Sunday, 12 September 2010

Papercut. Chapter 4.

Then I stood up, wondering where my room was. I wondered if she chose a room for herself, if it was pink,




Duh, of course she did. After all, she was here from yesterday, unlike me. But I guess we would still be labeled newbies, only I’d have the tag longer for a day.

“Oh, the rooms are upstairs.” She said with a nod towards the staircase, which was directly in front, as if the hall was cheating its way upstairs only with the doors leading towards the kitchen and the living room. I’d be lying saying that everything was huge and by the looks of it, neither the upper floor would be. I made a quick peek into both rooms as she lead the way, expanding the imagination.

Couch. TV. Bookshelves some filled with books, some empty waiting to be filled with my own. A big fat window behind the Television looking rather out of place and covered by some dark coloured curtains, which most likely were left by the previous owner, like the couch, the beds (well there were bound to beds upstairs right?) and the rest of the furniture. Yes, the living room.



My curiosity got me to open the kitchen door to see what I actually expected to see. Again the big window, the curtains were open, lazily letting the morning light in, covering the table and giving it a soft glow despite its old look. The cupboards seemed to be brand new and rather shiny, sparkly, I guess. I didn’t bother looking for the fridge because it was opposite of me near the window. The oven and microwave didn’t seem to hint anything special and they were plain yet a must for every kitchen.

Then the stairs. Damn them, as I felt myself feel the sleepless night lure into a certain door, as I dragged my luggage up. I exhale, reaching the top rather soon, that I didn’t even complain and I barely cursed in my head. I just feel tired, that’s it. I need to rest against the pillow, my eyes closed, letting dreams wash out the airport labeled thoughts.

Then we skip a door upstairs which I expect to be Kayleen’s room, but I didn’t bother the skip. I mean I felt the need to get to my room now. Then with a wide grin, the red head kicks the door open, looking rather epic and walks inside. She throws her arms in the air, feeling herself laugh lightly. There was no need for introduction this was my room. The small balcony, but I wasn’t a smoker, but still I like to go out into the night, as if I was taking an oxygen break and the bed which would soon be covered in clothes before I’ll stuff them into my closet in a rather rough and rude way, as if they took over me, adapting their roughness after the laundry. Closets were empty, waiting to be filled, but not bothering with their empty state, an indifference echoing, building up in the idle room.

The walls were an ironic white, like the white spare canvas I had with me, if I’d want to draw straight away and begged for my teenage posters or just random sketches which I’d like and take off and on after a while. But then I had several sketches which had been hanging for years, reminding me of something, which I hold dear.

Lola’s portrait.

It hung directly above my bed.

To naively believe in something bright.

Now there was no need to draw another one or hang the same one. Did I rip it? Did I give it to her? I had so many portraits of her. She took them smiling. I saw her admiring them. Unlike me, she was in love with herself and she was always above everything, sparkling as she went on. Something I never learnt how to do.

“You have a girlfriend? I have a spare frame. Well, gift, didn’t know what to get you. You can like, you know stuff your and hers photo or something. Or your dog, cat, boyfriend, friend, family. Whatever.” She laughed, giving me a present box with a big blue bow.

“Um, no. Single.” The sound of killing paper. Are you dating? Is that some kind of secret cult which girls always have? But then, guys as well, gossip, say ooh even if it’s your own sister. I mean it’s always about ‘hey, do you have a girlfriend?’, but then a friend of mines bothered to ask girls that only the other way, about boyfriends I mean. But I mean seriously, if I have a girlfriend, that makes me in the taken list and shoved away. But then I never really wanted to cheat on purpose, well, depends if it meant cheating with my canvas which I can do rather often.

I can send everything to hell, asides from when my muse visits me and she controls me, screams in my head, demands to draw the picture I have in my head. Wanting to leak it out to expose. Sometimes hard to hold inside, the screaming picture, before it goes violent.

My muse?

Oh, she was different. I couldn’t tell her appearance, as if she covered her long face with her hands, hair covering her hands, but I felt her presence. I always waited for her, luring her with music. She liked me, sometimes she did not. Sometimes I was the master yanking her by the hair, forcing her to stay with me and greet the morning light with me. But then she’d have her revenge and make her sister visit me, the anti-muse, which came in the muse’s disguise, came with my other self.

My evening self.

They love each other. They loved throwing around paint, tearing sketches apart then they glue them into an insane collage and laugh the rest of the night gossiping about my personal life, laughing at my decisions. The collage was me, bits of white canvas, blank paper, half finished portraits, random sketches and paint thrown on them like an overdue icing, rotten outside, hiding whatever was on the inside. But then in the morning it would fall down, flip and show the inside.

My confused self.

The fear of changing.




Other self.

My anti-muse.

Their love.

They match.

Perfect corruption.

Then I feel a small shiver run down my spine. I nod, thanking Kayleen for the frame. I stared at it. It was as blue as the wrapping paper and the bow were. What should I put there?

I was thirsty.

I kept biting my lip trying to get hold of myself. A luring blackness appearing in the corners of my vision, a brush of the fingers against my forehead. I feel arms wrap themselves around me. I press my head against his chest, as I fall, he is holding me close.

Telling me, it’s alright.



That’s stupid, that’s irritatingly stupid. Who paints the fucking walls a pearl white as if it were the teeth in a toothpaste ad? Ugh.

That’s banal.

I look around, chewing on my bottom lip, thinking what to do with the annoying white paint. I could scrape it off with my teeth. I look at the red headed girl in front of me. She’s cute. She really is. Now, this what do I have here? Huh? A frame. A dumb blue frame. Oh, right, gift, present, act of gratitude, sympathy that I have to pay half the rent, it was screaming out let’s be friends but not more.

Just friends, eh?

I raised my brow at her. I can throw it at her. See shards of glass cut her skin, blood dripping down her elbows, tears trailing down her cheek. I’d dye them red, trailing them with my fingers. I smiled at that thought. Curiosity seemed to take over her for a minute. Was I thankful? Did I enjoy that bloody frame? No. But I could show some gratitude, later as the screen would turn off. I grinned at myself.

“I’m glad you liked it. I really am.” Blue eyes keep avoiding me, as a small blush crosses her cheeks. There’s no need to yell out ‘just friends’ in this frame, sweetheart, even if you put sprinkles on it lying that it’s a cupcake, with those open eyes. But then getting me something more personal would make her easy. She doesn’t seem like to type to go all the way on the first date. But then that makes it more challenging. I have more than a year. Why not stretch out the fun?

Isn’t it fun? Building the agony in the girl’s eyes, watch her beg once you get bored, jealous with the phone calls of defeat and see the following boyfriends, as you’re the one on the pedestal. Then if I feel like it I give her a date, a kiss whatever crosses my mind. I never really hold myself, why should I? Life is given once and chopped in half. And apparently… that other thing, the one which doesn’t let me party, seems to dislike me.

Comparing my paintings to nothing?

I shot him, when he tore the painting with his teeth in half, as I’d see his hair go darker, eyes now hazel.

I myself was shrinking, a blonde dye now draining the brown. I’d lean against him, the scarf tight, begging for him to stop. He didn’t.

I dyed my hair back.

We both did, smiling as he got the timetable out, cut it in half carefully with sparkly green scissors, blow a bubble out of it. Back when we were naïve.

I strangled him.

He ran away, the fabric of the scarf in my hand.

I drowned him.

He came back, eating a kit kat.

“Well, if you need me, I’ll be in my room. I still need to, uh..” She made a pause. Kayleen didn’t need an excuse. I don’t think she’s dumb, my gestures are different from good boy’s here. Kayleen felt it, the absence of Roman’s presence. Well, no big deal. She ran a hand threw her hair stopping on a short steak and playing with it for a while. “..unpack, actually. Since I just came here yesterday and all.”

Why didn’t you, though?

I noticed that note in her voice. Did I space out as I changed? Did I faint? Did I chant? Did I sing the Pokemon theme with my arms around my knees, eyes closed? Did I strip and quickly dress afterwards three times in a row? I just change and that’s it, well asides from the small tingle in my right hand. I smiled at her. Oh, I’d love to make you beg for my attention. Then the red head turned towards the door.

“So, do you have…” I paused with my mouth open, making a sound with my tongue. The blue eyed girl turned around and interest was plastered on her face, as if she tore it soon enough. I was flirting with her and I wasn’t hiding it. “…a boyfriend? I told you about my current lonely and broken heart status. You?” I tilted my head, making eye contact.

“Oh. I’m taken, sorry.” Kayleen said it proudly, jerking her head up, as if she was holding that trophy or the medal was shining brightly on her chest. Was it a teasing smile? Did it mean, get me, Roman? Because, sweetie, mark my words, I will. Nobody ever escaped this form, my other self, the kid, barely has any fun asides from painting. I mean I paint too, but fun is better. I try hard not to smirk, feeling the weight upon the image of myself as a small tingle in my right arm.

Chapter 5


  1. Aha, and here is the other side!
    The first few chapters seem very careful, like Roman is holding something back all the time, and here it is!

  2. Indeed! The split-personality's triumphus entrance!