Tuesday, 1 February 2011

Papercut. Chapter 26

A routine which whirls you around, until the throwing up is held and frequent and the sick feels sweet.

I want to share it with you and I'll never lean back.

The thing is, I never know when I am awake.

Maybe it’s a habit. I mean falling asleep on the bus, as if biding my energy before kid takes over.

Or an excuse to forget what happened. I press my cheek heavier into the icy window, an overdose of soul digging as I hit a bone.

But then I see a dark spot, my heart used to falling down for Macy, but not really.

Just a few feet and the heart doesn't fall, as my neck stretches out, reminding who is the culprit of the body and who touches it.


I wonder if I should scream into their ears, make his girlfriend cheat on him, by dragging her against me, a shovel against her lips, as I'd slip it glance at them once more, my face off the window, a numb ache embraces me and a tooth ache due to the cold glass pressed against my face for quite a long while.

My hair gets ruffled by the sleep I had or rather the feeling, as if the routine is held upon with fear.

My hair is a dyed blonde, as the other took it, throwing the bottle above, dying everything he could, every hair missed until he blinked and saw himself again, naked would he wear docs even with his thought hanging upon the reason.

I want them, I want my feet to come. I drag the scarf off, peeling the skin off, as the double make out in their hands, hands sliding slower and down. Sex a strong factor.

Can my scarf be the tie, I untie it, looking down, Macy to the touch.

I tap my fingers against the front seat expecting a mumble from the grumpy looking gran talking on a mobile with some friend of hers. But none came. I took that as my cue and stood up, rearranging my scarf by loosening its grip around my neck.

No need to give out everything.

So I walk on, seeing Frankie glance at me with a quick eye roll. I grin widely, showing interest in that girlfriend of his. I wonder which stereotype I should follow or rather what I am expected to do. She turns around and greets me with a big smile. She’s not my type, but I sit on the opposite pair of seats, crossing my legs, grinning like the maniac which I am. And proud.

“Hey, Frankie. So whacha doin’? I’m…” I hesitate for a minute, as I chew on my real name, I haven't used it for a while let alone said it and now with Macy behind it seemed to come back from the dead. I ruffle my hair in the process, as if waiting for Frank to respond or some sort of action from the couple. The girl has chin length black hair, knee-high black docs, an amazingly bright stripy scarf, a black hat and a dark jacket, plaid shorts and bright fingerless gloves. She looks as a heavy contrast to her boyfriend, but they seem in a perfect kill and poured into a boiling soup harmony to be eaten with the leftovers.

“Oh, yeah, hey, Roman. Um, Lora, this is Melvin’s classmate from university. Just met him at the first day.” Frankie shrugs. Ok, no option now, I’m Roman. Always Roman, always keeping the cover. I’m Roman, I have dyed blonde hair to look like a Barbie, I wear a designer’s mossy green scarf thinking that my ridiculous girlfriend gave it to me when in reality it was my split-personality’s girlfriend, I also mourn over the fact that I do not remember how I dumped her, despite everything I don’t have to guts to reunite or replace her and on top of that my split-personality tries not to fuck up my already fucked up life by being a nice kid, like I am and I am going for a minor.

Oh, fuck you.

“It’s Norman, Frank. Nice to meet you, Lora.” I grin at her, jerking my head to one side, studying her that for a second her cheeks turn red. I think about making a move on her, thinking how hard Franco’s punch is. “But it’s ok, loads of kids, thinking that realism is eternal, too busy being good kids. Oh, screw it, of course there were thousands of billions kids scattered there, introducing themselves. ‘Frank, my name is Mary-Sue, nice to meet you, do you have a girlfriend? I love Edward Cullen and I want the stork to dump them above my glass mansion. I never had a boyfriend. Cocks are gross.' Typical.”

Lora glances at a confused Frank, as I re-do my scarf, wishing that I could change into something normal. Fucking white. He just had to wear it, thinking that it was like a fucking cross to protect from me, like onions trying to harm the vampire, the split-personality. Welcome to hell, you’ll deal with me, sweetheart.

“Nice to meet you, Norman. So-” Tries to think of a topic, fiddling with her hat bringing it up and down messing her black hair. Lora bites her bottom lip, glancing at Frank like a savior, waiting him to save her like a fucking prince on a white horse.

But then where’s my white horse?

I have a princess, but I am just a split-personality with no horse let alone a white one.

“I really thought it was Roman, Norman. How come Melvin came up with Rome then? Nome?” He blinks confused, tired and irritated. I wonder if I painted his naivety. I smirk, putting my hands behind my head, closing my eyes for a second letting them rest from the banal to the bones couple which was in front of me.

“Maybe.” Then a piercing silence was between us. I stared at both of them, realizing that I could get the hell out of here and get out to that bookstore a few blocks away I wanted to visit. I stand up, Macy's duct tape upon my lips, quickly glancing at Lora, seeing my next move, then at Frank’s knuckles.

“I was kidding, if I hurt you. See you, lovebirds. Ta.” I say turning on my heel, on the rubber, once again regretting the trainers I had on. I heard them say something to me but I ignored them jumping off the bus into the busy crowd, seeing no Doctor taking his tie in front of me, but then I was no fangirl. I walk on, not pushing anybody, not searching for anybody except for the green sign screaming ‘NORMAN BUY BOOKS HERE, SWEETIE’. I don't count my steps, freak out when I’d brush somebody’s sleeve due to their germs jumping on mine, not feeling afraid of the unknown faces pass by. I don't bother with who were they or what they were thinking of.

I love the feeling I had as I looked around even if the body was shorter, maybe skinnier and filled with unused sexual tension, as I walked around, not bothering, merely wondering what was upon.

Why should I care?

Why was I always acting like kid in occasions? I am the split-personality, I have counted minutes of breathing the air and I had to suffer being in his body, without getting one for myself, I had to deal with his fashion sense and love life.

But then even my name is connected with his, a person has to be deaf or amazingly stupid not to realize it. I walk on, walking past the doors, I wish they were glass, onto the fiction section, up the stairs which would lead me to it. The bookstore holding nothing as a few people scattered around the newest music magazines giving their predictions even if everything was far or even predicted, but the attention would always be there, because you'll never reach the gloss, even if you do it at home, touching. I scan the new section, trying to find something not soapy, angst, maybe with a bit of gore but too much, kid would kill me. I want to tear over life with my fingertips and then eat it with my tongue.

Kid, kid, kid.

I grab three gore screaming books knowing that I, the split-personality would love them and turn around to see a familiar red head in the romance section.

Does anyone even know what it feels and I wonder who had discovered and if Rome really felt the same for Lola, the body is there, it doesn't go jelly, the eyes just sharpen up and stick to the figure, devouring, as the body reaches a maximum level of tension.

Wondering if I should tap her shoulder, hug her, but nothing catches my eyes, as the eyes look further.

“Hey.” I say, the fear there, everyone holds it, but then I try to scan it off, wondering what I hold in common, scanning the books in her hands, but I know none as I am a big fat zero in romance. She smiles back, putting a steak behind her hair, greeting me in a warm, friendly to roommate way. Nothing screaming, “So typical. I just had to bump into you in the only bookstore in this city.”

You hold it.

Is Roman rough in my head, as Norman isn't?

“Yeah, I guess. So how was your day, Roman?” They way she said Kid’s name sounded foreign to me, because technically she wasn’t greeting me, she was greeting the culprit of this stupid dyed blonde hair choice. Couldn’t he choose something as absurd as red or blue? No, he chose blonde. If he was aiming for Tidus, he's not really athletic since he spent all his life sketching as well as I had and not because I had no other choice, mind you, I could've fucked-

Wait, I did.

I gulp, wanting to tell her, but then do you have to be honest? I want to ask her to stop calling me that name which my existence is glued to, all my fingers sticking and together as they form a metallic rope, chain around the body digging inside, something divided in the mouth. In reality I am taller, I am more mature, I had hazel eyes, chocolate hair and an enigmatic attractive smile. I try to grin the way I usually did, one end up, as high as possible the other resembling half a small smile, but failing, feeling lost in a foreign corpus. But then I glance at her, seeing interest in her light eyes. My mouth is too small, my ribs too big, my fingers small, the grip comical.

I am Roman.

“Good. My students could be way worse. I got lucky. I really did. Thanks.” I say, knowing who leads me onto Thomas and his red haired son which the balloons I sent attached, the banality stuck onto the teeth, as Roman traces the fingers against my neck, sink your lips inside me own. She blushes lightly, looking away. I want to grab her chin, I want her to take my away, the mute the heavy breathing, as hands go lower in the mind, a wall to be pressed against or to rub against. “Yours?”

Even if her tongue is all I care about.

“Not bad. Lazed off. I’ll have a sleepless night doing homework, anyway I’ll have a regular, banal Sunday night before a whole nice long week. Nothing special.” Roman is there, his teeth biting the sticky tape, Kayleem below me, legs around, the thoughts linger as a main factor of humanity is erased or exaggerated by the media.“Roman, you’re dazing off. Did you have enough sleep?”

The eyes close, as I look at her, she's close.

What's holding me from whirling around?

“Yeah, sorry, just slightly tired. I should’ve picked up something easier but not a skull. Had to fix their fatal errors. Nothing major.” She calls him by his name again, I want him out, I want my tongue inside, as you'd be there responding, even if there is no reflection in your eyes, no mine, as if I were nothing, but then her eyes were overcrowded by her own thoughts, that I could look and watch, falling asleep, if I felt like holding her eyelids and not touching her in the first place. I could say that friends call me Norman and that she is free to call me that, but then kid doesn’t actually know my name he sees me as his unwanted split-personality, alter-ego, I am the wrapper to the candy. That’s it, basically, that’s what I am actually.

Corrupted brain. Fear. Stress.

Aren’t those my parents from who I came from? Who gave me to this word, placing me as a small seed labeled ‘psychologically unstable’.

“But isn’t it good, giving hard tasks, I mean?” She asks me as we head towards the cashier. Kayleen pays first, ignoring the shop assistant’s flirty grin and comments. She’s dragged into our conversation, as I pay for my own books. We walk on, realizing that there is time and we walk on, the first two blocks chatting about my day and the next about hers, slipping onto school life, endless homework and annoying teachers. Slowly our talk creeps onto music, movies and TV shows we enjoy. Somewhere around the seventh block, a silence creeps upon us, as our fingers brush. The topics just don't run out, they just become mutual and to describe the phrases is going personal even if you remember every accent.

As said before we’d burn all possible mittens.

The fingers brush, right and left, I don't know whose is which, as I lean forward, the kiss is just held, a slap of shock across the face and then your tongue is greeted by another, teeth, lips, hands, exposed skin, hands browsing all over bodies, thoughts crossed out, taken away, the papers thrown in the air.

You can't describe a kiss, such as a last love or your current, the gap you fall in with


the eyes you hold and you had sewn inside out.

I intertwine my fingers with hers, looking sideways, interested in the passing bus. I feel like a school boy again, maybe like Roman’s first date with Lola, maybe my own or maybe even the first time I ever liked a girl. Then, with a deep exhale, regretting the cig I dropped in the bus while I was asleep, I find the power to look at her.

I could grow bored.

Never maximize a kiss, it's never enough, fill it with the desire you hold, so I yank her towards, remember, remind me later, there's enough.

Is it a tree?

I'd fucking chop it off, put her above, spread her life out.

How could I grow bored of her?

Even if I do, I enjoyed it.


Hello, what I'd like to note out this time is that the chapter and the structure was entirely different until I looked or rather wrote it before, I started thinking who I actually do see and the whole concept of the relation between Norman and Kayleen made me think over, what exactly is going on, what should be redone and here it is with Norman questioning himself rather than Norman falling for someone he barely knows, there is hesitation, there should be,


because it's Norman and there was once Macy, mind you.

Chapter 27

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