Tuesday, 28 September 2010

Papercut. Chapter 7.

I’m I single?

I am.

I am the word countless people tried to avoid, lying, staring at realization in the eye and playing a game of their own, creating their own, taken reality, now their tongue fighting inside their mouth.

Everything seems to scream go find somebody. As if it is the cure to reality. A big green pill as it is swallowed with closed eyes, laughter now stuck up in your throat with love’s illumination the relation with the mirror rather than an empty shell of a person, as your tongue is cut off.

Well, the fact that you were alone in the mirror now naked and exposed. But in general was it bad? It was. Agony and desire fills you up, ripping you from inside, asking you to find somebody to replace a beloved as if the person were dead. But dear, you have held the funeral, you were the priest. But what for? So that we could continue and new generations would be born repeating the path we chose only a more corrupted one now, as more genes were thrown into the bowl of disgrace.

Everything seems to be connected with birth and death. Death was just something to give more paths to the ones who were born. It was as if everything was made for more births until they’d explode.

What would happen on didn’t matter, just the fact that the endless circle of birth was continued, the process, the fact that there are births, there were births and there shall be births was that mattered. Did anything else matter here? No.

“I’m off, otherwise I’ll be late. See you.” Kayleen stands up giving me a smile and interrupting my depressive thoughts to which I was thankful. I thank her in my mind and head to pack my bag, which I didn’t do yesterday.

I take whatever I thought I’d need today. What was exactly that I need? I lean against the wall, watching my notebook stick out with several pencils, regular pens; gel pens some bursting with chaos, chosen colour pencils and an eraser. I stuck my hands in my jeans feeling a sharpened pencil against my thumb along with a eraser poking my middle finger and a bit of chewing gum left from yesterday. I’d usually shove it in m mouth randomly without any reason. No, I wasn’t a smoker maybe it was still left from when I was a kid and I’d used to go around making bubbles.

I took it out, stared, as I hear Kayleen shut the door with a thud and several clicks followed. Now I was locked for good and the keys in my other pocket were my savior. It seems so odd. Now the gum isn’t the target of my attention, now my keys were. Four letters formed a such poetic and now thanks to that banal.

Aren’t poets what make the words banal? Roses, blondes, long hair, blue eyes, sun, moon, shining sparkly stars, kisses, everything. But then, I look up to see a steak of my hair stare back at me.

Yup, I still was a dyed blonde.

Olive eyed.

Average height, right a bit above.

Oval shaped face.

Lack of freckles and not that bad skin.

Right handed.

Converse addict.

Split personality owner.

That word made me sick. I gag, the breaths heavy to achieve, feeling ground turn into lukewarm water, as the light above feels like a candle with the warmth, which is now blown out. Oh, how I hated it. I hated my ego. I can feel the lack of air, as he sucks it in, the room spinning around, everything was bright. Again. Once more.

Everything was annoying.

Laughs cover my ears.



Will that forever be the first freaking word I get in my freaking mind? I crack my neck, massaging it with my left hand, standing on my tiptoes as if I had been sleeping for quite a while.

Indeed, I was.

He’s been keeping me inside for quite a while.

Right, where were we?

God, I hate that word. We, we, we, we.

It’s always we. It’s never me. It’s me and well, him. Dun dun dun. Basically we both live in the same body, under the same fake golden locks, not all that glitters is gold and it glitters like a Christmas wrapper, under the same name, look through the same olive eyes, even if we look through them differently. I see the colours bright, as he has a dull tint, oh talk about personalities. Would the dullest person be colourblind then? But then gray is always at ease. Right, I grab that messenger bag of his and pencils fall from it.

Jesus, couldn’t he pack them and zip the damn bag? Idiot. So I fall on the floor and stuff everything which fell out of the bag, cursing at him.

Right, he didn’t think to do anything with the bloody walls. Figures. I rub my eyebrow with my index finger, staring at the dumb white in front of me. Fucking white.

I bite my finger, feeling anger build in me. I hate white. Everything about it. It’s absolute dumbness, the plainity of it, it feels as if I’m in a psychiatric clinic in white pajamas with my hands tied behind my back. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest on repeat. As if I am in a freak show, I see people point at me, laugh, as if I am a monster as if I wasn’t supposed to exist. Doctors coming back and forth. Saying what a good person Roman was.

Buy him a bouquet then.

I wasn’t.

I’m just a personality. I’m half of what he is.

I mouth those words and I glance at my hands.

I’m not nothing.

I raise my head and look at the dumb white that he adores.

I have paint.

I have his blood. I could cut his left hand, blood trickling down as I’d draw a sketch of him, his body hung.

Black, red, yellow, blue, pink, fuchsia, grey, purple, teal and orange.

I have oil, pastel, aquarelle, colour pencils and load more.

No razor.

I open his bag open and shake the remaining artistic things in it and feel myself give out a sob. I was tired. I grab a big black marker, oh the banality, and open its lid. I stare at the tip of it, bursting with ink or whatever it is filled with.

What was I going to do?

Scribble something on the walls? Curse at him? Call him a loser? What good will that do? Nothing. That’s right, nothing, nada. I close the lid, feeling a wave of sadness take over me.

I hate mornings.

I hate the sunlight. I hate the dumb sun shining so bright, hiding shyly In the clouds, such innocence as if the world was covered in fairy dust, calling the rain as people stretch their hands out to feel that blessing or the other way round hide under umbrellas afraid to get wet, as they continue to carry their sins.

I always stand under the rain, oh, the banality, praying, that the water won’t just soak in my clothes, washing away the drenched sins in the once made with purity fabric.

I feel the tingle in my right arm.


The ceiling.

I’m staring at it. I take my bag, rubbing the sleep of my eyes as I push the door open. I defeat the stairs with several jumps, thankfully without trips and greet the air outside. I breath in, feelings its light morning chill burn my nostrils as I breath in and out. He’s still holding my hand, rubbing the back of my palm with his thumb. I don’t bother to fasten my pace as I look around.

Nothing changed overnight, the houses are the same but now I see that the houses are actually not haunted. Well, maybe they are and in a while I shall see a ghost creep out of the window, moaning, its chill piercing the air, giving out its location. Would it want everybody to know that there he is, leaning the ghost-in-kids-mind’s? What if it is a man with an old fancy moustache and his arm is torn off that the holds it with his teeth his mad eyes following every single move of yours.

Or maybe it’s a female. Somebody who is heavily printed in your mind, screaming so that you wouldn’t forget her, calling out your name from her red lips, giving out a cackle which reveals her true form, her touch is felt as her fingertips travel across my forehead onto my side, stopping on my cheek, digging her nails into my flesh, smiling at the sudden pain coming from my stitched eyelashes, as I try to escape her blue gaze.


Nails like scissors, cutting our flesh in two, diving it, letting the blood spill onto the ground, feed it show the true essence of life. Birth by other death. Suck it. Choke on your sins, the weight now on your side, that you’ll be the drowner and I’ll yank you out, laughing as your lungs scream for air.

I dunk him.

Where he belongs, where he came from.


Let him drown in his life.

He made it, but now the weight upon his shoulders, that the one who gave him life
wants him back.

To give him another chance.

Like a beloved.

Then she lets go, hushing from while to while. Giving me a band-aid, a purple one with pink polka-dots. She knows everything. The devil, the angel within me. Then she leans forward, as I glance at her lips then back to her


I feel a sudden pain ring through my head. Lola.


Baby blue.

Slate grey.


Pitch black.

What was Lola’s eye colour?

They all go through my head like a flash leaving the asked question behind above the quote of the day.

Then I see a bright red drive past me and make a sudden stop.

Chapter 8

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