I wake up on that Saturday, feeling rather numb, the reminder of waking up as if my skin had been torn away as I'd lay forgotten somewhere cold, everything freezing, the eyes shut tight as if I were drinking tea with death, as he'd grin at me if he could, as I sat naked, my hair spiked all of a sudden, my eyebrows raised, as if I was going to end up as a sex toy. Out of character, I know. Watch me change, baby.
I think I got ill. I walk numbly, I brush my teeth numbly, I pull on my clothes numbly and I jump down the stairs numbly. When I was sad I used to pick out a word and stuff it wherever I could. It was supposed to be fun, when missing an episode of Pokemon seemed like tragedy. As I make my way into the kitchen I can already hear Kayleen’s laugh with Morrissey telling me to stop in my mind. She peeks out and greets me with a nod, as she takes a sip of the cup of tea. I don’t bother to nose myself or listen to her conversation, I feel sleepy and I believe that my lack of sleep will be the one who shall keep devouring my days, something which had been dancing with me all along. I make toast, glancing at the clock, feeling uneasy, all phrases rushing back and forth.
Half an hour.
I will be there on time.
What should I do? With the time and lingering ideas?
Storm in, rip my shirt off, snog some girl? Swear at them, throw papers at them with pencils, curse the day they were born? Should I wear glasses, should I be nerdy to those whom I could've still been with if I was eternal? I keep thinking as my toast nearly gets burned in a neat way with hearts and duckies, then Kayleen hangs the phone, sitting on the chair, her thoughts plastered but in a foreign language as I am no female or whatever to read faces or minds. She gives me a quick smile, holding the phone in her hand, thinking about something, stealing several glances at me, maybe hearing nothing, as I seem to breathe and that's not silence, but so does she.
I glance back at her, not understanding what her glances actually hint, but then there's no cheek in the tongue or whatever girls were told to get guys from. I get the thought of a possibility of a flirting note in it, but I call myself paranoid, as I seem to fear girls, but not in the way, that I shall scream and choke from my own spit and soon enough I drop the idea. I get another jar or marmalade making my options wider by buying different flavors that day, still have got money, will ponder when I won't. The silence seems to pierce the air and I cannot think of a nice topic to bring up.
“I’m gonna have some friends over. You got any plans for today? What about that call, did you get the job, Roman? You never really said it, you just stared as I was watching TV and then I didn’t really bother to raise it.” Kayleen says, since some reality show was on, with some celebs I might've seen, they looked like bunnies only no eighty year old in a silk robe was seen, so doubt that Hef was showing off what he bought the other day, thousands of words in a second, as concern is written on her face. Friendly concern, I correct myself in my head. Who cares what my other self thinks of her? If my other self was suicidal, I don't have to bite my veins, do I? I bite my toast, clearing my head from that sinful thought, chewing. I swallow.
“Boyfriend?” I say that taking another bite before I stop myself. Maybe Morrissey had some secret to tell. Great, I’m showing interest in her love life, but then isn't that what girls talk about, surely not about kohl 24/7, which absolutely in no way should concern me unless I wanted to be her next and am praying every night that they would break up, she’d then storm onto my room, tears running down her cheeks and then I'd kiss her movie style, because they don't really french in the movies and french kissing is kind of straight forward, but then no use being shy. Then I’d hug her tightly, kiss her forehead, call him a bastard for dumping her due to two timing her/saying that her parents would never approve of her dyed red hair/saying that tea kills your brain cells/no exact reason at all/ not saying it aloud but his dumb face clearly hinting two timing or a hot new girlfriend/ sudden one night stand and admitting it. Then she’d cry her heart out and then I’d suggest watching some soapy chick flick she loves and most likely kiss her if the plan to french and have sex fails. Then comes marriage and babies, loads of them.
I blank out by the sudden prediction of future that I barely hear her answer. What creeps me out is that it doesn't sound as bad and flicking the channel to Paris Hilton is nearly useless, as I had flipped through Lola quite a few channels ago. I apologize and she repeats it again, realizing that she was speaking rather quiet, so there was no possible way that I could have heard her.
“Mmm, not really. More like a girl’s night. Don’t worry we won’t be late and most likely there will be a sleepover. We won’t run around like mad at three am, I promise.” She smiles, not tearing her eyes from the cup, maybe she was hiding something or maybe she was plainly tired but due to the need or organization got up rather early. I just nod in agreement, feeling another question about Mr. Kayleen on my tongue, but I swallow it and take another bite of toast. I try to picture him, if he had a six pack and if he likes her.
“Sure.” I say out loud, not really understand why she said it, why she even asked, but I don’t bother, ok, maybe I hadn't made sleepover friends, but then imagining Melvin sleep is highly unlikely. Soon enough, I finish my breakfast, feeling that I may have eaten a truckload, well, it feels like that and I head out. I say goodbye before I leave and she makes another call as soon as I leave and I hear her laughter as I close the door with a thud. I imagine her calling her girlfriends, even if she'll see them soon and replying everything when nothing had happened.
I haven't drawn after lessons, fiddling with the lost internet, until I had fixed it with a few calls and a few arguments and accuses from the other side and then just sitting there, trying to chew with the fact that I once had a past and now there's nothing holding me, the taste of freedom and ability on my tongue and I can do nothing.
I lock the door with the key in haste, soon enough I am on my way to the bus stop. I find myself walking way faster, a big lump in my throat. I wonder if I'll chew it'll go away. I find everything spin, as I realize that basically this is my first ever job, as I never got payed for my drawing skills. I watch buses go by, as I do not see the needed number and neither can I draw one upon, even if the lie will be there I won't make others belive or the owner of the given lie. I never thought I’d get one, maybe they didn’t care about the resume, I dropped by. Or maybe they wanted to say it to my face, to see how I looked never reaching one and seventy.
Psycho.
“You’re a psycho.”
Psycho Killer.
Qu'est Que C'est.
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better.
Anger.
“So what? I think it’s cool, basically I’m two-timing you on your knowledge.”
Humor.
“You think it’s that cool for that to be an excuse?”
Despair.
Disapproval.
Denial with physical lack and rough contact.
I see her there standing, her icy gaze locked into mine. I see her leaning towards me, desiring to cause me pain, it's inside her, I should rip her chest open, I belived souls to be white, I'd blow, the blue I gave would devour me and I'd be there no longer and she'd sew it herself. I lean against her, I feel the softness of her skin, as I kiss it gently, but then I realize that it’s just the morning air getting warmer. I raise my head and see the number.
She’s not here.
She never will be.
I caught her eyes.
They were too big, so I spit them out.
I’m sure I did back then at the airport. Of course I did. She should be here somewhere, reading to jump out, her hair hanging messily, due to some celebrity image she was aiming for. I still feel her, I feel her fingers against my scalp. I desire to feel them, even if my dreams are divided into two. I press my head against the window once more, music blasting in my ears, as I watch everything go past me, just like life.
Did he dump her?
Did I dump her?
I can’t figure it out.
I simply dig my nails into my skin as I watch the area redden lightly until the pain becomes noticeable and I stop, but the pain doesn't, it whines, a smirk shown as the reddened skin. Just like that in that one movement in one sudden decision everything can change. It can ruin you, it can save you, it can kill you.
I search for Frankie once more but I see none, not even a head which could be taken just to call down with a familiar back of the head, as if I'd be interested I'd imagine my fingers lacing his hair, as I'd tilt him back. I search for Melvin. Not here. I search for Jill. Neither. She's the one who's stroking Frank due to duty. I search for everybody who I can recall. All I get is suspicious glares and mutters about my music being way too loud for their own liking. I do nothing and they get off to my pleasure.
Why should I care?
Why should I fucking care about somebody I do not know?
I feel the urge to paint everything around me in other tones.
Just like I would do.
I am going insane.
I stare at the glass. I press my palm against it.
I want it to crumble, I want it to dig into my skin. I want it to kill me. I want it to get me to Lola. But she's not dead, but I'll wait, watching buildings crash, as cars whizz past me, as I'll sit in the busy street, my hair never changing, no roots to dye and no one checking my forehead if I'll have fever.
Kayleen.
I never took her hand, let alone pressed it against my mouth.
I want her to look at me bleeding to death, since it is her own fault. I could see her own blonde locks pressed against her forehead in concentration, her eyes filled with tears.
Why would I want her to feel pain? Because I'd feel it, I want her to share the moment with me.
…Why would I?
I stop and get out of the bus, realizing that I am a stop early. I need the fresh air, I bend in two, feeling power leave me. I look up, I see no blonde red locks. I see nobody. Nobody stops, they all whizz by this is the center after all. They just go past, like in movies when they show how everything passes quickly, all I see is different colored spots. I see someone mutter about a drug overdose, that it is cool to be a fake celebrity. Can I get a robe, I don't want to lay naked, as the clothes will be taken away, as nothing will grow out and the scream will be silenced with my body, mouth opened wide, eyes shut and that's how I'd die. I want to launch myself at them, tear their throat apart with my teeth. I am sweating. I make it to the next bench and sit down, breathing heavily.
“Roman?”
“Roman?”
“Go away.”
It is my imagination. I look up from my Converse. Blonde locks, light eyes, troubled smile, bracelets hanging on both hands, heart shaped face. She smiles until she hears the go away. I repeat it again, my mind not making the connection. She's so faint.
She turns around, as I try to call out to her. But she’s gone.
Like always. I curse and close my eyes.
I’m gonna be a teacher.
I'm gonna ruin lives.
Chapter 19
I think I got ill. I walk numbly, I brush my teeth numbly, I pull on my clothes numbly and I jump down the stairs numbly. When I was sad I used to pick out a word and stuff it wherever I could. It was supposed to be fun, when missing an episode of Pokemon seemed like tragedy. As I make my way into the kitchen I can already hear Kayleen’s laugh with Morrissey telling me to stop in my mind. She peeks out and greets me with a nod, as she takes a sip of the cup of tea. I don’t bother to nose myself or listen to her conversation, I feel sleepy and I believe that my lack of sleep will be the one who shall keep devouring my days, something which had been dancing with me all along. I make toast, glancing at the clock, feeling uneasy, all phrases rushing back and forth.
Half an hour.
I will be there on time.
What should I do? With the time and lingering ideas?
Storm in, rip my shirt off, snog some girl? Swear at them, throw papers at them with pencils, curse the day they were born? Should I wear glasses, should I be nerdy to those whom I could've still been with if I was eternal? I keep thinking as my toast nearly gets burned in a neat way with hearts and duckies, then Kayleen hangs the phone, sitting on the chair, her thoughts plastered but in a foreign language as I am no female or whatever to read faces or minds. She gives me a quick smile, holding the phone in her hand, thinking about something, stealing several glances at me, maybe hearing nothing, as I seem to breathe and that's not silence, but so does she.
I glance back at her, not understanding what her glances actually hint, but then there's no cheek in the tongue or whatever girls were told to get guys from. I get the thought of a possibility of a flirting note in it, but I call myself paranoid, as I seem to fear girls, but not in the way, that I shall scream and choke from my own spit and soon enough I drop the idea. I get another jar or marmalade making my options wider by buying different flavors that day, still have got money, will ponder when I won't. The silence seems to pierce the air and I cannot think of a nice topic to bring up.
“I’m gonna have some friends over. You got any plans for today? What about that call, did you get the job, Roman? You never really said it, you just stared as I was watching TV and then I didn’t really bother to raise it.” Kayleen says, since some reality show was on, with some celebs I might've seen, they looked like bunnies only no eighty year old in a silk robe was seen, so doubt that Hef was showing off what he bought the other day, thousands of words in a second, as concern is written on her face. Friendly concern, I correct myself in my head. Who cares what my other self thinks of her? If my other self was suicidal, I don't have to bite my veins, do I? I bite my toast, clearing my head from that sinful thought, chewing. I swallow.
“Boyfriend?” I say that taking another bite before I stop myself. Maybe Morrissey had some secret to tell. Great, I’m showing interest in her love life, but then isn't that what girls talk about, surely not about kohl 24/7, which absolutely in no way should concern me unless I wanted to be her next and am praying every night that they would break up, she’d then storm onto my room, tears running down her cheeks and then I'd kiss her movie style, because they don't really french in the movies and french kissing is kind of straight forward, but then no use being shy. Then I’d hug her tightly, kiss her forehead, call him a bastard for dumping her due to two timing her/saying that her parents would never approve of her dyed red hair/saying that tea kills your brain cells/no exact reason at all/ not saying it aloud but his dumb face clearly hinting two timing or a hot new girlfriend/ sudden one night stand and admitting it. Then she’d cry her heart out and then I’d suggest watching some soapy chick flick she loves and most likely kiss her if the plan to french and have sex fails. Then comes marriage and babies, loads of them.
I blank out by the sudden prediction of future that I barely hear her answer. What creeps me out is that it doesn't sound as bad and flicking the channel to Paris Hilton is nearly useless, as I had flipped through Lola quite a few channels ago. I apologize and she repeats it again, realizing that she was speaking rather quiet, so there was no possible way that I could have heard her.
“Mmm, not really. More like a girl’s night. Don’t worry we won’t be late and most likely there will be a sleepover. We won’t run around like mad at three am, I promise.” She smiles, not tearing her eyes from the cup, maybe she was hiding something or maybe she was plainly tired but due to the need or organization got up rather early. I just nod in agreement, feeling another question about Mr. Kayleen on my tongue, but I swallow it and take another bite of toast. I try to picture him, if he had a six pack and if he likes her.
“Sure.” I say out loud, not really understand why she said it, why she even asked, but I don’t bother, ok, maybe I hadn't made sleepover friends, but then imagining Melvin sleep is highly unlikely. Soon enough, I finish my breakfast, feeling that I may have eaten a truckload, well, it feels like that and I head out. I say goodbye before I leave and she makes another call as soon as I leave and I hear her laughter as I close the door with a thud. I imagine her calling her girlfriends, even if she'll see them soon and replying everything when nothing had happened.
I haven't drawn after lessons, fiddling with the lost internet, until I had fixed it with a few calls and a few arguments and accuses from the other side and then just sitting there, trying to chew with the fact that I once had a past and now there's nothing holding me, the taste of freedom and ability on my tongue and I can do nothing.
I lock the door with the key in haste, soon enough I am on my way to the bus stop. I find myself walking way faster, a big lump in my throat. I wonder if I'll chew it'll go away. I find everything spin, as I realize that basically this is my first ever job, as I never got payed for my drawing skills. I watch buses go by, as I do not see the needed number and neither can I draw one upon, even if the lie will be there I won't make others belive or the owner of the given lie. I never thought I’d get one, maybe they didn’t care about the resume, I dropped by. Or maybe they wanted to say it to my face, to see how I looked never reaching one and seventy.
Psycho.
“You’re a psycho.”
Psycho Killer.
Qu'est Que C'est.
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better.
Anger.
“So what? I think it’s cool, basically I’m two-timing you on your knowledge.”
Humor.
“You think it’s that cool for that to be an excuse?”
Despair.
Disapproval.
Denial with physical lack and rough contact.
I see her there standing, her icy gaze locked into mine. I see her leaning towards me, desiring to cause me pain, it's inside her, I should rip her chest open, I belived souls to be white, I'd blow, the blue I gave would devour me and I'd be there no longer and she'd sew it herself. I lean against her, I feel the softness of her skin, as I kiss it gently, but then I realize that it’s just the morning air getting warmer. I raise my head and see the number.
She’s not here.
She never will be.
I caught her eyes.
They were too big, so I spit them out.
I’m sure I did back then at the airport. Of course I did. She should be here somewhere, reading to jump out, her hair hanging messily, due to some celebrity image she was aiming for. I still feel her, I feel her fingers against my scalp. I desire to feel them, even if my dreams are divided into two. I press my head against the window once more, music blasting in my ears, as I watch everything go past me, just like life.
Did he dump her?
Did I dump her?
I can’t figure it out.
I simply dig my nails into my skin as I watch the area redden lightly until the pain becomes noticeable and I stop, but the pain doesn't, it whines, a smirk shown as the reddened skin. Just like that in that one movement in one sudden decision everything can change. It can ruin you, it can save you, it can kill you.
I search for Frankie once more but I see none, not even a head which could be taken just to call down with a familiar back of the head, as if I'd be interested I'd imagine my fingers lacing his hair, as I'd tilt him back. I search for Melvin. Not here. I search for Jill. Neither. She's the one who's stroking Frank due to duty. I search for everybody who I can recall. All I get is suspicious glares and mutters about my music being way too loud for their own liking. I do nothing and they get off to my pleasure.
Why should I care?
Why should I fucking care about somebody I do not know?
I feel the urge to paint everything around me in other tones.
Just like I would do.
I am going insane.
I stare at the glass. I press my palm against it.
I want it to crumble, I want it to dig into my skin. I want it to kill me. I want it to get me to Lola. But she's not dead, but I'll wait, watching buildings crash, as cars whizz past me, as I'll sit in the busy street, my hair never changing, no roots to dye and no one checking my forehead if I'll have fever.
Kayleen.
I never took her hand, let alone pressed it against my mouth.
I want her to look at me bleeding to death, since it is her own fault. I could see her own blonde locks pressed against her forehead in concentration, her eyes filled with tears.
Why would I want her to feel pain? Because I'd feel it, I want her to share the moment with me.
…Why would I?
I stop and get out of the bus, realizing that I am a stop early. I need the fresh air, I bend in two, feeling power leave me. I look up, I see no blonde red locks. I see nobody. Nobody stops, they all whizz by this is the center after all. They just go past, like in movies when they show how everything passes quickly, all I see is different colored spots. I see someone mutter about a drug overdose, that it is cool to be a fake celebrity. Can I get a robe, I don't want to lay naked, as the clothes will be taken away, as nothing will grow out and the scream will be silenced with my body, mouth opened wide, eyes shut and that's how I'd die. I want to launch myself at them, tear their throat apart with my teeth. I am sweating. I make it to the next bench and sit down, breathing heavily.
“Roman?”
“Roman?”
“Go away.”
It is my imagination. I look up from my Converse. Blonde locks, light eyes, troubled smile, bracelets hanging on both hands, heart shaped face. She smiles until she hears the go away. I repeat it again, my mind not making the connection. She's so faint.
She turns around, as I try to call out to her. But she’s gone.
Like always. I curse and close my eyes.
I’m gonna be a teacher.
I'm gonna ruin lives.
Chapter 19
Wow, this is pretty dramatic writing! I love how it ends.
ReplyDeleteThank you!
ReplyDelete