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13 is an Utopia now available!

13 is an Utopia, a book from concrete graspTHEsanity pixels

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Mouthful

“Show me the stars.”
I’d laugh.
I’d point, as if they weren’t there, all of the shining, glimmering, breaking out from the thick black waters reaching out for the surface but never reaching it, never cutting my fingers with their rough, sharp and pointy edges.
I’d be taken into my parent’s arms as I’d try to grasp them.
They all shined differently up to the point that I gave them names. But I was pointed out that they already had names.
“All of them?”
“All.”
It held no sense, did it? How come? How come they all had their names when no one pays attention when I’d mention their glow, their shape, their colours.
I’d get laughed at.
How come stars have colours?
They’re plain, stupid, small and don’t shine bright.
Oh, but they had. All of them with their own glow which wouldn’t collide with their name. All of them had their taste as well.
The stars were going out.
But they ignored it, going faster, stronger, budging everything aside.
Apple.
Faster, more crowds, more buildings, more conflict, more intrigue.
Mango.
How can the stars be so sharp that they cut your tongue? Letting blood flow, creating a red meteor shower over the sky, as the crowd would open their mouth, as if to grasp each falling stone. Everyone grabbing, their mouths gasping, shouting as they’d fall into their mouths, closing their eyes, shouting where the stars had gone.

Mother

Papercut. Chapter 25

I stare dumbly into the mirror, my reflection, as I cut my cheek with a razor, my hair all there, as I am clean shaved, as I see my teeth stick out where my cheek should be. I cut a square out of my flesh.

Can I call it a heart and give it to you?

Because I am too vain, to give my life for yours.

A bitter taste stuck in my tongue. I wanted it to wear off, like never. I opened my eyes to see buildings pass, to see streets pass, as I feel numbness, hit me with ease, as it strokes my cheek, it's invisibility in front of me. Can I tear myself? The scarf is wrapped around my neck. Macy's legs around my neck, as she laughs slightly, eyes locked on Devyn's. I could see her fingers trail past my jaw line, pulling me closer into a kiss, a past I once gave to have her lick it off, sitting in front of me, naked and licking it until a mere wooden stick was left, which she bites in half.

When you're not to be like that, you don't want it, you get it in your throat and you swallow the black thing.

I never wanted to scowl on some dreadful girlfriend, like Roman did, as he held her like some golden belief.

And here I was.

“Roman, you ok?” A flash of red hair stands above me, her hands on her knees, her voice heard from above like an angel, but I see deep green instead of light blue. I see dark hair instead of scarlet. I look above her realization a flashlight into my hair, I pull her close to me with one Converse off and the other tied tightly. I have been here forever.

I blink in confusion, seeing her appear in that short skirt now Macy's Kayleen in a wig, a cig between her lips, as I want her to choke, just for her to close the eyes.

She was the only one who called me differently, who actually tried to cope with me unlike Lola who seemed disgusted by the fact that I existed.

Exile the soul.

Stop.

Now I calmed myself like Roman.

Maybe because I was me, once, was I Roman?

Had I merely lost control, that I tell myself that I am watching from inside as the dream goes on?

"I met Macy today." I tell Kayleen, as she sits in the chair, a pair of fake glasses jumping off her nose.

"Oh really?" She asks, nose in the book, as the letters scatter and I want to touch her, kiss her neck, lick it, press her against me, as she'd tell me and I'd listen what happened to me, because she saw it all, but not now, so I hold her eyes closed, lean lower and tell her.

“I met my ex today.” Does she hold jealousy in a jar? Release it, love. I want to breathe it, I want to know you care, because I follow the book, because when I didn't, nothing went right. Then I watch her carefully, trying to find the lightest reaction but the second I could have caught it would be gone by my sudden attraction to my shoelace, which just winked at me.

But then isn’t that wonderful that we blur out things in an unprepared moment, just like that? Isn’t the surprise a gift? That sudden pull in you, as you breathe in water and you suffocate, as water is replaced by something everyone exhales, fragments of a lost life.

"Smoke. Brilliant. Macy." I can't say anything, as they shatter and I wonder what's stopping Kayleen.

“She still smokes, well, she always did. Looks brilliant, actually. But I guess time passed, so basically… ah, screw it.” She looks at me, the meat of gossip, get the fork and sink it in my stomach, as I mention Macy's engagement as she did it all over, the veil upon her face soon to be for the mockery, to cut herself open, to show how much can a suicide and a stolen pearl be the culprit of the rotten insides.

“24?” She asks wondering, Macy's age upon the walls, tear it off, bite it off, lick it off, be with me, Macy, stop stop stop stop stop it, I chant as I were the five years.

"The scarf was given by Macy, not Lola." I say, but then I look at Kayleen, who has been told the opposite by Roman, even if she plays the role of both.

I see him pressing his slim body against the wall I cannot see.

I pin him against the wall, eyes locked, as I feel my own turning olive, as we stare, we've never been this close, a breath shared, as I wonder what should we do, as I am the one pinned by my own vessel, seeing Kayleen watch us amazed, like a TV show with no talk show host, just the guest stars. She sits down picking up a big bowl of popcorn. She chews it slightly as her eyes light up as kid yells at me, grabbing me by the scarf, an identical of what he wears.

He can't scream, it's like masturbation, only it hurts.

“He had a lover, Rome.” I see Melvin pop up, an arm around Jill’s shoulders and then he grabs her chin crashing his lips against the blonde’s.

You cheated on Lola?

“Roman?”

Roman?

Roman?

-

I raise my head to see the streets passing by. I was dreaming. I never told her anything, nothing about my ex and let it be like that. I want to let that memory form me but not my future relationships, enough. Then, I chew on the tip, desperate to light it but not pay anything for smoking in public areas. I look down, observing, noticing, staring at people pass by, stop, go inside the bus. All so unfamiliar, all so un noticeable, all unwanted for me.

Then my eyes stop on a blonde haired girl, as she looks up, one fingers pressed against her bottom lip.

Once the past explodes on you, everything will, as it falls in chunks which you have to pick up for money and chew until you immerse into the plasticine you created, love.

Lola.

Lola is here.

-

It’s more like a petal between the lips, the rest of the flower falling, its petal’s scatterings picked up, as it is thrown on the street with no lights, just the feet glow.

I look down trying to realize how I’m I here.

Am I the petal in the mouth, which hangs upon the sky?

Am I the nude flower without petals?

Am I the scattered petals? All of them symbolizing me. But then wouldn’t there be just two petals then? Twin ones, corrupted by nature, having one end instead of two, glued together, one gasping the lack of water the other feeding off like a parasite.

I look up and see the girl with her doll big eyes, her lips a cherry rose, pale skin, dark hair falling on her cheeks. Needle her face, as her cheeks should be

My cheek.

Then I realize that I won’t deal with a triple personality and turn my head around searching for Roman, Norman.

Who I’m I?

I mouth that to the girl, as she nods towards her eyes which reflect.

I see nothing.

Chapter 26

Photo Booth Fanfiction

Kiss me with such intense banality
As I'd lay
Smoke filling up the room
It's just once
As it's seen
Nose touch
The feeling inside
As you'd look around
I'd laugh it off
Let's do it in photo booth
No photo confirming
The brush
As I yanked your chin
Towards my own
Were you the girl who slapped
As I leaned again
Not knowing
That the more brief it was
The more the audience would've grasped
As you'd lean
Eyes locked
There is no excuse
As you ruffle the back of my head
Raise my hair above
Kiss the back of my neck
Go down
I don't care
It won't be brief
And the flash will get it all

-

Request more Jack/Alison poetry in the comment section below.

Papercut. Chapter 24

That’s… interesting.

“Who the fuck are you?” I want to yell, but my voice is gone and it’s more of a groan. I blink, thoughts of his still crowding my head, all jumping up and down, so excited, as if they are tied up or rather he is with Lola or some other girl, only here's a blindfold to pretend or maybe just his scarf, a party as the confetti falls and a big sign holds letters, which seem too bright and begin slowly, as I watch the clouds go by and that old lady gasp at my curse. I sit, cracking my neck a little, realizing that falling down caused a light pain in my neck. Oh, screw it.

“Jesus, you have a nice cig, gran? Marlboro?” I give out a toothy grin, searching my pockets. Of course Mr. Goody two shoes kid threw out my pack and my lighter. I go deeper into my jacket pocket. A lighter, thank you, kid. I laugh lightly, my laugh turning out hysterical as I watch the flame burn the oxygen, maybe if I’ll burn enough a hole outside, burning a hole in reality and there I'd dance, I’ll make the city suffocate as I dance in the smoke, gasp for their last breath, light leaving their greedy eyes.

Oh, is that my bus. I keep flicking my lighter as I sit on the bus, twirling the black plastic. I look around the massive bus making a guess who might be a Marlboro smoker. I go up and down the bus and even check the upper floor. I loosen up my scarf even feel a need to throw it and put something more classy around my neck like a tie?

I like ties.

I like Docs.

I’m neutral to dyed blonde hair, Converse and scarves, unlike kid here. I walk on, chewing on my bottom lip feeling a rough need to inhale and feel the bitter taste, a kiss from smoke itself, the eyes light blue. I'd inhale cancer.

The taste I lick, eyes closed and holding the dot inside, it felt like holding a paperknife above my head as I aim for the paper, cut it, feel it tear, cut the table in half, bite it, touch it, earn a papercut, as the bones of the paper slide upon the arm. It's still the same flesh, as the fluids flow, but it just shows the insides, what's stashed inside.

She's there.

Teenage.

Eyelashes upon the cheeks, hair dark a few remains of highlights upon the blonde hair, bright lipstick, over twenty.

“Do you have a cig, love?” I kiss her, briefly, capturing her lips, I think I feel her thread her fingers in my dyed hair. I open my mouth, tongue in, tongue out. That's it, as I lean back and her light eyes fixed on the olive I'm given, as she takes out one long white cigarette, not saying anything, maybe she's back for a brief second.

“Thanks, darling.” And I lean back, tasting the bitter taste, now exploring my own mouth instead of someone else's. Nicotine. I feel it mixed with blackberry, as usual. I stand up, pat her head and yank a side of my scarf feeling an urge to give it back to her. I stop her, as she realizes who I’m I. Then Macy looks at me in shock, but then she knew, as my hair roots are seen, so is the scar upon the sleeve.

“No, he doesn’t know. Pity, ain’t it? Nice seeing you. G’bye.” I wave at her and put the cig between my teeth. Panic. She stares at me, her eyes wide, mostly her eyes looking at my blonde hair. Of course it was kid’s idea, does anybody even ask me? I see her mouth wide trying to cope with what she was seeing. Then her eyes stop on the dreadful scarf.

“Yes, he wears it every fucking day. Sad, ain’t it, love?” I lean again, to find surprise plastered on her face, I want to lick it off. Tension. She tries to pull back, but doesn’t hair falling on her eyes. I brush it out of her eyes, wanting to feel more of her bitter blackberry taste. I look down, drowning, the water above overwhelming me and then I look up, placing a finger on her lips. I adored her. I loved the light blue, the light brown hair with different highlights depended on fashion, was it dyed as I see the black roots? “Wearing, but not knowing from who is it. Sad, so fucking sad, so fucking tragic."

"Lola, he actually said that Lola gave it to him."

Who said it, but we both nod.

I smirk at the past, brushing my lips against her cheek. I feel her shiver, as I return my cig to its previous location, my lips.

“Get out.” Her voice crooks, a shadow crosses over her face, as she tilts her head back, her arms spread on the top of her seat. She crosses her legs, a grin spreading on her face, some memory and then it fades. Macy's just like I remember her. With a quick reaction and my own slow one she grabs the cigarette from my lips, stands up, flicks her lighter, near the tip, never burning, she inhales nothing.

“Nice meeting you.” I smile at her, pulling one leg to my chest. She gives out a snort, chewing her cig tip. She shakes her head, laughing lightly, not tearing her eyes off me, fascinated, seeing everything she saw.

“Why blonde?”

“Kid.”

“Oh. Say hi to him.” Then she pulls on headphones which I failed to notice before and heads down the bus stairs not looking back. But after a quick minute of hesitation she heads back up, her cig now in her fingers. Macy stands there, she knows and the words won't come, but she says it anyway. "It happened."

“I know.” I exhale, watching her, as I rub one eye, my left one. She wants to say something, as I watch her higher, hair with a fringe covering one eye, black tights, black boots, designer skirt and everything looking straight from a catalogue. “I broke up with Lola, y’know.”

“Pity. But she was annoying. Oh, so annoying. How could you stand her? I'd honestly stab her." Then her voice breaks, she closes eyes for a brief second, she looks older only her skin never touched. "Oh, kid, too, right? I loved Ro-“

“I know.” I cut her off, not wanting to hear her verdict, how Roman changed her life gave her a brief fascinating replacement, even when the actor was all there ever was, how I was the one who took the gift, never telling the kid anything, what a bastard I was. I watch her, feeling a familiar feeling like the one I felt towards Lola. “Anything else? Give me a fucking cig, ok?”

“Fine. Choke on it.” She snaps, no nostalgia coming from me, pulling the one out of her mouth and nearly shoving it into my throat, eyes locked, mimicking a gaze I had above once. Then she turns around on her heel. Her eye glaring at me, showing everything opposite of what she ever felt towards Roman and something she always showed. “He’ll get rid of you. You know that, don’t you, Norman?”

Then I stand up and grab her by her designer’s shirt hem. I press her against the bus walls, it feels like a stage, as she once talked, it was dark, eyes closed about a certain dark haired actor who was devoted to his job, as he had died in her arms, how she looked around, a person taking his life away, all the words so mixed that mouthing came out, as she looked above. I wondered if Macy loved me then, as I kept counting the dividing years and I had kissed her once for the first time, no other first time ever given.

I want break her into the glass, the shards building up a new body, as it devours the blood, mouth open, as I'd close the eyes and then I'd kiss her, like she once kissed a dead Devyn. She blinks calmly, as she takes my hands and pulls them down, releasing herself from my grip, kisses my palms, both eyes now revealed.

I raise my hands, cupping her cheeks.

"I wanted to get rid of him, you know that. I thought that, that." I can't go on, as she nods, the actor, not even Roman in her head, as she looks transparent, the stars in her mind, but then I've seen her grab Roman and crushing his body agains hers, as he had cheated on Lola with Macy in his own thoughts or in my own, just given.

“It never occurred to you, did it?” She shakes her head, trying to avoid my gaze. “That I adored you? That you were the reason that I wanted to get rid of him so badly, you never thought of that, did you?”

But then she smirks, a hysterical laugh coming out of her lips, as she removes my hands, softening her gaze, but a smirk still printed on her face. She shakes her head, stroking my hair.

“It’s over, Norman.” But I cut her off.

“It is. You’re engaged, even if you look like a nine year old girl in her mother’s make-up. I have someone I love and will you please stop calling me, Norman?” My voice cracks at the end of the sentence. She stares at me surprised and with curiosity. But then she nods.

“I’m leaving anyway. Honeymoon. Wear you scarf with pride, Norman.” She says my name to irritate me some more, but not in a mocking way, she presses her forehead against my own, opens her eyes. "I thought you'd be Devyn."

Then she heads off, not turning as she stops.

“Maybe, I just never wanted to show it, Norman. Have a nice life. She’s lucky, screw kid if he doesn’t like her.” Macy doesn't say that, she just heads off, hands in pockets. She exhales as she walks slowly, into the future away from her past.

I return to my seat. I close my eyes not to watch my gaze devour her, as disappears into the crowd of my life, I never was in the crowd. I hug myself, digging my nose into the scarf fabric, ignoring her scent which would linger there for a while. I reopen my eyes to close them as I thought of a certain redhead which was a billion times better than my ex. The current is always better than the ex.

Chapter 25

Nation

Choose your muse
From a plastic cardboard box
Rip the ribbon
Do you have anything behind those eyes
And those you'll look in
The word coming from your mouth
As no topics are held by the nation
Will you throw that muse away
Who'll read endless articles about pain
She had imagined herself
As you'd simply
Devour

-

Request more poetry in the comments section below.

Papercut. Chapter 23

‘Some other time… Sunday?’ I write and see an exciting nod come, writing a cinema address. I feel a sudden rush of excitement as I quickly glance and then the consideration of leaving her after an intimate moment comes, as I wonder if something else should be said, as if everything is done for now. But then I stop. She is my student, hence the age difference. It doesn’t really count here. But then when does it count, as soon enough the thought of law will be scrubbed off anyway and just the media blows it and the media only holds the laws, as the top uses it to bend the ones who don't break. But then why accuse the top? We are the same here in the bottom, maybe even worse. But should I? Should I actually not hesitate and spend my Sunday with her?

But then what else do I have to do

Is it homework I should do, chewing my bottom lip, as paranoid thoughts would fill me up with no reason, as the liquid would hold still in my manly mouth. Should I invite Kayleen? I want to invite Kayleen, see her chew, before letting out some thoughts of a scattered morning with my other self, as I see them dine, as I-

I should call Lola. I could call Lola.

Lola.

Lockers, you are against them Lola as the first kiss was given, a mere quick exchange was it the hint, that it'd break?

The whiteboard now the lockers. He walks out the room, not glancing back, but rather calling me, telling me to stop, I do not want to hear that, so I cover my ears, pressing my palms so tight against them that I feel dull pain and then I see her kiss my palm, eyes fixed upon my gaze as she smiles.

I love her.

I don’t come back, I take chaotic big steps around the classroom trying to fix the mistakes I see, but I can’t as my hands crook all the time. I clench my teeth together, trying to get her out of my mind, but I fail. I see her pulling my scarf, I see her whispering into my ear, I see her simply locking gazes. I swallow praying that the end would be near. Soon enough I excuse them all, as I watch Alice stand up, not bothering with her pencil and stashing it behind her ear. I used to do that in art school, teachers laughing that I looked like an artist, but I'm I?

I quickly glance at my left to see a glaring Richard, chewing gum. He blows a bubble straightly into my face (he actually gives me the pleasure of leaning down, so that we’d be face-to-face) and pops it. I stare at him like the moron he is and begin collecting my stuff slowly, not knowing what I was aiming for.

Did I want to be alone with her in the classroom or did I simply want her to leave and forget about that date?

Did I want to cross it out like a bad dream?

Did I want to remain as holy as possible after all the sins I have committed with Lola? There were so many and pleasant, as seventeen seemed to roll. But then I doubt that there is something holly left in there, in my perverted head as I stare at her, not feeling the need to describe my thoughts lingering on, ahead of my mind and most likely feelings. But then that’s just how things are, first we do and then we considered our selves fucked up. That, I think is the meaning of life, considering ourselves getting fucked up, the fucking feeling take over, choking us, as symptoms of insanity show, psychiatric grin with greed on the mustaches thinking how much money they could earn from…

A second personality taking over the main one.

That’s right, he is taking over.

He should be erased, no more blades, no more gore filled late night movies, no blood addiction. I’m sure he’d be in heaven if he had three liters of blood to use as paint for his impressionism works.

How did he look like?

What was his true essence? Was his dream to cut every living flesh to let the blood pour down like waterfalls. He despises the taste, he didn’t even try it, he loves the colour and the warm feel of it sliding down the arm, it’s red covering the peachy skin leaving a sticky maroon trail and not just on skin.

I remember I saw him once slash himself, eyes locked on the opened vein, as it was split open, a screech coming from inside, as I looked at the blood which didn't pour out but stood there, instead I looked down at my arm and saw blood coming from a closed wound.

Oh, how ideal it looked on canvases, how real, how life threatening, like those exhibitions with human organs. It was normal to stare at the inside of a stomach and how corrupted it got over the years but not look at blood on paper? Organs were for science while blood on fabric was sick. Both would make a regular person vomit so what was the real difference?

Why was drawing with blood a crime?

With your own.

Do it with your own.

Do whatever you want with your body.

And get hung for that.

“I’m Richard.” Richie says all of a sudden, reminding his brilliant presence which I doubt I seriously could live without. Is this when the fan of sarcasm is waved? He is oh, so very wrong. There was some catch in this as I stare at him walk up to me so close that he practically pins me against my teacher’s desks. Sorry, I'm not gay and neither are you. But then everyone has their thoughts, but Jesus, not Richard. I seriously consider wearing high heels in moments like these, to be one height, eye to eye, I might say.

“Roman, right? So, how old are you?”

Bubble bursts.

Several chews before he blows up another one, his hands deep in his pockets, music blasting from his modern headphones. I exhale trying to convince him that he shows absolutely no interest to me and that I do not want him to choke with that endless chewing-blowing-popping gum of his.

“19, Richard. You, kid? Over 12 yet?” I’d add more, resembling something like did your parents find you in a cabbage? Santa isn’t real, face reality, freak! But instead I hold myself from insulting him further despite my desire to continue.

“Oh, definitely, on-” Then he is interrupted as Alice heels are heard as she walks up to us, her eyes sparkling brighter than ever. Both pairs focus on her, as if she were to remove her shirt and we'd stare heads against each other.

Would making him realize be the start of the end of the world? I guess so.

How would the world end and which eyes would I see?

Whose face would I kiss?

Alice comes in my defense, her mere presence even adding that height isn't the main factor in life, which usually causes me to frown, but I drop it. And Lola's speechless and not here.

So what?

Screw it. Screw. It.

“Jesus Christ.” He mutters under his breath releasing his hands from the depths of his front jean pockets, holding them up for us to see, like a mark of defeat. “Fine, chill, so-rry!”

Such exaggeration.

He snaps the last sentence looking at Alice, his eyes trying to catch her two coloured gaze but clearly failing as we both glance at each other from while to while, mutual silent understanding, a kiss. Then, looking all innocent. Does she have fantasize about me as well? I'm I above? But I'm not that high above to corrupt such,

hey I was innocent once as well.

The cabbage.

“I’m Alice, nice to meet you, Roman.” She says smiling, so I melt, that's what I do, nearly crying. Lola, Lola, Lola. I smile back at her wanting to feel it. I snap out as we both glance at the taller teen, who actually said something we both did not expect and may I say truthfully even forgot his presence getting lost in each other. Yes, cheesiness shall build the love, as the scarf is torn and get the needles and the heroin away from me. Jesus, was I getting all soapy? It all seems soapy until you…

Fall?

“I’m Richard.” I see his gaze praying in a hungry way to catch her gaze, I am surely not blind, just subconsciously dead and there was another thing they were both the same age, both students and above all he is taller, so women like him, is Alice a virgin? And is more handsome than I am with my oval face, dyed blonde hair and tightly wrapped around myself mossy green scarf. I even think Thom Yorke's taller than me, next time gotta measure. Alice replies, as I admire. I seem to admire every action, every move, every step she takes as I watch breathlessly, afraid to blink to lose that second and regret forever that I skipped it with that insignificant blink to water my drying eyes.

“Nice to meet you, Alice and Richard.” My voice crooking at his voice. Am I a crow, did I just fall in yellow paint? Maybe my other self likes him. Did he create him, a sketch or did the paper open up after endless pours, stains and crumbles? As if I care, all I care is about the two eye coloured beauty in front of me, as I tilt my head observing her, I want to go, watching Richard give up, say bye to her and leave to leave us alone.

Alone.

My dreams return to me again, as if I wasn’t making out with Lola before our break up. I felt hungry for her, as if I had lived for eternity and when several… days, I guess, were dividing me from my desire were left I couldn’t hold anymore. I watched her, look around not daring to boost up the topic herself. After all she was the one who asked me out. I press my hands behind me pressing them between the desk and my body, not bothering that I might crush them and lose the ability to paint, what mattered to me now was Alice. There is no paint without the palette.

“Yeah, Sunday, Alice. Why not?” I smile at her, admiring her. I swear I could feel myself lean closer, looking into her eyes. She was my placebo, I just swallowed her, my cure to my problems. Oh, how I want to brush several steaks of her hair so that my breath could tickle her ear as I spill my soul out. I’d hear her spill her soul out, rant on her boyfriends, brag about the latest trends the upcoming chick flicks and whatever actor she thinks is hot right now, even a guy she wants and imagines when she closes her eyes, I want it to be open, something I had. I want to listen to all of that, looking straight in her eyes, my fingers tangled in her hair as everything would remain silent despite her voice embracing the room in warm, calming… sort of home way. I want her to speak. What I lack and what would truly get rid of my homesick for my family.

And my homesick for my Lola.

But then who said that she was mine? Who said that she fully, entirely belonged to me?

Nobody.

I believe that I even deleted her phone, blocking it or maybe it wasn’t me, I could smell cigarette ash when I came to remember afterwards. I walked off, not bothering to make a move on her, as I had Lola’s face in my head.

I am giving Alice enough facts to believe that I like her. I can do something daft, like scream at her, tell her to jump on other guys instead of grin at her, excitedly. There's also fanboy number one, Richie.

What was I thinking?

What I’m I thinking?

Did I even consider thinking twice ever?

I never have. I tap my fingers against the metal pole waiting for the bus to arrive to take me home. I want to go, cover myself with the covers. My left hand give out a weird tingle as I stare at it, give a light shake, going stronger. I drop my hand down, rubbing my palm as if to warm it, to let the feeling disappear, to fight with it.

Of course he wants home. He wants home more than anything. I could see him, kick the chair on which he is sitting, tied and not handcuffed, ropes digging into the flesh. Inhaling, panic taking over him, his chocolate eyes running in a manic way.

Chocolate eyes.

I see the kid, I see the hazel.

Then I fall down, not feeling the ground hit me.

Chapter 24

Circle

I watch them laugh, hysterically, dragging it rather slow, as if with care. They’re just afraid that they’ll finish it before the fun is over. The girl laughs hysterically, as they take it away from her. She bends in two, coughing through tears and hysterical breaks. Her hair seemed so clean, so tidy and combed when she headed inside. 

What about now?

It’s messy due to endless ruffling, pulls, rolling over the dirty floor with rain puddles due to the thunderstorm outside. Inside her head it’s the same like outside. It’s a clear sky with that one cloud roaring, hitting cells, causing small yet major chaos.

Chaos.

That’s what it is, as I observe the small object in my hand. They are too drunk to care that I did not give a drag. Would they care? No. Then there’s more for them, more laughter involved, more screaming, more extreme actions. One guy opens the window, his eyes wide as he laughs and looks down. He puts one leg in the air as a sign of a joke.

More laughs, giggles, hysterical horse like laughs.

I just watch him out of the corner of my eye, praying that he won’t do anything foolish. Instead he leans against the window frame, his hands shaking as the cig is passed onto him. His eyes are bloodshot and his clothes are dirty, messy and wet. All of them were running here, weren’t they? Their eyes mad, bodies shaking, need growing devouring them leaving nothing but hunger and desire to feel what they feel now.

They feel happy, something they don’t want to feel by making it themselves, by achieving. No, instead they spend money, countless endless money buying their addiction. I pass it on, watching the fire burn its tip with smoke coming from it filling the room with its unmistakable drug smell.

Who are they?

I barely know anything about them and yet I know everything. The guy with bloodshot red eyes lost his job as an architect.

The girl is a failed actress that somehow ended up in one film with a famous blonde actor yesterday, earning money for the drug. She’s playing some sort of fictional self-portrait, that’s why they took her. Because it’s not that hard to play herself. I switch my gaze onto the next one.

Wife ran away with some hot Mexican who knows how to love her and who has a billion different lovers aside from the stolen wife. He doesn’t bother to fix his glasses and on the next drag they fall on the floor with a thud. I see a crack in them, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t see or understand anything now, he doesn’t even laugh as he just stretches out his arm, inhales, and exhales and passes it on.

A couple sit with their hands intertwined, making out ignoring everybody. They are the contrast in this circle, the ones which don’t really inhale all the time. I don’t bother kicking them out, as I inhale my boring plain cigarette. I watch them amused, feeling that there is some meaning of life left out there. But then, maybe there isn’t.

That’s us. We sit in the dumb circle, inhaling, laughing, making out and falling.

The girl looks at the bloodshot guy who took two drags in a row. She stands up wobbling, tripping lightly. He shows his pierced tongue at her. An architect with a pierced tongue? I take my eyes off the making out couple and look at the falling girl curiously. What does she want to do? Rage fills her eyes, as she holds onto the wall. She needs to inhale, not just oxygen but the smoke, the smoke coming out of the cig. She reaches out, but the architect shakes his head, mocking her with words aloud. The actress swears back, biting her lip, grinning widely, laughing, yanking a steak of her hair.

The couple stop making out, adjusting their eyes to the bright light. No need to keep their eyes closed so long. They both looked at the architect finish the cig with three drags in a row. The girl shrugs and takes the chin of her lover smashing her lips against his ignoring the further actions. Her lover boy doesn’t protest. I have a feeling that the drugs aren’t what they come here for. They keep me entertained by chatting with me in breaks of passionate kissing.

The divorced guy makes no action, even when the girl makes a run, well, several steps at a fast pace towards the architect. He presses his fingers against his lips, as if to find some ashes, a bit of the cig to inhale, his eyes look up, making some fake eye roll. I stand up, afraid that he might go unconscious, but he doesn’t. His hands fall down hugging his knees. The divorced guy starts humming some unknown song, most likely to mute the actress’ swears and curses.

The actress grabs the long beige curtain pulling it hard, expressing her anger threw it, giving the deadliest drunk glare to the architect. The curtains fall with a small thud, pilling near to her left foot with several cuts on her exposed skin. She starts shouting, screaming as the humming gets louder and louder.

She stretches out her hand to push him, the architect. Instead he laughs at her, muttering something under his breath between coughs. She waves her arm pretending to be a bird and then pointing at the open window.

He nods, mockingly looking at her, saying something about that he can fly by himself and then he turns around.

I stand up.

The humming stops and he looks up with his foggy eyes, tears clouding his light eyes.

The couple stop making out and turn their heads, placing several broken kisses on each other, but not tearing their eyes off the architect.

He says he can fly.

And he proves it wrong.

The architect shifts his weight onto the other in the air leg and leans forward.

The actress’s shout of victory doesn’t stop him, my warning, the couple’s gasp and the divorced guy’s new humming he just goes off into the night.

I lean across the window, pushing everybody aside. His face is calm, I feel time go slow. How old was he? I never asked. I watch him stretch out his hand, as if calling me, I watch him mouth different unknown phrases, which are lost in the noise of the room and the traffic.

He’s calling out.

He is calling all of us.

I breathe out heavily, throwing the remaining of my cig towards him, as I watch him flap his arms like wings, laughing, proud of himself. Then his face changes, it goes still, without any emotion.

Then I blink and turn around.

The actress lights another one, laughing as hysterically as before.

The humming gets louder, but I can’t hear it properly.

The couple press themselves against each other in agony, trying to forget what they saw.

Everything goes on. 

Mouthful