesn't stabilize his breath, he doesn't bother and it's more than audible even with people talking and the crowd stuck in their chalk drawn circles of friendship.

Hair stuck to his forehead, sweat dripping, eyes covered by light chestnut glue threaded in rows, eyelashes pierced together resembling a small pitch black line, a thin nose sticking out somewhere underneath the waterfall of sweat and sticky hoddie stuck to his back or is the nose supposed to be above it all, resembling a trophy allowing the possibility to breath in the discarded thoughts of others?

He raises his head, his eyes freed from the prison as blood leaks out, I blink, it's gone but I hear a knife cutting softly with a numb moan from behind his bangs as a big grin forms, not pausing his huffing for one bit. Melvin, pushes his hands from his a while ago stitched knees as the needle and the thread is there. He straightens up, pulling his arms, showing the hands underneath the oversized hoodie, closes his eyes, grins at some thought, looks around, blushes, laughs and comes back to me, looking brand new apart from the remaining eternity held in a thought inside a balloon.

“Hey, Rome.” His gray blue eyes greet me in a friendly way, as he takes several bangs out of his other eye. Then his lips form a perfect ‘o’, as he takes my hand and yanks it forward with him. As realization comes with world corruption, as something goes wrong above it all. What is it, Melvin? “Frankie? Frankie? Where are you?”

The world needs Frank. That's it the gift to eternal salvation, Frank.

He doesn't feel embarrassed, he never does apparently, the child within in destroying the lego houses demanding for naive attention, but he never asks it over the top, I think, I guess but then a child
is an egoistic creature. He raises his voice and pouts, running to the left with my arm in his grip, as if he were a cheerleader and I were his pom-pom, sounded weird, Mel, I don't want to be your pom-pom. Is that what we and Frankie were? Is that it can a mere thought gone wrong spoil the impression? Without any choice left I follow, I am the pom-pom and as banal as the thing and as sparkly, I guess. I manage to greet him back, as we run and he answers with an excited smirk on his tired face.

In the end we find Frankie, who wishes that he could hide from the red pom-pom and his sidekick the culprit of disaster. See? That's how school corrupts you, even after several months of graduation the flames of an unholy place are there with screeches and numbers cutting the throat trying to bite your sanity.

They do.

They find none.

He can only smash his own head against the wall, call it suicide but in other violent cases, but then he shall always be the culprit of aggression, as we'd lay there cracked, nothing leaking out and no aggression shown or yeah, no aggression just maybe a few question held and thrown diagonally, never reaching the core of his thoughts, destroyed with the folder where are names are written, a golden medal given out for killing someone, as Roman who can harm the society with his misbalance. Melvin presses his back against the wall, feeling himself slide down with a thud, his legs clearly in the way of other students. He raises his head, the bangs still glued, he seems to ignore the compliments about his long legs dividing the hallway. Maybe he is a nineteen year old kid, I just hope their is something than that there inside, as I realize how harsh I judge people, Frankie already with an anger management in my head, Melvin sucking on a lollypop. Mel even ignores somebody’s kick until he kicks them back as softly as he could unlike them, his head not moving, eyes closed, eyelids shut and sometimes he open them, quickly glancing at the man himself.

Frank smiles at him, Melvin forces out a smile, sighs and gives out as real as he can actually make it.

It's impossible to argue against people you like, there is simply too much distraction, so you just smile dumbly even if the argument is small and mute.

I watched them both amused, wondering if I can buy popcorn nearby, as he stretches out his arms once more above his head making a circular motion against the wall, his breath steadying, the circle catching his hair and his light eyes in the center, looking down, catching lost thoughts.

“Hey, Frank…” I hold myself from adding the ‘ie’ to the end, as I am no Melvin. But still when Melvin calls him Frankie face to face, sometimes a tense answer would escape from his mouth, but usually he never bothers and goes on despite Frank's glare and Melvin wins. As I figure, he always was trying to show coldness in his voice, his eyes sometimes reflecting second thoughts, hiding emotions unlike Melvin who has the naivety I lost ages ago.

“Frankie, did they really divide us?” Melvin moans closing his eyes, not knowing his own reaction, not feeling the urge to watch as Frank approves the staff’s decision. Is he afraid of meeting new people or he likes clinging onto the square jawed handsome in girl's eyes guy? Frankie nods, but then sees Melvin’s shut eyes and says it aloud, a small frown forming on his as some would describe Greek Godlike face. To me he's not attractive, not my type of guy sorry, I'm all for my split-personality, of course my soulmate in the same body and pure narcism all the way, baby!

“Aw, that sucks, Frank. Hey, Rome, what lesson do you have now?” Curiosity printed with red ink of his face along with a trail of blue hope. But he was so open to me yesterday, why was he so worried about going alone into a class full of students? The idea alone made the brown haired male spring to the life literally as he jumps up, grabbing my arms and waving them hysterically, a grin forming instead of the tired pout.

“History… of art?” I pronounce it more like a question than a statement when I know what my first class is but nothing else which follows, between pauses, praying that I had some luck left to make Mel
my classmate. Then Melvin jumps up high, pulling me into a tight hug, throwing a fist in the air, kicking his leg in the process, as I jump with him as I have no other choice. I am expecting and get quite a handful of weird glances and possible notes of insanity but I doubt any mental illnesses now in my now not so clean white reputation.

Is it easy to figure that I have a split personality? Is it easy to see that I am not myself sometimes, that I flirt or is it because the desire to cheat inside is that bug that I cannot hold it and I manage to do it via another person.


I am calling my other self a person?

But he is really a part of me complicating the puzzle which is Roman?

“Yes, take that Frankie! You’ll be alone without us! You'll come running! You’ll come begging on your knees, did I say, beg? Well, yeah! And with cookies! Bring the double chocolate ones, please.” Melvin says with a wide grin, mockery included, but a tint of regret often showing itself, threading itself through the fingers closing the gap. Then the bell rings, a silence bomb, grabbing speech and giving a wave of speed for people to run or does it slow them down the feeling of panic tying their eyes and paranoia given as a pill, sweat is water, drink it, student or lay quietly in the grass smoking weed.

“Sure-o, Melvin. I’ll miss you.” Frank says with a quick eye roll, muttering that he'll sees us soon much to his dismay, how shall it be Frank to know that you'll see a lost guy and your hyper best friend in an hour or so? With a rather quick pace he walks towards the classroom which is opposite ours labeled with a fancy card with 106 printed on it, it's not that far I can send him my thoughts and gossip. He glances at us and walks inside, straightening his back, closing his eyes and grasping the fact that he had made it, he's a student, he
keeps the door open to other students which follow or run behind him, he waits a few seconds, looking at the running five people in bright clothes, he ignores the teacher and waits, never glancing at me or Melvin. He needs to breathe in the last glimpses of the left over summer remaining in the autumn air and after the bright spot reaches the gray mass, a big blob of colours, Frank glances at us, smiles, grins, laughs and closes the door with a wave. Melvin pouts, but smiles to himself, as we both head inside after sharing a Frankie stalk together.

“Good thing, we’re both here.” He says aloud, ruffling his light brown hair, grinning at me, patting my back, jumping up again, not glancing if the teacher is there or not, the teacher isn't. A set of curious eyes take notice of our rather fancy entrance and introduction in the hallway or make out session with Mel's legs. Melvin just tilts his head up, standing on his tiptoes, his hands in his pockets, bangs flying backwards, revealing his light eyes as he looks for two seats, empty, I might add. Then he looks down, never admitting his confusion
as he snaps back to sense with a goofy look to see two empty spaces on the first row right in front of the teacher’s nose. I shrug, realizing that I don't really mind and we are kind of late might as well take them or leave and I didn't study hard to leave it because I'll be staring at the teacher too intense and it will be mutual. And above all history of art wasn’t as boring as it actually can be or the first thoughts when you think of it. I’m serious. But then it is boring to quite a bit amount of people, but then so do a lot of things sound boring for myself.

“You’re… Melvin, right?” A voice asks the man himself, as she stands up, a grin flashing. Her face lights up as she sees two familiar faces, both lost for a mere second as we go through the lit faces from yesterday in our minds. Her hair is still gelled back with that flashy hot pink stripe, black frames now to her contrast and a big smile. She tilts her head, moving her gaze onto me, trying to remember my name.

“Thomas?” She asks, unsure and playing with her nails in the process a quick look down and up, smile at Roman, biting her tongue afraid that by the looks of it she gets it wrong and loses a point. Melvin watches
her silently, a smile creeping onto his face again, as I notice that a while ago he had a rather concentrated face. Now an easy smile replaces it.

“Naw, that is good ol’ Rome.” He says swinging an arm across my shoulders, as if I were Frankie, I'm I going to make out in a bus soon then as well? A clear, open, friendly gesture of his. The girl smiles wider, somehow still showing the embarrassment in her voice. Melvin, apparently, the pimp or schoolboy never tears his eyes off her and it seems mutual, I would say romantic, but they don't look canon with Melvin's hoodie unless it was high school, but then uni is an idea way to spend your last teenage year. “And yeah, I’m Melvin.”

“Jill. Sorry, Roman. Nice to meet you both, again.” Jill grins wider, fixing her frames, pushing them up her nose with two fingers, never distracting her, of course there's a potential future boyfriend-to-be maybe even more if she believes in everything which follows. She hears Melvin’s answer, corrects herself, apologizes, smiles and nods pleased with herself for remembering at least one name and guess why and who's. We both stand for a while analyzing each other’s appearance, chewing on the first impression, near to ready to spit it out to analyze each other's inner self and question ourselves if we want it, well, mostly I did. I just stand, watching Melvin open his mouth thinking of a question.

“You have anything in mind you want to do, Jill?” He asks, looking up as if the next question of his was written in graffiti style on the white ceiling. What does he listen to anyway, never got round to ask him really. Why is that always the question of the day when you want to hit on a girl but try to look smart or is it just me with Lola? Sadly, I tend to believe that it's just me considering the fact that I've only dated Lola seriously, a few one-timers don't count and they just kind of fade out. He brings his gaze back to her, the smile still seen in his eyes. I'm not a fool, I do believe that, I am the third one out but I still stand, wondering if I should screw them and sketch something, practice makes perfect, I know that, so I glance from while to while at my class, wondering if I can flirt as well. Sadly, I do not recognize anybody and I'm loyal to my thoughts and my reflection so I just desperately kept glancing as Jill struggles.

“Well, just an artist is risky. I was thinking something with history of art, well, since I enjoy it quite a lot.” She grins wider, tilting her head in the process. I guess I do not have Melvin’s charms, not that I’m jealous. Maybe it's time to get my mind of Lola. No, it isn't.

I'm just being stupid.

Never ever-ever will that be.

I say in my mind, shaking off the dreadful thought of replacing her.


What about her?

Screw you, kid.

Great, I believe I have schizophrenia. I hear that same voice swear at me in a harsh way, maybe he says it aloud, that Jill glances at me suspiciously, but drops it, I'm not the potential boyfriend, after all. She had her mind and thoughts, questions as well flooded with hoodie guy. Always the Melvin type, always.

But that’s about to change, baby.

Chapter 16

Wednesday, 17 November 2010

Today I Would Rather Fall In Love With A Washing Machine Than A Woman

Today I would rather fall in love with a washing machine than a woman.
©Richey Edwards

I just sat there watching my jeans whirl in the washing machine, slowly going into the lull, my eyes going lightly with them with every single gulp.

I leaned against the tub, the bottle near me, as I hummed something neutral trying to buzz out the machine’s sweet talking.

I opened my eyes.

It still spun, even if talked, moved lightly, shook heavily, but continued talking about her day.

I never kissed those whom I had loved.

I wonder what eyes would the washing girl have had?


Like the water she drenches my detachable parts into?

What would she feel like?


Afraid of germs, screeching an ‘ick’ when she’d see one?

Would she stuff my jeans into her mouth and chew, her mouth stretching, gulping the fabric until she’d turn into a huge cube, her mouth falling onto the tiles of the bathroom with a thump and use two fingers as a plug, screeching as the high voltage would take over her.

I wouldn’t be the one giving her pleasure.

I’d be watching.


Giving myself pleasure to deal with it, as it foals my body, immersing myself into her fluids as she breaks down
and my jeans are stuck inside with the second pair drenched.

I’d break the bottle cursing.

Cut my finger.

Get yelled at my new scar on my index finger.

Which shall be in the shape of a moon and she’d get thrown away with the feelings of today immersing.


Friday, 12 November 2010

Papercut. Chapter 14.

I wake up feeling my head blank, that one second when you feel as if you have amnesia or inner bliss, you won the lottery until there is actually a two and the ticket is old and torn. Disqualification. Your life. When you cannot, speak, when you’re pure and resemble something you were until the first thought came, you just stare into nothingness through the closed eye lids. The feeling of breathing is gone, the body numb, light. Then that second of pureness ends and the dreams fall down from the skies in their shiny rockets, like some old forgotten unwrapped memory in the back of the mind. Images, pictures, photos, videos of the dream mixed with a quick, brief description of explaining who the hell are you and what have you done. Then with the next breath I am me once again.

I blink, adjusting my eyes to the morning light, it’s not so pure and milky anymore and the alarm going off in defeat. Even an alarm clock unlike me has a life. I want to be an alarm clock for Christmas. I ruffle my memories of tomorrow, opening every single one with greasy fingers letting them get in my way later. I sit up, feeling my scarf fall on my knee falling off, revealing my sleepy left leg, as the other half of it ends on my chest, brushing it in a familiar way.

Then I take it off just to pull my t-shirt over and as soon as I finish I wrap it again. Comfy. I walk out of the room quickly zipping my jeans and see nobody outside. Success? I struggle for a while but head to the bathroom to see how messy and usual my hair looks for the day. I ruffle it to make it look messier, brush my teeth and everything that follows before leaving home.

I do not bother with counting the steps as I even take some two at a time, I’ll have time when I’ll be chewing my hair out of boredom making a turn at bottom towards the kitchen. I don’t see my roommate and stare at the table, recalling blur images in my head. Oh, great. I open the fridge door and grab the milk carton without thinking and taking a big gulp of

it in thought.

I swear out loud, realizing that I did two bad things in a row. I bite my lip, taking a glass, pouring the white water in it.

I see her storming through the door, pinning me against the cupboards.

A pain shoots through my head, piercing my insides as I choke on my next sip. Then I really do see her, her scarlet hair gelled, a new long sleeved button up shirt with a dark skirt and heels instead of Converse. I stare at her footwear the glass against my lips, breaking my teeth with the cold, I shiver, not making any mouth movement to let the milk make my organism healthier. She greets me with a confused stare and looks at her own footwear. I make an eye movement to my dark Converse and she gets the point.

Oh, telepathy.

“G’morning. Yeah, I’ve got this test crap thing. They said look fancy. Pfft, what’s wrong with Converse? I mean, yeah, sure I look more ‘ladylike’ with heels.” She said a hand gesture with both hands bending two fingers with an eye roll as she heads towards the fridge. “But look, once some posh celebrity appears in a posh evening with very un-posh no-noes Converse, they make it posh and go all ‘oooh’ and voila it’s the trend! Who could have imagined that a cocktail dress with Converse look so good?”

And then Kayleen starts ranting that when she’ll be a celebrity, she’ll wear Converse 24/7 and tell everyone else that they suck. I asked her why not now. She replied with a brief because no one will listen.


I just nod, as she continues ranting, running a hand through her hair as she takes out some strawberry yoghurt. Kayleen grabs a spoon, her mouth not closing, as she rambles on. The red head seems to be average for a teenage girl, bragging about absolutely everything, as if nothing happened yesterday. Well, nothing actually did. She resembles my sister. I remember movies where guys tend to talk about their mums. Well, I’m different, I talk about my sister.

“Oh, toast.” She says as she notices me chewing my own, with marmalade on the top. With a quick movement her chin is on her palms, as she glares at the timer. She takes the toast with her hand, her fingers digging into the toast.

I watch her take a bite.


The voice echoes in my head, slowly blurring my mind as he dances to some Oasis song.




I grin at her, my head tilting to one side as she looks at me confused. A typical what the fuck look. I feel a sudden rush of adrenaline take over me, as I watch her. I think I’m even able to waltz. Kitchen. People eat, people choke, people drink. Endless possibilities run through my head as I imagine her pressed against the table like yesterday, my hand in her hair, the lips pressed together. How passionate was the kiss. Oh, wait, there was none. Damn. I watch her eat, waiting for her to start a topic. I even gesture, as she raises an eyebrow. She takes a knife and takes some butter for another toast.

I watch the tip of the knife, cut, cut, cut, as she says something aloud. I nod, not digging into her topic.

I think about the tip of the knife, wondering what it likes.

“You look magnificent.” I lean closer, as the knife is in her hand, in the air waiting for the contact with the piece of toasted bread chop, chop, chop. I take it from her hand and the toast, feeling what can happen in a few seconds as I lay my eyes on her. I feel a sharp pain in my right arm, my head and my eyes dry as if I was lying.

“Um, thank you.” She takes the knife back and leans back, a soft glare in her open gaze. Kayleen fixes her skirt as an unrequited move. Instead she opens her mouth to refuse my hinted offer. “Look-“

“Yeah, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean it. I really didn’t.” I look like that kid now, like ‘oh my God, me snogging a girl who is not my dear beloved Lola, oh, I am such a womanizer! Shoot me someone fast I need to die before someone finds out and I shall be considered as an asshole, enemy of women.’ I hold my hands in the air like a sign of defeat, ruffling my hair afterwards. If it is kid she likes then let it be. I’ll be Romie. I tilt my head, watching her take a new bite.

“So, how’s uni?” Red haired asks faking causality, the notes in her voice still there, leaning against the table, as I hold myself from doing something passionate. I have hormones, ok? I look up for a while thinking or rather remembering kid’s memories and his dumb thinking face. God, I hate being blonde. But then if she doesn’t want now, I can take a while longer. Seems fun. But then maybe I was afraid to spoil everything? The best thing in kissing is not kissing. Or making out, well, whatever.

I’m I scared?

I tilt my head, looking down, moving my toes through my Converses, realizing how weird my action must really be. I’m I killing aliens like this? Take that for not letting me kiss Kayleen.

“Good.” Basically she talked about it yesterday, but then I know her just for several days. I scratch my arm, stop aching, I close my eyes counting to them, as if I it want to freeze in sleep and fall off, in thought of what should I ask. I never really talked much to girls basically I just snogged and further on, dot, dot, dot (Rome you watch stupid movies) because I didn’t have much time to enjoy myself. “So poetry, why poetry?”

“Oh. I don’t know myself. I’m going on an interview actually. I want a transfer. My parents stuck me in as a gift. Ideal Christmas, wasn’t it? Getting told that I shouldn’t be shy, that I have a talent which I shouldn’t lose. That their daughter is silly and immature, like a true poet. They don’t want me to meddle with…” She made a pause eyeing me suspiciously, her lips mouthing mute words. Then she makes a sudden shake of her head, denying some sort of possibility. I raise an eyebrow but she drops the subject. “Psychology. I couldn’t really study it much, basically I just made what I could on my own. Well, happens.”

She smiles and I smile back. Haven’t smiled after somebody opening up. Usually I snog the life out of them.

Does she know? She looks like a beginner or maybe she’s on the field as well instead of cheering with pom-poms. Oh, Kayleen in a mini-skirt. Jumping.


“Art?” I add the ending of her sentence and she nods, with a light smirk, fiddling with the bead glass necklace around her neck, hanging nearly to her waistline. “I think I began drawing before I learnt to crawl and chew on a girl’s braids or knock a few Barbies into space. Well, I just do that and I guess that makes me… happy? Oh, fuck, that sounded sappy, like I love summer because I laze my ass off.”

I think I went too far. I’m certainly not PG-13. Parents, shoot your kids, now. Instead she nods and expects a happy ending.

“I just got influenced more and more. My parents were thrilled to have an artist in their family. My mum and dad adore art, but they never really went into it. Their lives perfect, a son and a daughter until well…” I stop, nearly releasing the existence of Roman’s or my own existence.

“It’s an unwanted perfection really. They said that they have no talent at all. Well, hell, they don’t. My sister wants to be designer. God, our house is flooded in fabrics, canvases, pencils and all artsy crap. I swear I hate Vogue.” I say smirking several times as she watches me amused.

Clap, baby, clap.

If she was into psychology she could figure it out, right?

Is she taking me then to the science fair, as I project?

Children, meet Roman.

Many girls came up shocked that the kid didn’t remember them or anybody who could resemble them in his foggy memory. Then they just called him an asshole after a descriptive and controversial retelling of the previous night which came with a parent’s stare and pat on the head with a talk to be careful and use stuff correctly. Oh, naivety of parents. They all were distant from the human mind, all different some smart, some stupid, some cute, some pathetic. It felt like tasting them all. Like chewing gum. Blow a bubble, it pops and it’s tasteless. Throw it away, take another and make an orgy.

“Cool. I wish I was good at art instead of forcing myself to write some dumb poem for my assignment.” She smiles, putting her hands in her pockets.

Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing if she would.

Chapter 15