Sunday, 9 January 2011

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.


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…


“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.


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?


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

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