Papercut. Chapter 12.

Past, present, future.



They all mix creating something which is called the mind, bursting with memories, regrets, hopes. Mental breakdown it’s called from lips to lips. I see everything spin in front of my head, the awaiting call I am supposed to get, the awkward situation as I have my head pressed against the metal pole, as it freezes my mind, but the thoughts burn through, gritting my teeth tight. I am breathing a cloud of heavy air stuck in my throat, watching everything in a heavy blur. I had enough sleep, but I felt as if the whole airport scene was back.



Faces, people, laughs and failure hanging above me, greeting me with a slap across the face with sick realization.



I saw his face as Romeo commented that I could take that post. I am a failure. Never tried to live fully. I tried to get him the right way of drawing the human facial parts he did wrong. Thomas made no emotion, as his cheeks only reddened in anger with confusion as my swears and kisses to the top of his head are gone with a light sparkle, letting out a scent of fake déjà vu. I’m sure in his theory I was the one who shook all the information from the kid’s head, praying to find a way to earn more money. He said he would think about it, as he struggled on a politest possible reply. I couldn’t breathe.

I gasped, hungerly opening my mouth, gasping.



Was this death?



Was it the long lasting moment of memories passing by?



Who was I?



My thoughts were mixed.



Blood, scarf, Lola, Kayleen, coffee, canvas, pencil, knife, bone, cut, cast, sunlight, kiss, moon, attempt.



I bend in two, watching people look at me, their mouths forming mute words, cries for helps, reaching out for their mobiles.



Look, look, the teenager is dying.



Without an actual attempt. Too many sins above, bringing his nymph down as it gets drained with a straw as I’d appear from his back, a necklace of bitten nails across his neck.



He just is.



With just one single thought, his memories wiz by, his eyes amazingly blank, empty, as the memories squeeze out of his self. He chokes on his mistakes, choking out his fears.

He covers his mouth as if covering the gasp for air he is doing, like suffocating himself, letting him die. He looks up, notices something that others do not see. His pale lips form out a weak smile, as he blinks trying to save his drying eyes, through his fingers pressed against his face.



He laughs out, as his blond hair falls on his face chaotically, not making it messier due to the occasional ruffling he would do in different situations without realizing.



He mutters several known to him names in a row, like a prayer, muttering them faster and faster, nearly screaming them out, but it’s just in his head.



It’s in his head.



I just watch him.



I want him to die.



I want him to choke, I want to stretch out my arms, I want to stab him, cut him, bite him.



I want to hold him, I want to show him, him trembling in my grasp, what it’s like. I want to scream at him, as he’d cry, sob, curl on the floor, his clothes forming a pool, mirrors around him, he’d see me there, as I’d walk forming hands with the reflections stroking the ideal lost faces. Asking why, yanking him by the chin.



I’d be unsure.



I’d hold him up, the white cracking, as he’d fall, holding his breath, eyes white, looking up at the mouth above. He wouldn’t hold, he’d stand up, gasping for air, only I wouldn’t be there.



He’d look, search and lure me from the dead.



Roman would call for me, afraid that he’d be there when the ceiling would crack and he’d stand between Lola and Kayleen, asking himself nothing.



He’d take me from the well. Snap me back to sense.



I’d say that



That



I’m here and stare. He’d hug me. I’d wrap my hands around him as the white would collapse someday. He’d look back up, narcissism building inside.



He’d confess and whisper my name, stroking my hair, lie about the clothes he’d wear. I’d nod and I’d have my hands tied once more, as I’d be given a bowl of popcorn, a bar of chocolate and a new book if I get bored as he makes out with some slut.



I don’t notice myself change.



My hand stroking my left, as I know that I am a leftie, but I can’t do it here, as the hand is weak. I remember I’d sit trying to do it, but I’d fail and change back, the melancholy eating me from inside as if I were ham.



I change instantly from one to another, my brain not holding it.



I hate him. He thinks he is the real one.



As if because he’s blonde. It’s the banality. He’s the one there, he’s the one who complains who stamps his name on the passport.



I am.



I am.



Then I blink.



In just one moment the scene fades away. I am in the bus, music playing in my ear with the help of my iPod. I look up and down before focusing my gaze on the window, the light too bright, as the scarf is loose, not bothering to shuffle the songs once more, but instead I stare and stare as if it’d stare back at me. Everything returns to normal. I can’t help but question if the split-personality is my only problem.



I’m like a hardboiled egg they failed to crack, but await a chick to emerge. The life comes after death. The chick will be brown, breaking my insides, as it would crack me with its beak, leaving wrinkles upon my face.



I search through the words in my vocabulary, feeling insanity’s presence, his breath on my neck, my face, my ear, watching every move I make.



But I can’t see his. His fingers close my eyes, as if I die until I break free. Is he the chick? It feels like death. I do not feel anything, everything is black, I do not feel his fingers on my eyes, his hand muffling my voice and breathing. It feels like drowning. A lull, as I close my eyes, the battery dead. Then there’s a sudden gasp of air as I free myself and the feeling of relief as I cough out the water.



I stroke someone’s hair, my vision now black and white.



He stands there, chewing gum.



For that second when he lets me go, when I break free, I feel him.



I hear him, I talk to him, but it happens fast, a mere exchange of wishes and regrets, that when the cough comes I do not care about that dialog we had. I see him, his frown twisted in an unfriendly way, something metallic in his hand sparkling, maybe my imagination, my paranoia or just the fear of death linger in my mouth.



Maybe he is my death?



Stroking my hair as he closes my eyes but never succeeds in killing me.



Maybe that’s what death is. A split personality in us, feeding of our blood, praying for the day to be let out and close our eyes for good, not an innocent breakfast we eat. It keeps us above or does it kill us? Maybe if we’d never feed we’d live on?



I exhale, trying to calm myself by rubbing my palms against my arms, whispering calming things in my mind, showing bright and calm images, laughs, smiles, giggles and as they turn into frowns, sad, tears, cries of help, regrets, refuses. It feels like looking into the eyes of the devil as I remember comments about the song blasting from my iPod. The battery is now full, as I wonder if my iPod was red before. I tear the sticker off, it’s green with a sticker of me and Lola showing our tongues. My hands feel numb, as I wince slowly, feeling the numbness grow.



I need help.



I try to call out.



I look again.



There’s a psycho killer.



I am nearly home.



Inside me.



Just a while.



And that while takes forever.



But even forever ends and I hop off the bus, not bothering to turn the music off, that small forever in my ears, as soon enough some pop song advertised by Lola comes.

I walk on feeling the easing smell and chill in the air. It felt so distant yesterday and the thought that there was something else feels absurd. It gets inside me mixing with my mind in a good, not harming way, more of a friendly, welcoming way. I just greet it by inhaling and giving it a tap on the back, because that’s manly. I feel my soul ease, after a storm, before a storm. Who knows, but then what is it that lies ahead?



I stop there, feeling the light pour away or rather fall in apples, as the other me catches one and takes a bite.

Chapter 13