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.
Point.
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.
Slow.
The voice echoes in my head, slowly blurring my mind as he dances to some Oasis song.
Oasis?
-
“Kayleen.”
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.
“Why-“
“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
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.
Point.
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.
Slow.
The voice echoes in my head, slowly blurring my mind as he dances to some Oasis song.
Oasis?
-
“Kayleen.”
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.
“Why-“
“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
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