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

No comments:

Post a Comment