Thursday, 31 March 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day One

It happens so quick that I don’t remember, like when your hair is cut and then you realize that it always seemed to be like that, only there is a sense of déjà vu, as you eat vanilla ice cream on the ceiling and you realize that you dreamt of it.

It falls.


Is there suppose to be one whenever we smile at a person we remember or when we stare down at those black hair steaks near the feet as more gets trimmed? What if we had danced with the person before? What about the hiss you hear when you die and then a body takes you out of the water, your blood the pool you were drowned in with boats of corpuses floating above, as you know that you had done it.

I curled more, keeping my eyes shut, trying to blind out wherever I was going. I knew it, anyway. I didn’t really care, I just went, feeling the car turn left, right or straight/forward. It felt so soothing that I felt no pain at all. But then death had been upon my face, stroking it. But then what should I have felt? Soul cancer. Let it be something unreal instead of the banality which had hit me, let it sparkle, let it fade in the night, as I observe. Let me pretend that I have soul cancer receiving something green into my mouth, which sparkles

(I had a dream, that a 'gas factory' exploded, green tongues taking overt the city, everything burning in seconds, nowhere to run and then mum had said that the catastrophe starts if it shall snow,

it did

the snow falling,

beautiful, as I had stared with my sister, both watching our lives gets absorbed by something humanity had created, isn't it wonderful to die to something you had never touched?)

that cannot be cured but to be lured into the hospital anyway.

They all were in pairs.

I had a bracelet, rather my sister gave it to me, as I’d trace the animals, wondering how come I managed to build something as big for all of them to squeeze inside, by pairs.

Is that the meaning to find a pair, when you search for more?
Why can't you get a threesome, when I had managed to lie all the years later?

I was told that I did it, so that I’d dry my eyes with the back of my palm, tasting salt in the corner of my lips. Noah, you did it.

Now, at this age, when you stop believing in Santa Claus I realized that there was some other Noah even if I didn’t know him or any other Noahs. He felt like the fucking Santa Claus and he wasn't the bloke staring at me from behind the mirror. I've licked him, he doesn't taste that nice. I could feel a shoelace crumble in a rather uncomfortable way, as if trying to suffocate my foot, all untied, all drenched in water and my blood, too much to handle, but I just lay still not feeling myself breathe, but just feel the car turn slowly, my parent’s voices in the background with the music in order for dad not to fall asleep.

I smiled.

How could he fall asleep when his son was on the backseat, keeping his eyes shut not daring to raise an eye to see his drenched in blood body. Was I drenched in blood? Weren't my own thoughts or the army I had betrayed? Was this sweat or rather blood? I shut my eyes heavier, feeling a light ping of paint rush to brain along with others.

What did it feel like, Noah to have that last female near you? What if she was a bitch, like many?

What if she never cared?

What if she was a nice girl, which did nothing and asked who the fuck Muse were?

I never liked them much, females, girls, due to their endless gossip declaring every possible crush to everybody with a signature ‘don’t tell anybody, not a soul’ which would pass on until it reached onto some guy and spread faster like fire until the whole school would know. And they guy wouldn't give a shit in their eyes. Why would you fall for that thing anyway?

I nuzzled my nose into the seat trying to suffocate but as soon as I reached the edge I coughed not opening my eyes, as I was asked if I could stand up. Get them away from me, I'm nine again.

I opened one eye watching everything in a heavy blur. I tried to put one foot down, but I felt nothing, as I was dragged onto the pavement or rather my feet before I was pulled into my father’s tight grip. I watched the blobs of bright lights and dull moving spots gather until a big white flashlight was turned in straightly at my face.

I scream.

They don't hear it.

Neither do I.

I tried to grunt but an exhausted exhale came from my lips.

“Noah? Noah, can you hear me?”

I get my head yanked forward, a flashlight glowing in front of my eyes clouding everything, luring black spots in front of my eyes. It aches, get away from me, let me die,

let me die,

let me die,let me die, letmedie


I get something injected into my body, it bleeds.

Of course I can but as soon as I try to speak it turns into a croak and I begin to cough rather badly. I bend in two the cough getting worse, the lungs turn into ribs and yank the veins out, so they hang as a chain which the doctors pull as my eyes fall out, the pain, the pain, it aches and fades, as I feel something pressed against my mouth, something soothing, something sweet. I lick it, my eyes closed, tongue numb.

I'm dead.

Heaven is like a hospital, they beat you up to hell.

I can’t make it out if I am going into an unconscious state by my own situation or by the doctor’s decision.


Noah is God.

Day Two

Wednesday, 30 March 2011

13 is an Utopia

Ya znaju tri slova, tri maternih slova.

That's all I can say in russian along with the three words, the three swear words, which seem to be stuck in my head, I flip through my dad's iPod, the song starting to play, as I try to translate it with my sucky russian as cyrillic words seem to stare at me, asking me why had I stopped learning, my eyes stuck on the screen and not the green hills around, which seem to make an attempt at swallowing the car. My parents stuck in an awkward conversation, as dad had never mentioned that he wanted to play golf causing a look of surprise from my mother.

The hills are huge, all colours bursting with some lame animal living the days they are given, as I wonder what if we are the dumb ones, as we try to blow ourselves up.

I expect him to swear in russian, as he sometimes does despite the lack of love towards his hometown and everything in general, the nostalgia barely filling up his thoughts, besides those few songs and now gone russian accent and over usage of english words as he talks to his parents. I remember how he had asked them back in his school days, as he recalls for them to talk in english, no matter how bad it was.

A castle seen from the hills, as I wonder what would there be inside and it seems to relax me, soothing the homesick, as I feel at least some hint of humanity and life rather than grass chewing animals.

My dad's russian, my mother from the same country as I am from,the one which surrounds us, the one we all live in, friendly, holding hands, eating long forgotten meat pies and singing Meat Is Murder because we enjoy The Smiths but had never gotten the lyrics.

Just because my name is Sidney, I'm no Australian, think who do you compare yourself with, I do not live in Australia and the hints I have given might be weak, it wouldn't be as cold, oh, wait it's winter there, but despite the advantage of the last summer month, it's quite cold and my hoodie feels like an ice brick with the heavy cloud waiting to fall with the light yellow cracks and the transparent rays, as I want to wrap myself up in something plaid, as I feel some urge to see an overuse, but I barely care about it, falling into sleep out of boredom and the home feeling chocking me hard and my parents never were there. When they met each other it was because of a friend who had just come from Australia, Sydney and because of that my name was born with the locks of blonde my mum dyes into brown, because she doesn't feel blonde.

I wonder if my parents actually sat with me sleeping, as I didn't scream much, look around and concentrate on one toy, as if I'd be simply thinking, then I'd get called and I'd be pissed and scream.

I wonder what it actually felt like when they saw me screaming for the first time with the gulp of air, as they sat wondering what name should their son inherit, but then maybe they laughed about it, calling me Sidney and dot. I was amazed by my parent's logic, so I could have been a Rome, Paris, London and any city they guy could've been in?

Was that it, close your eyes and choose the location, was that why people were obsessed with Paris, to name their kids Paris Hilton?

My face actually resembles a postcard from some post-soviet country, as I'd stand laughing, introducing some tourism which my country lacked, only my accent and words not there. I can barely speak and write in pauses, forgetting cyrillic letters. People expect me to be some Alexander, Volodimir or Dimitri, but nothing not even an Anatoly, which my dad is. But my dad goes by Tony now, a nickname he'd be given back in school, due to his hidden determination. The desire to escape along with a few other friends, those who wanted made it, even if they were idle.

As far as I know he just went away after everything broke down, he says everything was broken there already and there was nothing to break, just the cracks became seen, as there were things to compare to. I still see my grandparents from dad's side. My father never goes back, but he has some tracks stuck there firmly in his iPod, the only thoughts of regret would be a loud word, but something which would cause a smile, saying that he felt a desire to find the language somewhere, but everything was pompous, besides several songs scattered now between britpop,waiting to be deleted.

Every story you listen the russian immigrates marry other Russians and they stick together praising the country they had chosen to leave, my dad has quite an amount of friends, but all of them with their russian either lost or developing with the homesick and constant nostalgia.

I look up and I see my dad look at me with a big smile, as his dark eyes look further, he looks at the cows which stand still until they get erased after a few minutes and those which could cross the road, but don't, speaking up to the car's colour.

I look up, flicking through.

I wonder as I feel my phone vibrate along with the awaiting bill in a month as my parents just received one, muttering that I was melting and that in their age their tongues were in their own mouthes, but then they caught a glimpse of Zane as he walked past phone against ear, asking them if they wanted pizza. He had been over and all were lazy enough to cook, as my parents had to be gone in a while, as we had planned a movie night. They still couldn't help but look at Zane with slight worry, what if their own son had something stashed as well, waiting for the closet doors to unlock.

Zane is gay.

I remember my parents choked when they got that answer as they asked if my best friend had a big breasted girlfriend.

It were back when he had called himself still in the middle, as he didn't get understood with a row of questions if he hated girls, how did it feel, why weren't he locked and how come could he look into his parent's eyes after all they've done.

I wouldn't say that it affected him much, after he opened up, but until he did, he'd hear how he wasn't a man if he let himself be treated like a woman.

I on the other hand had a big breasted girlfriend.

What's wrong with having something else to cuddle against? It's not that I like her because of that, just because she got breasts first, as other continued to stuck cotton in their mother's bras to jump during discos and pray that no twelve year old will stuck his fingers inside to stroke the softness of his wet dream, while the rest of the girls look as if they are still in kindergarden, physically and mentally, so what if my eyes wonder down and she has to repeat my name several times?

Ok, so I was with her, I've been friends with her and then over the summer she grows everywhere, she's taller, her hair shorter than longer than dreams of dying and piercings and the first thoughts of love come out from each other's lips. It's a feeling I cannot describe, her eyes drawn in my head with her touch. It's not like I want to trace everywhere where she had grown and yes, I'd still love her if she was flat chested.

If she were a man?

I'm not gay, but in theory, I guess I would.

Now, would she go lesbian with me?

Oh, lesbians.

Cover me in chocolate and throw me to the lesbians.

Oh, daydreams. Too hot, ok, I just took off my hoodie.

I wonder if Alene would, I'm not the only guy imagining his girlfriend with another girl doing everything I'd do right and oh, I'm there with a camera and pouring honey all over them and feeding them strawberries.


I love her, I text her that. I ignore mum. I get blamed for being a teenager.


Oh, sexism, I raise my head to answer dad.

Now it's that in his deep voice, the russian accent long gone as if it were the relation long lost. As if it were some sort of first girlfriend because you have to know how it's like to kiss a girl. I glance at them both, shrugging wondering what is wrong with my girlfriend, but we never called each other that, as we'd get long glances after a few kisses on the cheek in the morning or fine, a long make-out session in the corridor, as teachers would walk past and call our parents. Alene, her name shared with Kerouac's short love interest, maybe I was Kerouac now, with no rights, no, Sidney, you are dating, I've been sticking that in my head. Ok, breathe. She had her nose in a book before, chewing on an apple before I had met her, before I met her, I remember how I used to walk past with a broken nose, maybe due to some phrase Zane had said to piss someone off and I'd say a broken and quiet 'yeah' only with a determinate facial expression.

She'd sit on a bench, a can of coke besides her, hair in a braid, then she cut it off as she turned thirteen, her hair pitch black and white t-shirts with different authors on it as she'd hum Blur tunes.

I told her Oasis were better, she disagreed calling them the biggest assholes in the country.

I called her a bitch.

I was ten, alright? It's a miracle that I didn't garb hold of her and didn't throw her into the fountain in front of the school.

As that had been a month when I had not only considered Noel as a genius, but actually found myself quoting him as Chris Martin was a geography teacher, I'd even agree now, really, but then I'd just get into a few fights, a cut under my eye as my mother would ask what were I doing and my dad showing how to punch and block, causing my mum to ask if he also did that back at his own school days, dad shook his head, saying that he just beat up girls with books he read.

Looking at people's parents I tend to think that their lives were dull and they ask children about their, wondering what they had lost.

My mum told her mum and they laughed, as she stood reading Burroughs, with both of us behind their backs, still showing tongues because it was a cool thing to do and Alene had walked away, saying that hers was longer. I told her to fuck off, which she said was impolite, whatever, if you play dirty you win, so I just did.

She came next day and asked Zane if he were gay, that she had read a book and she told him about it, he shrugged, quickly denying but glancing at a blonde football player and saying hi to him in the meantime, as he barely knew the younger kid, but replied anyway, earning a small grin to wear for the rest of the day.

Alene asked me afterwards, I asked why was she asking that, she shrugged, blaming the author and her head in a new book. I called her weird, while she said that everyone had seemed gay to her or muscular lesbians,as others should die off, as they were never described.

I was 11.

Zane woke me up at midnight, before Halloween that year, when Alene meant nothing and I thought that all women were attractive, I'd say that they were sexy, a word I overheard the older students say and I asked what it meant getting my first Sex Ed lesson, as I struggled back and told Zane.

He asked what if there were two guys or two girls. I shrugged, as I remembered the two lesbians in our school, as all the guys in our grade seemed to stare then the phone era came with porn videos to watch instead of geography and the whole sending every one pictures and virus phobia. Of course they were filmed, only to do as much that it got boring, daily and new lesbians were wanted up to the point that I wondered when a poster searching for hot two girls would be plastered on every single wall instead of calling people whores and sluts or plain gays. They both weren't good looking it was simply because of the a lesbian is a lesbian and this was the real thing, free and you could touch it, but no one did, one guy did and they stopped it, the seconds and minutes lost now and then. I tried to picture the girls, I told him my thoughts, lingering into details, but Zane yawned and I asked him if my story telling wasn't as explicit, he said that it was.

How was it done between men?

He had asked, now that the question was asked, aloud and the culprit and wonderer was located, he tried to look straight at me, after all, I had known him for eternity. After all, death and birth seemed both as far away.

Was this his birth, as the first thoughts were spoken aloud?

I stared at him, saying that it were all masturbation really, just someone does it for you, no matter what gender, I tried to tell everything I thought at ten, the innocence now gone and the flag of vanity risen above my head with a matching purple t-shirt it's an act to please yourself. He smirked, looking down, tying his shoelaces. He always tied them with care, bangs tickling his eyelashes and I tried to find freckles as I seemed to have a few, I tended to believe that three because I had liked the number three. He always wore dark coloured Converse as far as I remember him only at five he had a pair of red coloured ones, given by his father.

Zane was twelve then.

I believed in no family bond, because if we'd be strangers, the ones who we call family we would never even talk, we just have a bond we believe that with all the kids saving the marriage, the only bond which exists and is strong is the one we create ourselves, together, both, apart, holding hands with no vows coming out of the mouth as a new life is born and destroy over melancholy, jealousy and stupidity.

I believed in my bond with Zane and if he were a girl, I would be afraid to throw the cobweb of family over us, as surely then after the vows nothing would follow with the routine that we had done everything with three kids, never willing to adopt, as then we'd be lying to ourselves, told by the female.

The female would tell lies, see betrayal, as I think now, the last days of thirteen the gap closing as I have no idea what fourteen will be like and I seem to hold onto the three dearly, as if it were my life, maybe our age is our life. Maybe we die and get reborn every year.

It was halloween, he had stolen his mum's make up and we both dressed as Britney and Christina for the hell of it. No competition and no boyfriend with top sales to fight over. Zane's lips didn't seem keen to be painted red and he kept licking them off, as his cheeks blushed as he kept telling that the idea was insane.

Back when Zane was six, there was some child actor he liked with big blue eyes, a bit older let's say he was ten and Zane asked his father, I'm mixing idetails, even before that me and Zane were stuck home really late at night and the movie was about two glam rock stars, we didn't know the name, but now we both do. Velvet Goldmine.

Zane sat as if he were between them, in their kiss. He called it beautiful.

It's Zane favourite movie, as he turns it on sometimes, as he'd sit on the floor, hug his legs and watch singing the songs and pressing pause one minute before the kiss, to savor the last glances before the confession was there.

He told his dad about the movie.

People are homophobic, believe in naivety that boys should fuck girls and only. The more, the better. I had a friend who tend to have many boys and she was called a whore, over twenty, she meant it and has a nice job, mum's old school friend, try saying that to her face and you'll lose all and the no is a no. He earned a stare and he asked if he could marry the blonde, back when you believe that marriage is holly.

13 is an Utopia

Tuesday, 29 March 2011

Papercut. Fade

He’d still talk to her.

He'd see her through his fingers, threading it all through the dried blood, a wall I had built, sitting across, never touching him, waiting.

He’d talk to her a lot.

He’d cry in the corner, shredding his heart out.

I'd watch.

She seemed to forgive him and so he calmed down.

Just because I had told him.

Up to the point that I realized that there was no Kayleen.

I had looked at myself in the mirror.

It was an anti-muse, a creation, something to keep Norman happy. Nothing else.


They had called it, as I had shown them the red in my hair, screaming, the wound open, leaking upon my hair, colouring it, creating something else, as I had laid, his fingers opening my wound, with another kiss.

I saw her once more, just once, before Norman got her for himself.

I was in the corridor, sketching, my Converse laying lazily as the pencil dug into my bottom lip, causing a nice feeling of pain. I didn’t lift my head up, as she opened the door. She greeted me, straightly after I did, her mind clearly somewhere else as she got rid of her chocolate Converse.

I showed nothing in voice, no annoyance or hint of the relation between her and my split-personality.

“My day sucked…” She goes on, as if she really exists asides from my head. Kayleen didn’t change, she goes on bragging about her day, about her teachers, not touching the subject of her boyfriend. Her voice becomes more than annoyed as she rants on her hated teachers. She’s quitting poetry next year, so she still has months of waits.


Soon to be a famous impressionist, as she says, he draws upon my skin, sketching, needles, read too much Kafka.

I ignore her, gazing on the tip of my pencil wondering when she’ll just go away and go to her boyfriend to keep him occupied. Then she stops, gazes at my white piece of paper scattered with the rest on my lap.

“How was your day, roommate?” She asks as casually as possible, trying to sound polite. Kayleen sits next to me on the floor, her red head brushing my shoulder. I feel a shiver due to the touch. My bond with Norman is still strong, despite the changes, the tangled body and the determinate expression, as I lean back from the kisses I had in my head, as he lays above.

“Ok.” She doesn’t bother about my date as she reaches for her phone to text somebody.

I don’t mind. I’m happy. “How was your date?”

She flushes red, like her hair even deeper, the needle from my hand aches, a pleased smile upon her lips, as she day dreams of her new boyfriend.

“Nice. I liked him.” She answers simply, as she puts a piece of her hair behind her ear, humming some tune which seems rather familiar to me. Rather Norman-esque actually.

“Good.” I snap but then I look at myself.


I couldn't find the right song to write the goodbye.

Thank you,

first of all.

Thank you.

The plot was meant to be well, the main thing was still held, Kayleen being Roman. Only now you can see it clearly.

Oh, now it struck me, fully.

The ending still needs to fill up my head, just like it had once, the first draft finnished on Christmas near five am, the end, as I had layed, after Lola showed up in front of Roman, I had laid to think.

That was it, there was nothing left to tell, as I had thought.

Then I remember while listening to Thom Yorke's Hearing Damage, the thought came to mind

What if there never was any Kayleen?

And that's how the epilogue was born of of a mere idea. Listening to Twenty Years by Placebo, just saying.

Roman didn't have Norman at first, he had radical mood swings, was in his early twenties and a rabid art school teacher, who was supposed to fling books at his students, Richard included, the first scenes ever written with Roman was him hitting, now known as, Richard with a book.

He was supposed to be calmer in the mornings, where'd he'd fall for Kayleen.

Kayleen was the second born characters, like Roman out of brainstorming.

Roman was born in a creative writing class, character development.

Brainstorm, it was the first time I had used it and now use frequently, thank you.

Then the thoughts came, that he could have one, with the heavy mood swings, as I hadn't known that much back then on the condition.

Papercut changed itself three times, the first draft the plot was supposed to be, Roman falling in love with Alice, then Lola moving in and then Roman falling in love with Kayleen.

The first scene ever written was actually the one seen in the epilogue, in script format, as Roman goes home to see Kayleen.

Papercut's inicial name was Paycheck due to a Placebo song, as the name Papercut has slowly creeped into mind making it Paycheck & Papercut, for Papercut to squeeze it out and the chapter with Norman explaining the meaning of a Papercut held strong.

The mirror and the reason behind Norman's appearence was never told in the first draft neither was a suicide attempt. The reason behind the connection between suicide and death is more looked at in the Prologue.

Now what is the prologue?

The prologue follows the lives, until they end of three characters, Macy, Jaidem and Devyn the actor. Death, in it's full form explained and the thoughts of breaking fate and the meanings of pearls which appear in my novel and the story are shown closer.

The final edit contains heavy references and holds a tighter bond to the epilogue, while the meaning of Kayleen is faded unlike Norman's which is brought under the spotlight until he goes blind.

The relation between Kayleen and Norman was changed, Kayleen a mere attraction, narcissism, unlike the first meaning, as his attraction to Macy had merely been first love.

Roman and Norman's relation reminds Devyn's and Jaidem's with a darker light, as their friendship turns to tension and I dare say they share a body if you are inclined to say that Devyn is Roman or Norman.

The confusion folds and unfolds, bringing the question who is who and would Roman be the world entirely?

I talk too much, I know that.

Papercut Prologue/Ladder To The Red Moon Gathering

Papercut. Chapter 35

I ignore Thomas standing there as I had been calling him for a meeting to get myself a raise. And curiosity towards a younger generation haunted me as well, as I was scared to grow old, as my body would rot due to the brushes I stroked and the thoughts and scars I had once given myself. I was going to die. Alice shouts my name, her voice crooking. She’ll realize, she’ll regret, she’ll…

forget. She won’t. She’ll call me a bastard, rant on how bad I was to her girlfriends, laugh at my stupidity or how I ran off, scared. I'll be the one labelled ugly. Horrible. Disgusting. With a face holding a crooked mirror, I had killed myself before, slitting the skin open to feel death, to face it but enough to come back to have the feeling of clinical death and now death to follow my own steps, as I fall and he touches me, knowing that I'll die when he'll receive pleasure inside me.

My heart is banging against my rib cage, a sharp object, tearing my chest open, to make him break my flesh, bleed and resurrect out of my blood, drenched in the sins I have thought. What have I done? Her fingers trailing are like ice cubes glued to my skin. It's as if I wake up and cannot move my body, a feeling of death, a path, a key, as you feel the keeper of death lean in with a kiss, you get one before you die.

How many did I get?

I’m not saying that it’s new feeling, it’s just felt amazingly wrong, not wrong in a good seductive way, but in a ‘really, Roman, stop it, you fool’. I breathe in and out heavily, as I pay for my bus fare, not bothering with the change. I run up the stairs searching for an empty seat. Nothing. I strode back down but up again as a woman leaves.

The rush inside me, as time holds me by the throat, the edges of reality cracking as if I were to fall down, somewhere where Norman is no longer the reaper.


A reflection if my own name, the first letters smudged and one added as I see him there in the end of the bus, the lady besides him only now I see longer hair and Macy's is shorter, his features more rough and worn, something about him reminds me something and that something is myself, as if I had swallowed too much, as my back had been broken in two, a continue of something broken.

He should take her, but then a steak goes a light blonde and he's gone.

She eyes me suspiciously from her fringe, but I ignore her. So what’s if it’s Macy? What if she's the one scribbled on these walls?

Why do I care,

I’m not the one who cheated on


with her.

It wasn't me. It was the scar from so many years, the blood leaking out, making death swirl upon my head, as I had raised it, a failed suicide attempt, as I had seen death, the mere ghost of it, swirling, taking me inside, a ghost, smoke which had kissed me in the shape of a man which reminded me all, the eyes uneven for a mere moment, the hair

the hair




He bit my tongue,

because I die out of suicide.

Not my own.

He’s so foolish enough to believe that I know nothing of his love life.

I am his love life.

I am Norman.

I am-

I am home with the walls in thoughts, my wound now open, as the house tries to fall and I scream.

There is no Alice.

There is no Kayleen.

I throw my Converse off my feat, as I can’t make up my mind. My thought are all mixed like after watching several movies in a row, one after another, the anti-muse laughing, making out with my split personality. I could see him trailing his hand against her jaw.

Red, red, red. I had red hair, I had I had, black.

He’d press her against a wall, he’d press her against the bookcase, he’d press her anywhere his lips pressed against her own. He'd have sex with me instead of her, so that he'd never take me, as if he'd be God with the nymph and the broken smile, due to the evil the worlds hold to once shatter belief.

I see her tear away her black feathered mask as a bright flame red steak falls down from her hat.

Kayleen is my anti-muse.






Kayleen has her keys.

But it isn’t Kayleen.

I open the door to see somebody who is certainly not Kayleen.

Lola is my muse.

It's plain, it's banal, it's life.

It holds no blood, the blood stays still as tongues swirl slowly, never a sin to commit.

Life, the one dancing in that gray mask, laughing, teasing me by brushing her fingers against my cheeks, capturing my lips in a surreal kiss.

I stare at her. Blonde, different coloured eyes, a small worried smile planted upon the lips, as she watches me for a while before she begins to laugh. I had this moment replayed in my head but nothing, I've seen it before, I feared it, everything shattered, everything torn and everything fixed with the pink duct tape she gibes from her teeth, I don’t lurch myself forward pressing my body against hers like the first time my body and soul aching for more. I stare at her like an illusion, she is one, I even wave a hand in front of my face, I close my eyes. I can't look-

But I do it in my head instead I devour her with my eyes.

“Hello, Roman.”


I try to say her name, but nothing comes out. She looks away, brushing a hand against her lips, a sign that she’s worried. I wanted to that. Then she puts it upon my wound, her hair still blonde, as mine goes black for a brief memory.

I want to be that hand.

I grab her hand up, I yank her forward my heart beating in my ears, pouring themselves out to tease the floor with a new dye and hidden remains. I cannot inhale, I cannot exhale, I cannot breathe, I cannot swallow. I don’t see anything, I do a hollywood scene by pulling her tight in my head.

Instead, I release her palm, still feeling her warmth.

“Lola, what are you doing here?”

I love you.

I fell, there is no feeling of capture, the wound has closed for the air, just drenching the walls, the red building to tear as she holds death in her hands.

Jesus, I love you, love you, love you. How pathetic could I be? I stare at her, as she brushes her hair back, embarrassment. I don’t ask that aloud. I just stare.

Until she releases the pressure and makes a step, a step where I take two and pull her into a hug. Maybe she did, maybe I did. But does that even matter? What does matter now, when I feel nothing asides the desire to refresh my memories? I grab her by chin, not caring about her reaction as I crush my lips against hers. Feeling her blood swirl, as I bite it and chew it.

I force her against the wall, just like my ego would do.

I kiss her just like I would Kayleen.

I break apart breathing heavily, as she fixes her hair, looking sideways, her tongue between her teeth, one hand running threw her blonde hair. I can’t help but smile.


You fail to find something similar, when you already hold it in yours, even when you bleed to death.


This is it. Papercut.

I shall post the epilogue in a few moments, just not to break anything for those who are going to read now, just in a few minutes.

Papercut was editted from the core, entirely, written at first when Ladder To The Red Moon Gathering was nothing and never existed, the dream with Devyn still far ahead.

Who is Roman?

That question kept playing upon my lips, as I tried to understand who played which role.

The end of the behind the scenes, a bit later, on the link which is below or will be in a few moments,

thank you.


Saturday, 26 March 2011

Papercut. Chapter 34


“Yes, Alice?” I hardly hold my cheeks from giving me out, a blank plate with clicks.



I force her into mind to calm myself down so that I’d ignore Alice’s eyes. There's something about them, something earning, a scream which I cannot reply to, but just stare, as if I'd wait for some leaves to fall and cover so that then I'd wrap her in a rubbish bin and walk past the leaf fall with her.

She can do anything she wants. She can grab me and press me against the blackboard, she can run away, she can cup my cheeks, she can, she can.

She breaks.

I don’t let my mind trail, I don’t let myself think that as fragments break out of my desires playing in my head. I raise my eyes at her. No Kayleen, no Lola. For the past three weeks I had been ignoring her, ignoring Kayleen, grabbing my ego by the throat hissing at him not to make any move at Kayleen, but rather at himself, to break the equality received from both sides.

He didn’t hold, he tried to make up with her, raise the standards in his mind, draw a portrait, but you can't really fall in love with yourself, talk to her, but then I’d release myself and screw everything up, liquid, despite that small hint of my desire tingling in my throat yelling at me to go on, pulling in strips my skin away and rocking against the flesh, making sure that no blood spills into mouth, just onto breasts to tease.

I stand up, as she fixes her hair, basically she just puts a strand behind her ear and that’s it. That's the big whoosh when you go inside and there's nothing, a few strokes and that's it, it sparkles, It feels as if these three weeks went past me, freezing myself from the day I kissed Kayleen, no matter how much I want to erase it from my mind, she keeps rubbing the windows away, now she's shirtless, leaning in, pulling me by the scarf, a hand between her legs, the image tears off her eyes, you just see the grin, a tongue as it licks the skin.

My ego.

It still reappears in my head, in my dreams, in his head, in his dreams, it's a flexible graphic with a remote hurled across the screen and my cheek ends up cut in half, peeling off. I feel him sulk, chew on his lip, the pack of cigs thrown harshly away under the excuse of it being not too strong to numb away the pain which comes from the stars, an age. My ego walks, no now he sits, running a hand through his hair, not dreading any epic moves whenever I get the chance to talk to him, but rather showing the held distance and the cig as he called me a name I've never heard.

He had called Macy, I've seen it.

Sometimes he stands up, pushes me against the white wall, which is rather invisible making some sort of endless chamber seem an illusion. He screams things to me, stroking my hair, as his fingers slide into my mouth, legs pressed and so are bodies, my hands stretched and I stare at him, our breaths against each other, I take my tongue out and he touches it gently, I close my eyes and moan. It feels too good, it feels as if he is holding a frame and if I'll open my eyes I'll feel something cool and not the skin which plays with my own, as he slides the white fabric away and presses my head against his, his tongue getting a full access and it feels as if I am kissing myself, as the zones are similar, I touch him between his ribs where I have a scar and he gasps. We look at each other, I see him go blonde, the eyes go lighter, the fingers intertwined and he tries to bite my lips, individuality, but it's gone, he just sloppily kisses it, as if I were Lola or Kayleen, then he goes back to the blackness, as if my blood had been spilt upon his hair as he looks skinny, just as I had been, he lets his oversized jeans slip, a new taste of homosexuality, Norman is timid to the touch, as I slide my hand between his legs, he is too young, I start rubbing against his tongue.

Roman even hesitates as I slid a finger inside him, stroking, as his cock reacts to my touch and I take the remaining pieces, I see my hair go black and I press him against the wall, I like feeling the taste of lust, my fingers traveling upon his ribs and teasing everything I can, he breathes heavily, his hair newly dyed and a white, his olive eyes lost and his body moving to some other rule, as I slip two inside, spread and I pull myself inside.

Then there's the frame as it breaks my body in two, as I bleed in front with the mirror I broke with my fingers, Roman watches, his lips cut as blood leaks onto a lost feel and he stares at me, his reflection, fully excited as he presses his body into the glass, touching himself, he takes it above him on the floor, a shard pulling into his rib, many into his right arm, as he gasps, stretching himself, another touching himself viciously, that he produces blood himself, as he takes it inside his mouth, moaning just to come once more and he pours it upon his head, a new, natural dye, once he had.

I am the culprit, according to him, but I don’t care. I’m in charge, not him. Just like that I let him sulk on his own, maybe give him chains to believe in, releasing him if he’s good but under no other occasion.

But then he just ends up doing everything the same, earning him detention, as I strip him and hit him with a ruler, watching his opening get filled with pre-cum as I lick it and stick my tongue inside,

I force him to write lines instead, I want him to write them with his own blood, but it makes me gag. The scent, the feel, the taste, the look of blood. Then I ask him to stop and make him write on the walls of the chamber showing us the end of never ending, the end of happiness, the end of failure, the end of everything scribbled in lines.

Everything scribbled in ‘I will not fuck up Roman’s love life’.

“Yes Al-“

Then she does what she wants to repeat, only this time in the clocks of reality. I hesitate, yet but pull her closer, stroking her hair, trying to feel something.


Not like she’s a bad kisser… Even if the kiss is not there yet with the feel. It’s just, maybe because I have kissed enough in my life up to the point where I find it boring. I simply don’t know. I don’t do anything to take it to another level. Maybe it’s the real way it should be? Feel nothing and die with passion upon the lips? I lean back, pulling her into a hug, still feeling nothing and deadly afraid to look at her into the two coloured orbs which fell from the gum ceiling with stars done in sharpies, something the nineties cling to, taped on VHS.

Everyone feels so young, while I feel real.

The second happens the same, the next day, only I’m the one who initiates it. I press her against the blackboard, fiddling with her hair before brushing my lips against hers in a swift movement, capturing her fully. I feel the uneasiness go away slightly, but not much. I find myself not feeling what I am searching for, it’s not like… like it was with Kayleen. Or Lola, for that matter.

The third happens on our Saturday night out, who knows how many in a row. I desperately try to feel it, but nothing. But then it’s not nothing, it just doesn’t… feel right. It feels more like a need to actually snog something than anything else. I begin to feel sorry for her.

I take a week off from work, from Alice, from university.

Everything is passing too fast, I’m still on the first chapter of my book, as I can’t focus on the page. I keep re-reading every line not understand what is going on. I can’t understand as if it’s a foreign language. I grab Kayleen’s French vocabulary. My book isn’t French, it’s not in Russian, not in German. It’s in English but I understand nothing up to the point that I read it aloud, up to the point I read the quick plot line explication in the internet. It’s not my book.

It’s just not the book, it’s my life.

As cold and as life hitting.



“Stop it.”

I jump into the other direction, rubbing the back of my neck. I breathe rather heavy. I stare at her trying to recall what happened during that kiss I just broke. I still feel where her cold fingertips were on my back, right under my shirt. It’s logical, but I can’t bring myself to do it, I don’t want to.

I had been kissing, snogging, making-out with my student. I bring my fingers to my lips, as in disgust, trying to rub off the taste that I nearly feel like tearing off my moth like in cartoons. I realize suddenly how stupid it is, as if that idea light bulb fell straightly on my head and broke in shards, as the realization is scribbled on the wall I wanted.

“You should date Richard. He seems like a nice and caring guy, despite his cool, I hate short nineteen year old bleached haired teachers. You’re dismissed. Sorry.”

With that I grab my messenger bag and make a run for it, a run for my life.


It feels like the closing, as if it's all over, well, in one way it is and everything is unfolding. The scene between Roman and Norman was written just now and Roman's shall, the farewell to Alice was never touched.

The next chapter is the last and then there's the epilogue.

And that's it.

A full look on Macy's story, pearls, Devyn and all the references to Jaidem are told in Ladder To The Red Moon Gathering which may be the next story after Paperbag Writer, if you feel like voting for it. The poll is on the left.

(2014: obviously there is no poll and you can find a few chapters of LTTRMG on the blog, if you wish more, please ask and they will be posted)

Script Frenzy is also a few days away, I have the plot and just waiting for the sky to hit 1st.

Chapter 35

Thursday, 24 March 2011

Papercut. Chapter 33

It feels like a sudden bang on the head, like a first gasp after choking on bubbles, like being torn away from death. Images and memories slide into my mind slowly, digging into my cells, explaining my existence. It was reading me like a book, holding it with one hand sideways watching the pages slip onto the other part, its letters burning my presence, as the other hand holds it up, a card.

There are no lips against mine asides the glass, as it strokes my lips, a hand which I do not see, but lick, my eyes closed, eyes lured up as I stare into a spot where eternities meet, as if it were ice sharpened by an rectangle.

Sharper even.




Him in a skirt.

The homosexuality which taunts you.

But maybe it's the incest which lures, my hair can get darker up to his and so can my eyes, what if he is what I supposed to look like until I stopped growing, my height above one fifty.

They all dance in my head, wearing matching shirts, nothing underneath, nothing shaved and then Norman grabs Kayleen, excited, he strokes her cheeks, as they go white among the red nose, he licks the nose and leans a kiss, staring and he eats her lips, softly, her face, a cookie, as he goes in.

I blink.

It's a fast circle, all around me, a crown of sunlight upon my head, as I hold the rays above as they tangle me inside, make a wardrobe on my body.

They are laughing.

Norman mouths lyrics, as he takes a gun and licks the entrance, let me lick it too, I see myself, as Norman slides a hand under my shoulder blade. He sticks out his tongue as he aims to my forehead and then he slides into my mouth and shoots, mouthing his name as he kisses me.

It’s my stop.

I run out of it, losing every stranger in sight, as I’m paranoid to see known and useless faces for me.

I’m afraid to see blonde, red or black.

Or a broken mirror on the floor.

So basically I’m afraid of every single bloody female.

I see a female, as her face is hidden from my thoughts as she kisses Frankie and waves at me, shyly, she's seen my second self.


I see her pressing her lips against his neck, as she winks at me.

Her face goes red, it goes out in hair as a tongue goes into my split-personality's mouth, it reminds me of homosexuality, it has the tension and the need of the body, as he grabs her and she rubs against him.

Kayleen bites, big large square teeth, hey, brackets, she nuzzles them.

Blood, blood, blood trails down his neck, further, further as she sucks it. He stands there dumbly.

Lora, I love you. Wouldn’t that be his dying phrase? Upon his grave which he'd win in a lottery under a coke machine, as he hides from the rats, which sink their teeth inside each other, making fake noises, squeaking a lost squeak.

She fucked, killed you and nothing, I love you.

How sick, how twisted is that?

Tear the brackets.

Let me fall asleep, as you'd finger me to a lullaby, which I'd sing to some deserted orgasm.

Melvin watches them out of the corner of his eyes, as his hands are glued to the pockets of his purple hoodie, as my eyes sew them with a leather window.

Let me sleep.

I want to sleep to make myself know nothing with the fear I've drawn on my teeth with floss in kinder garden back when I'd get excited from cheese pizza.

You're eternity.

Keep me awake.

Do you love her too, Melvin? I tilt my head to the side, wanting to gossip, wanting to see his soul get shred. He’s dating Jill, but he wants Lora or Frankie? Lora, Lora, Lora, I watch him devour her with his eyes. He takes out a pack of Marlboro’s as she walks away. He gestures to the box, whispering with licks of his tongue, eyes closed, everything is an erotica theatre, as he pokes his rival, Mr. square jaw. Square shakes his head, as Mr. hoodie takes out a cig. It’s dyed purple.

That is so punk rock.

Or glam rock.

Or whatever.

My ego’s the one who’s interested in that. He wants it, he wants to die, as if he were a book cover eaten by Kindle. I’m interested too, but I can’t be bothered and I have no life to live, so that's why I want it. Carrots. I watch him hungrily, needing to feel the icky, sick, bitter taste. It’s unevenly coloured, sticks, like Melvin’s shaking fingers, as if he were holding matches and not a slick green lighter which tickles the hair in his big crooked nose, which could be a crows if you dropped a bucket of black paint before stripping his skin off, the bones now a bird's. I open my mouth to ask.

I don’t want to, my ego does.

What else does he do?

He stares at the body with the growing feather from the neck, as it slashes his throat and gives out a croak as the crow cuts the young body to leave the shelf.


Jump on a pogo stick?

Poke yourself to death, sweetie, rip your death apart, an act of oral sex performed on a female.

Talk to soap?

It will fuck you back in turns with a toothpick, the flesh it gets.

Eat soap?

Torture soap?

BDSM. Whipped cream on a iron lung.

I shake my head, feeling a ring in my ears. Bell-bell? Yes-yes. Melvin nods as I pass it mouth to mouth, as Frankie walks faster. Melvin doesn’t bother as he blows smoke rings. I want to poke them, I want to tear them apart, Love Will Tear Us Apart, make me scream I want to wave my arms throwing the smoke away, as it lures inside a circle of the ashtray. He asks me if I’m sure that I don’t need a fast-track two way ticket to lung cancer. I say no-no and shake my head twice, slowly with every stretched sarcastic nooo-nooo, making a five. Two and two ist five.

I hate my head, as I can’t think properly. I think-think too much and nothing-nooothing.

Melvin and Jill argue and argue all day long. Is it because of Lora? Is it because of Frankie? Is it because of me? Is it because of the typing machine? Is it because of the silence they hold on a chain, as if it were a balloon to flow?

Does Jill have an arranged marriage? Marriage. Big posh white dress, the innocent one shall take with a red stain, a small baby to kill, fuck the baby's skull, make him inside your head.

What does black then symbolize? Hello, innocence I shall fuck, I lick lick lick, I am a black hole. I like that too. Champagne? Strawberry with a straw up your own ass?

She’d throw her bouquet in the air, then she’d gossip an hour with the next future wife as she’ll marry her grim reaper to choke with a knife. She’d, she’d, she’d… be gorgeous. Blonde, scarlet. Lola, Kayleen. We can’t have both. Agreed, screw Lola. Screw you. We can't marry a mirror, which we'd break as we'd fuck, even if we stick our cock inside.

Get out of my head.

Get out of my head.

I have nothing to offer if you stay or leave. Choose wisely.

Bang mock mock.

I feel drunk, even if I never was drunk.

I imagine what I feel, I draw it on paper and sell it as love for one quid.

It’s like when people yell out ‘I’m dying!’, but have they died before? No.

An emotional lie in a pyramid. Hah. Dork.

I wonder how’s it’s like to die and then get so-called cured from a clinical death. A xylophone. It's the word death. I bet it’s like now, amnesia, hey, wanna fuck, I don't know you, you'll feel tight, a fucking virgin to my sense of humor, I'm your third innocence, so give it to me, baby, you lose control, you bend, you just see black, flash, you're a homosexual, I shall never admit my wantage to girls, (wantage wanting a word he had slipped into my pants after I came from just showing myself and a quick stroke of the tip, holding the hole between my index and the air) you forget about your existence and then, then you get your body back in a box, a prostitute, a bow, bite bite bite, whip.

Is a clinical death like a change of personalities? Only a dead one taking over, choking, killing the cells with a hammer on a cock? I think of cocks, as Jack White sings faintly, an echo of the fact that I want him too. I press my chin against the table as Melvin nervously keeps flicking the lighter as I stare at the flame. Burn the house down, it's a big wooden house with plates on the floor which we row our butts in, I'll stick my burnt finger up myself so that my bellybutton would crumble.

Will you love me?

Eat the sign!

I kissed voila first.

Feel the disco ball hit my head, twirl, Kayleen, twirl, I like you.

I love you.

I didn't question myself, I just watched Melvin smoke, be a machine.

They were all purple, a cat purple, as if it's just been bought, my hand trembling as I dunk it to be blue and sink with the bubbles of regret.

I wondered if the purple marker was some sort of modern way of turning regular Marlboros to drugs, but then shrug it off.

“Weird. What would you do if you saw your ex-girlfriend, no matter with whom, Rome?” He inhales slowly, as if he wants to make the nicotine hit his brain heavier. Did he have puffy eyes? Was this an alive example how cigarettes corrupt the soul by giving it cancer? Gold. Buy. “Fuck it, with who. She still loks as brilliant, just as freaking brilliant and she’s just there, there and then she says ‘how are you?’ She has got to be kidding.”

The banality of humanity irrapitates me, you'd be fucked, but then you are, Melvin only you grew by watering yourself.

He did a hand gesture, as he did it with the lighten cig and lighter. Melvin shook his chestnut hair out of his eyes, inhaling deeper than before until a cough came from his lips.

“What would you do, Rome?”

What would I do?


I shrugged, realizing that I might be back, he didn’t expect an answer from me as he continued with our dialog, not asking any participation from my side, so I waved the red flag and fell not knowing which words to chew with the teeth I've been taken from.

Until I'd be sixty with thoughts, sneakers, fools, word flood.


The rest of the chapters will be posted soon and before April.

Any ideas what might happen?

The poll is still up.

Chapter 34

Wednesday, 23 March 2011


I want to slit my wrists with charcoal
Up to the elbows
So that the pain would flood
The colour in the mouth
A cross to break
With the chunks of chopstick teeth
Take them both
As I'd gain belief
To stroke
In myself
To choke upon the door knob
To fall
With the taste of fear
As I'd be sunken in plastic
Make yellow out of me
I used to watch that
When someone would jump
And I'd scream
Upon the sundae
With death licking the spoon
Which is shoved sideways into my mouth
The ice cream on my cheek
With a bony finger
Slitting itself
The sky shall break in blue
The fingertips hung
A guillotine
Among the paint
With the scribbled night
The yellow stars
Which should've been the first
With no point to erase
Or gums to break
Under a pink pen


First of all, I'm sorry for not being able to post a new chapter of Roman's struggles this week. I've been quite ill and still am, at least my coughing describes everything. So I've been focusing on my heath, writing in breaks, I've been working on a massive poem whenever I had the energy and keeping my health up.

Papercut shall be posted entirely before April, sorry for the week's wait.

The poem above was edited slightly before posted, as in the line with the stars as the current night seems to lack some, besides the ones plastered on my window.

The name came from me mishearing a word as I was thinking of the title and hearing the word 'tongue' instead.


Tuesday, 15 March 2011


A quick blow and the paint stays still
Silent like the new day
Which never seems to come
hanging above on an upside down staircase
I keep touching and painting
the colour all over me
no arms around my own
the nails forming
the colour choking
but different
now they're not my own
but somebody else's,
painting all over again
until the sky is gone
and I throw it away
such an insignificant thing
it finally breaks
the sin on the sand.
It will be picked up some day
by someone tall
someone waiting
someone willing
when the sand shall no longer glow
the fingers never crossed for tomorrow
the feelings bursting inside
unlike the numbness which ends.


I wanted to edit it at first, but then I'd lose the summer feel and all the editting I once did.

Something softer than my usual.

(2014): It's funny, it's been ages and I never really told a snippet of the backstory. It was before me and Callie were dating and I was actually confused because I liked Callie and someone else and this is years before I'd come to terms with my polyamory. I had the image of the said other person on the upside down staircase and that was one of the images which still stand out to me now. And he's the one described here, I even forgot that there are poems which mention him, funny, because it was a very odd crush and yeah.


Sunday, 13 March 2011

Papercut. Chapter 32

Then I see the bus.

I don’t get surprised as the first thing I do is press my head against the window, letting the tingle come from my arm, travel up, as I want to lick it to get the cold as a flavor upon the tongue to wrap around.

Hey, baby, it's a ring.

Why had I said that?

Who was pulling my tongue?

The only person I cheated on was Lola. Thousands, hundreds, billions of times. But then I never dated Lola. We'd talk a bit, as I'd irritate her with the smoke, as she'd hold me by the wrist, saying that she wanted Roman, she wanted to catch him if the change would be rough.

Macy disliked Roman, telling that he reminded her of a brother. I asked whose and she never said everything, a pearl rolling upon her tongue to be given by the brother himself.

The tingle releases its grip, letting the cold feeling take over my body, grabbing it stroking me with a shiver. I raise my head to stare at the written in chalk backs, I want to use needles to write melancholy over my memories of a bunch of bastards, afraid that I might see her again. I don’t want to.

I do.

I’m so alike, I resemble kid. But then it’s natural, isn’t it? I'm still his cells and his body now my vessel as I stand in front of a mirror, hugging myself and pressing against the shadow's reflection.

He is mine to play with as I am his, as I travel on top, hold my teeth tight, lean in and he's gone with the made out of brain juice sushi.

There is the desire to sleep with the self.

The body.


Where should the second body be? What had I done?

It was as if nature got greedy and gave us one body instead of one. Or maybe we were supposed to twins? Would we touch each other then under the covers, homosexuality and incest achieved.

It is.

But then as greedy as the human nature is built with my own fear, I can only build lego pain, I want more.

And in this case I want Kayleen, I want no fucking Lola, no fucking Alice, no fucking previous girlfriends. It's the concept and the story behind and there is something among the knives. I search my bag for my iPod, soon enough frowning at Roman’s taste in music. It all seems so… banal to the bones. I flick more, praying that he didn’t delete several songs I managed to upload while I was on the ‘outside’. He didn’t delete them.

I felt a blonde steak fall on my eyes, covering my sight a bit. He needed a haircut.

I needed a haircut.

And no blonde.

Dark chestnut?

Even Thom Yorke got bored of blonde, I think. Let's pray, Maybe he just decided and dyed it back to the brown he has currently, to cover age and the death which is lying above us, grinning a thirty four smile among the given hours, ringing a bell, once we are born and alive. They eat unborn babies with blood and the woman, the mother herself. Sadly, I never was informed and he wasn’t standing next to me saying something among the lines: 'Say, Normie, I think I’ll dye my hair back.’


Now I felt like some freaking fan girl praying to get a phone call of her beloved celebrity or to kick the classroom door and walk in saying that he was taking her away from the hellhole or whatever to a nice romantic date led to a fancy wedding, front pages on the yellow pages, jealous fans and the sugar coated happily after. But kids, remember the teachers, the keepers of school, are the monsters under the fucking bed, they pull your covers and they are the ones who spank people with rulers in BDSM porn movies.

Happily ever after.

Sounds too depressing, when you have no idea what the fuck that is.

Is that another grape in the afterlife of death?

So unexciting, but I’d lie, declining.

Because I want it.

Or did he have orange afterwards?

I close my eyes scanning his hairstyles in the videos. In the end I come up to the conclusion to re-watch it, just for my curiosity when I’d get back. But didn’t he have this orange shade in “Just”? Yeah, he had.

Nice, nice, Norman, out of all the limited time you get to party on the outside you sit thinking about some vocalist’s hairstyle.

I’m sure kid’s behind this with a purple poster upon his beautiful face, as I tear the poster lean in and slide my tongue inside, my hand going over his short stroking his shoulder, as our tongues rub and then he presses our bodies.


She takes over, taking her hair away as she rubs against me, sliding the t-shirt off, I am Roman, I'm blonde, come and watch me bleed.

Screw it.

I don’t want him to return.

I don’t want him to run around searching for Lola. I don’t want him to fuck everything up with Kayleen when it already is. I want him. I want Roman on top, I want to be protected by the person who gave me the thoughts and self-pleasure.

I’m sure she won’t talk to me today, answering shortly as possible to any question, clearly hinting for me to fuck off. I heard the sounds of the next song, having her in my mind, as I flicked through my memories, hitting replay every time, as I tortured myself due to my big mouth. But then I always was like this, fucking everything up, because I was born, I was made to fuck Roman’s life so technically I am qualified and rather able to fuck my own, easily.

If I can fuck up somebody else’s life that easy without any bad intention in my head, I am able to fuck my own without even breathing.

I could just tell her the truth, but then what exactly is the truth when it's a bloody relationship with a broken mirror, a mirror Roman had traced, his fingers sliding so that the blood stroked his ego, he had tasted it, the tip of the finger and then he looked at the floor. It should hold the colour, so he took a shard and slid it from his shoulder up to his arm, the whole left arm and he peeled the skin off, slowly, watching the pool of blood fill up the floor, but it was not big enough to drown.

Why had he done that?

No one can say what makes us do it.

I remember how it felt, a felt a screech inside as he fell down, looking at the left reflection, the blood all over, the pale colour, as I had been standing behind, my reflection never held, as I licked his neck, took his hand, stuck my right fingers inside, I was older and I pinned him against the wall, as his hands travelled all over my body, the blood loss.

Macy had asked my name. 'My name is Norman, because it rhymes with Roman.’


I knew that it rhymed. I needed something, he needed to give me something, so he gave me it as I was born, as I had held him close, taking his pain and thought away in the cigarette smoke I had been once offered, by the girl herself. She got hay once, telling me to look at it, as she held it upon our fingers and I had just said the name Roman.

The same characters, the same roles.

My ex laughed, saying that I rely too much on him and that one day no matter how faithful I am he will gobble me, swallow me, eat me and leave nothing but a psychological record in his book.

Even if his status is labeled ‘for life’, so is an arm, but you chop it off with the thoughts you choke on.

Exciting isn’t it?

Sweating, shaking, having a mental breakdown.




It's an escape to the fast erase, as the keyboard breaks down and vomits upon your jeans.

Everything is white like the man's beard as he reads the verdict, the life sentence, not looking upset, he gets it, he gets it a lot and changes it all for a few watches to cling the teeth against to break and spend, a motivation because time is eaten by those who polish it with white blood mentally with the tongue never touching the outside.

Neither of us remember the following, besides me watching fires of bright colours and injured badly arm.

“Roman, I’m sorry but you have a split-personality. I’m sorry there’s nothing that I can do.”

But then what could I do now? Where currently now I could go? Where could I find dark brown hair dye in this bus? Where in the name of whatever pops in my mind I could do something radical now? The only thing which appeared in my head was finding who knows where a gun, shooting into the roof, jumping on the seat. Brushing the blonde steaks out of my face aiming it at either sides in slow motion, as I watched each passenger who looked in the need of a time out a rather long one.

But what would that give me?


I loved it but I despite its sick taste, as it once filled my mouth, when I had kissed the blood away, I spat it out, seeing it mix with my own spit, giving it less intense colour. It was a nice dark red, despite its wound. I could stare at the person bleed, pray, beg for help as I’d heal its wounds, feeling the warm feeling dry on my fingertips. I was never disgusted by it.

I never ever feared it.

I heard him yelp out, his voice muffled by his constant shaking as he stared fear reflected in his eyes as something was going on inside him, as if someone was ripping his soul out, a mad splitting pain dividing his head into two, screams, shouts, shakes and then everything went blurry for him, as I slid my tongue, he was shaking, screaming, the skin under his feet.

Fear was taking over him, as I showed up. I pressed my palm against the wound, kneeling my head to taste the red liquid.


It was horrible unlike the beauty it showed. I raised my brow as I pressed a soaked in blood fingertip against his cheek, trailing it down, down his lips as I saw a trail already and a small hazel sparkle, as he opened his mouth as wide, greeting myself inside, as he massaged my shoulders, avoiding any possibility of him finding out the gagging taste.

Wide olive eyes.

Torn lips.

“Who are you? Why is everything white?”

Roman, Roman, can you hear me?

Son, Roman, Roman?

Answer me!

Relax, you’re son is having a shock.

How can I fucking relax?!

Watch your mouth.

“You’re inside our mind.”


I nodded, rubbing more blood onto his face, he started, never finished as I slid down, stretching all the fabrics, the flesh, the new oil, grinning at my new friend. I was lonely, all I could do is watch his steps, count up to ten and drop it, eyes covered by a curtain of thoughts, like a movie yet with no popcorn included. Nothing. I couldn’t speak, I had no voice, all I did was cuddle my legs against my chest, get my hair cut the same time he would. I’d have identical clothes by default but I could change them. I wasn’t allowed to leave.

Until that one day.

“It’s beautiful. Blood.” I grinned staring at my fingertips, drenching my fingers in his wound ignoring the pain I was causing to him. “Want this to end, Roman?”

Pale. He’s so pale. White. Fucking white. He should be bloody red. More blood.

My own,

I took his knife,

I am a lefty, he is a righty, I stuck the knife until it scratched my bone, I felt nothing and slid it down, splitting it open, removing the flesh, the bone exposed, muscles torn and fragments falling off. I took a muscle, a sponge, soaked it in our pool and painted his lips. My fingers in the palette as I slid them inside his mouth, my bone pulsing, as I slid inside his tongue.

I pressed both my hands into the wound rubbing my palms against his face, arms, legs, knees, elbows, everything. I wanted him to be red, but once it dried I’d use more.

Yet he nods.

I close his eyelids, as if he’s about to die in my arms, as I'd rub him back to death to say hello.

Maybe he is.

Maybe he is even dead now.

Then I’m the one who opened the eyes, I’m the one who looked at the world through olive eyes, tubes stuck into my body, giving me more… blood. I stared at it running through tubes, as I ignore the woman choking my throat.

Roman’s mother, his father and sister cry. They cry so much. Salty-salty disgusting, horrible water, tears which rub against my dry cheeks. Where's the feeling of eternal bliss plastered upon my face?

“That’s blood! That’s freaking blood!” I let out, as I pressed my nose against the tubes. As death lingering upon, stroking people's pearls, before they die.

I lived in him, like his mother would say like a parasite, eating Roman.

I had to use pills, fake crap to revive him, chucked down my throat as a death would be announced every second only not my own.

“Stop! I’m not…” Then I felt it for the first time, a cold chill run through my hand. Right, there was nothing, it was pure, flesh and blood unlike the second wrapped in plastic bandages. I grabbed it, as if knowing what it meant, rubbed it, shouting for it to stop, as it took control over me, making everything… white.

Blind my eyes with the flash.

I was back, the white walls. They were killing me, surrounding me.

I’m afraid that it is impossible to get rid of.

Take that. I’m here forever.

“Forever.” I hiss pressing my fingers against the scar praying for the wound to open with my bare hands. Maybe I could kill him by making him bleed to death? But then I’d kill myself too and that was unacceptable, so I stroked the scar on my left arm, thanking its existence. If it wasn’t for it, who knows when I’d have emerged, as I knew that then I'd go to have the bone grow flesh in a few minutes, the illusions wear off.

And if I even would have.

Because I of all people believe in fate. If I wouldn’t have, I wouldn’t have been born or created or existed. Put it any way you want, actually. Because, I think, I am a creation of fate. I was meant to be.





He shifts in his sleep, his eyes opening, his eyes blank, like a zombie's, as he cries out in an awake state, both hands cut out and the back of the neck slightly, as if he is lacking blood, like back on that day. The blood does not leak out, just that the bones need to breathe. Olive looks at his covered by his sleeve right arm, as he raises the sleeve. Roman frowns as the scar goes across the whole arm in a rather wobbly way, unlike how its wound was. He presses his fingers against the wound, as I feel dizzy. I want blood to pour out of it but none does.

I want to sleep.

I want to push my eyelids shut, as I beg for her face to haunt me, to stalk me, to torture me by its own significance, like a teasing sick joke, I joke I’d love to death. Literally, as I force feelings onto myself, as if I were a poster on the eaten by moths fur wall, I get banned and red paint thrown on my face by ugly




Right tingle.

Sleepy sleep.

“G’night, Roman.”

"G'day, Norman."


The more I edit the more Papercut has references to Ladder To The Red Moon Gathering, such as pearls if not to spoil a lot.

Chapter 33

Tuesday, 8 March 2011

She's Suffering

I stand there doing my tie, my eyes looking naked without eyeliner, as I struggle for a brief second, staring at what happened to the black varnish upon my nails. I managed to damage it, revealing my pink nail underneath with a small layer of dirt I quickly get rid off as an act of disgust.

Then I touch my eyes with the black pencil, standing straight holding my breath, trying to relax quoting Kafka in my head to calm myself down.

School just finished and begun welcoming high school into my folded arms, as I sigh remembering my class and accuses of rumors about my sexuality despite myself making out with a person of the opposite sex in front of everybody, a girl.

Was it a gesture of protection or was it because I hadn’t stuck my tongue into somebody’s mouth for quite an amount of time?

Both theories seemed reasonable and could be revived into life in a dialog but not more. Am I correct?

I finished my eyes, pressing my hands into the mirror, watching myself watching me in amusement at how skinny I was, frightened by how I could gain a lot of weight when in reality I gained none, my wrists looked as if they might've just snapped.

I hoped I didn’t reek of the beer I had drunk with my friends before.

It seemed bitter compared to the vodka I tried with my parents on some family occasion with cousins, uncles, grannies praising me, muttering how much had I grown.

I was still the same height.

They told me how handsome I was.

With the scars on my wrists as I fiddled with the paper knife, smoking in my room, wishing for the smoke to fill inside the walls, as I let it out of my mouth.

It was beautiful while reading in a character, the thought of Zooey in his bath, smoking and reading a scenario seemed to attract me, as I thought of his lips dragging the small roll of tobacco as he’d inhale, maybe closing his eyes in ecstasy.

Was it bad that a thought of a male in a bath attracted me or was it the drug between his artistic lips?

I smeared lipstick upon my lips, my mouth held open as I did so, my eyes watching my lips.

Did I want to fuck a reflection of myself?

Somebody with a different hair cut, eye tint, puffier lips, broad shoulders and a strong tongue.

Who did I want?

But then did I want somebody to curl beside me upon my bed, breathing into my neck, the first thing I’d see instead of Ian Curtis with his closed eyes and would the person disturb my routine of listening to Transmission, mouthing the words because I’d have no guts to sing aloud in case somebody would catch me and hear my accent instead of Ian’s deep godlike voice?

I should grasp my sexuality.

The words were like thunder but I shook them away with my hands, muttering more Kafka quotes, Joy Division singing in my head with Morrissey stomping on it with some song I had heard earlier that night, after midnight, browsing different stuff and finding a fucking load of The Smiths references.

I hated how half the existing animals knew nothing than some dumb pop stars in mini-skirts trying to become Madonna.

But then everybody else wanted to be Morrissey.

Or Stipe, if they are gay or don’t know about his sexuality.

But then I took it and rubbed it off.

The make-up.

I didn’t because I was hetero.

I didn’t leave it because I was gay.

And I wasn’t bisexual.

Neither was I asexual.

Just the thought of having a laughing Britney scared me and so did a 50 year old Stipe as I’d be his photographer and the thought of a lonely asexual saddened me.

What about self pleasuring then?

What did that make us?

What sexuality did it give us?

Or was it a small way to death, laying there, coated in blood staring at the reflection of Narcissus laughing, holding hands with himself then melting into a kiss with its other.
What love was, desire to find another Narcissus there out there.

Because we’re cowards to fuck ourselves all our lives. We need somebody else to do it.
And the fucking hole is waiting to swallow me as it demands somebody to whom I can lie looking into the eyes, as I’d fall for anyone now because I’m desperate the faintest hints of somebody declaring to have read Murakami in the past makes me shiver impatiently as I start the conversation slowly, feeling attraction because the person knows who the fuck Murakami is and actually saw a glimpse of some of the few thrillers I might’ve seen sometime out of boredom, even if they never caught my eye.

I wanted to shave my head.

I wanted to take the razor and watch it fucking fall.

I hated how it intertwined with my fingers how people who love me thread their hands in the same hateful, horrid, sinful hair which grows out of the corrupted inside which has its eyes closed, screaming at the horror

the horror

of whom I fall in love with.

Would I be a lonely asexual, ceased to never feel attraction?

How can a person who never felt it long for it?



They plant the longing so that we’d watch movies, read books, listen to music from people who believed that they had had that high feeling which seems sometimes as unlikely as religion.

I throw my head back, my mouth opened trying to get the music out of my body, the one playing in my head, my soul flowing from my blood as sounds come and go mixing with quotes, as I find my fingers trying to grasp guitar strings rather than pencil.

I want a guitar.

I heard that being onstage is better than any fucking orgasm from a girl to whom you’ll wake up stare at her, realize that you’re still the nervous teenager that it is afraid that something radical might happen after sex or on the contrary you’ll feel so fucking macho that it shall be printed upon the face and all girls shall be mine, I’ll be considered a sex God, have thirty girls a day.

A modern day Casanova.

I’d tell her it was just sex.

Just like prostitution.

She offered her body, I took it.

There is no illusion followed afterwards, I’d feel nothing.

I’d kick her out, as my thoughts would circle in my head, I’d be there heavily breathing naked against the door, her possibly clutching her clothes, staring at me through the door I’d feel her eyes burning the wood down.

Would the faceless girl yell?

Would she break the door down and rape me?

Or would she just leave calling me a fucker and leave me the fuck alone apart from rumors spreading from mouth to mouth as passionately as a French kiss, tongues rubbing, noses touching,

eyes opened

I always keep my eyes closed.

Because I don’t want to see.

To see the face I kiss without emotion, following the heat in my body, wondering how much she’d offer and the adrenaline as I’ll kick her out.

I try to work it out in my head, but nothing really sums up.

I end up going up and down the stairs and exit without a crumble of breakfast in my mouth. I don’t feel like it. I don’t want to end up wearing bigger clothes, I don’t care.
I can live without breakfast, people starved and nothing.

Yeah, well, they died, but that just doesn’t mean that I won’t stop and aside from my desire I’ve got no more reason, I’m not protesting with my body, because there are no reasons to protest for and above all, my life matters absolutely nothing to whoever I might challenge.

Who am I?

A troubled teenager.

I am a teenager, the burden of the society, because I have hormones, I want to fuck, I swear, I drink, I can have schizophrenia, I should be stuck in the bars of school until the devil shall escape from my mouth, licking the twelve year olds, slowly savoring until he’ll go into their own mouth, sew another tongue because once I reach thirteen I change
Who the fuck is that?

That’s an age.

He’s a teenager.

It’s as if I’m a serial killer, I’ll grow out of it.

Or not.

Maybe I’ll go on and disgrace my family, with my own presence with my music taste, with how I touch my girl, with how I cheat, with how I smoke.

I have all rights to hate somebody who hates me.

Of course I remain passive with the whole ‘the other cheek’ thing, but that doesn’t mean that my anger manages to take over, destroying everything proving that the fucking myth of the insane teenager is true.

I feel fury, because the society grows it within me with rough stares and mouths wishing to mouth how could their lives be quieter without music which has no taste, without our screeches, without countless abortions, broken fucking lives to girls and boys which shall one day grow into self-haters.

It’s all self-obsession, obsession that you've grown fucking old.

That you fucking die and because those who judged you are alive, rotting demanding closure, respect but from what?

Why should I respect those for whom I was a dreadful piece of mud?

By the time I’ll reach their age, they’ll be dead and I’ll be clicking my tongue, blaming them for the fact that I’m dying and I’ll be releasing the pain, the hatred which was once planted inside me, passing from generation to generation until teenagers will die, there shall be no abortion, it’ll be normal to die at thirteen and have six sons at six.

Then we’ll hate children.

We’ll eat them.

Because we’ll stay alive anyway.

Because we like parasites, die last, when the cow shall be bloodless, the mosquito praying for another until he’ll fall into her mouth as a sign of defeat. The cow may have died, but only to defeat the killer, sacrificing herself so that the next generation shall be saved even if there shall be none.

But the eyes will be held open if she is wise, to hold the horror in her grasp,
the eyes will be closed if she regrets her life, afraid to grasp the beauty of destruction.
I never prayed for the apocalypse.

Never ever.

I wanted to see chunks fly, but I’d be crying, curling into a ball, praying for all to die besides myself.

But I head out to a bigger pain, high school, which seems horrifyingly big as the remaining years remind of themselves of non-understanding teachers and heaps of useless work because like with a family member you can’t argue with them.

But then there are mood swings, I’ll be happy once more around the corner.

And that’s the good thing.

Like the mood swing when I wanted to look like Sid Vicious.

I heard grown-ups labeling it something like interested in music of the past, one which was over twenty years or more. I remember I was fourteen or so I stood in front of the dumb mirror trying to make my hair spiky and clearly failing, as it would fall in a few seconds.

I actually managed to achieve that, but as soon as I did, I got bored.

I wondered if my parents attempted to look like Sid Vicious, but then Sid died and got forgotten. So would that mean both of them trying to copy Morrison or Jaeger, because he was earlier? I drop my hair the way it is, slightly messy, but the attempt to actually do something with it or against the ‘I jumped out of my bed look’, but then maybe I should’ve kept it?

I can’t help but stare, chewing on my bottom lip, but then I drop it.

I keep walking until I wait at the bus stop looking up reminding myself of people who believe that nothing can actually be there, but if it is never ending maybe there is a bleak imitation, so that the religious can be happy?

Or if heaven is on earth, maybe we feel it, as bliss, as love which we can never achieve or hate shall be hell then? The sinful desire to tear somebody apart? Or to kiss somebody until we both steal each other’s breaths, holding the hands never ending the touch until the sinful thought comes and we’re back here at the bus stop thinking of banal things.

Banal, because all of us want that.

So then you meet school after all bus or not no matter if you missed it or not, was it a pure coincidence or fate to bump into some cheesy pre-school novel about me battling a dragon and as I am no Ogre, I get no awesome Fiona and critical acclaim apart from small hands clapping which shall send shivers upon my spine.


I throw water upon my face and I’ve got no make-up to actually worry about. So I just wash my sweat off, gasping in a greedy matter trying to get as much air as possible and at the precise moment when my eyes catch my reflection describing high school horror, the lack of girlfriends due to their maturity and the desire to get attention I get a cig shoved in my face.

I turn my head to meet not the reflection of the tall red haired guy, but the one standing in front, one cig lit hanging between his lips. He inhales slowly and I give a guess that he’s not faking it, as I grab the other and I inhale. I give a light cough, as the bitter taste fills my mouth and with my eyes closed I inhale deeper and deeper each time, that everything seems so foggy and easy going that I don’t bother.

I catch his grin on his face, which is half a head higher than my own.

“What?” I’m surprised that I didn’t ask ‘fuck what’, but I brush it off and he notices my accent and smirks. Fuck him. I look at him closer at his bright eyes clashing against his dyed candy apple red, but it seems lightly faded and his roots are beginning to show if I’d stare long enough, before he actually becomes pacing back and forth.

“No, nothing.” He throws the fag into a toilet, which scribbled door is held open. I manage to catch a faint glimpse of the carved idols and fake beauties which apparently guys masturbate to, but my eyes catches how close he suddenly is. Then he presses me against the mirrors until I feel the wall dig into my back and my eyes are closed, a foreign mouth and body pressed against my own. It feels weird, as I realize what else can be digging into my body, but I held myself there until I feel several fingers yank the cig from my lips.

“Oi, you ‘right?” He asks, his blue eyes looking at me with concern. “First fag?”

I nod, trying to rub the effect of my eyes and swallowing just as much. I keep repeating yeah three times in a row, until it fades out in his smile. I stare at him, as lit himself another one, leaning against a closed door. He watches into the distance, we’re skipping some lesson, not disturbing each other’s privacy, everything polite and following skipping lessons etiquette.

Then the door opens or rather tries to and the red head takes a step forward, only to turn and breath smoke into the guy who walked out looking rather blue. He shoves him against the door, for a laugh and lets him go, inhaling as the younger boy gets out, not washing his hands or anything, borrowing the scent of smoke.

“Nick…y.” He says all of a sudden, realizing that I was watching and he drops the fag, looking a bit in regret, so he takes the remains of my own, inhaling and jerking his head to breath out the smoke somewhere else than my face. Then I realize that it is my cue.

“Richard.” I realize how formal that may be and that maybe neither can be our names or the fact that we might not even be in high school two teachers before a job interview, battling for the same place. But then I shrug it off, looking at him for a while before we exchange class information, describe the carved doors and leave the room one after another.

I find myself thinking about his bright eyes for a brief second before the teacher slams his knuckle into my desk as my head rises momentary showing a brief description of fear. The teacher’s eyes show the opposite, victory, as he captures the fear I cannot grasp.

Fear for what, that he shall call my parents?

What exactly I’m I afraid of?

It’s not like those eyes can bore into me, tearing me as teeth in two and taking out my thoughts to throw them upon the table or stick to the blackboard holding it with both hands, repeating the lesson’s topic as my body shall rot in his hands and once it shall, his hands will fall onto his sides, his back still turned, eyes closed, mouth opened in ecstasy, as the once named fear shall leak from his pores onto the students in a suggestive matter, to sacrifice themselves

to knowledge.

and get eaten by those who don’t.

I tell him I love him, I realize I’m asleep with a warm pillow.

I spill my milk, the warm milk I had been sleeping with until I realized that I am in a lesson, staring at my teacher’s eyes.

I see Nick standing near the door, tapping with his long fingers, his blue eyes catch mine, he winks.

It’s not addressed to the teacher, he strides throughout the classroom, his legs covered in his white levi's and I realize how sleepy I am and how scared I am that I feel him running a hand through my hair as I press my nose into his hair, a familiar scent lurking in my nose as I kiss his dyed hair.

The teacher sees our love and blinks.

I get excused as my head falls and I realize how sleepy I may be.

I have one eye open for the lessons until lunch grasps the school with its square sized pizzas and diet coke. I quote Kafka in my head, as the red head stops by, the knees of his levi's now covered in gray lightly, but he grins even more.

Nick sits beside me without a word, I fiddle with my fingers, touching my coke from while to while until he shoves my pizza slice into my mouth. I nearly choke and he tells me to chew, barely holding a burst of laughter, as he ruffles my head as my mouth is full.
He asks me about The Pixies.

I tell him I like Where Is My Mind and that’s it.

He tells me to listen to them.

I say I do.

Huh? Is written across his confused round face.

It’s a Placebo song.

“Don’t you love it when the world sparkles?”

He laughs.

“Sure I do.” He fiddles with the straw, his head hanging low that the red steaks cover his round-oval face. I give a long look at Nicky that he raises his head and the light blues eyes bore into mine with pure confusion, before he actually forms the last syllables of my name I realize the reason behind my déjà-vu.

“Weren’t you blonde?”

He nods, as he drinks out of his diet coke, the red covering the blue. I close my eyes trying to imagine how he looks with blonde hair and he seems more familiar, as I look at him eating. We remain in silence, as I hum some tune, most likely from The Smiths, as Nicky watches me back.

It feels at ease, as I feel an urge to dive into a bathtub with bubbles to emerge and be greeted by Nicky blowing smoke into my face, his knees showing from the bubbles as they’d fly around, his blue eyes fixed on my own. Nicky would laugh, our legs never touching, but we’d talk like back when I was four and I’d get washed by my parents describing the tiles surrounded, shampoo leaking into my closed eyes as it would be rubbed softly between my hair.

Would Nicky wash my hair?

I could see him biting his cig in concentration, but instead he just sits there looking lost, the fag nearly done.

Then he’d blow bubbles into my face, his eyes as blue as the tint in the bubbles.

Would he lean towards me?

Would he make a move?

I didn’t touch my food, refusing to answer Nick’s questions as he’d drain his coke, looking at my famished body and how I showed it by the clothes once baggy now fitting my body like a second skin showing an intimate closure to the edge of anorexia, but I didn’t bother.

It wasn’t like he’d wrap a towel around me, watching the cuts across my chest and over my heart heal as I’d bite my nails as two towels would divide us in a suggestive manner.
“Your eyes are the colour of autumn.

The shape, the intense coldness lying behind, trying to give a hint of the aftermath as the leaves cover the ground with a faint touch, the honey lying forbidden, the bees long forgotten

And the ice emerging.” He whispered into my ear, taking steaks from my ear so that his voice could stroke my earlobe and Nicky leaned back.


He’d lean.

“Richey!” He looked at me with fear dancing in my eyes as I blinked the daydream out of my eyes. Was I looking at him as if he was a piece of meat waiting for my teeth to bite the chunk until I’d hit the bone and break a tooth?

He’d feed me peeled apples, the skin falling down, resembling a humans as he’d stroke my hair away as I’d wonder how come it grew as long.

The teeth upon the neck, a luring kiss to tease and heal as the pain would build leaving nothing but pale skin there.

How would the first kiss be?

I ask that as Nick’s eyes follow a girl’s skirt as she stretches the bracelets on her hands, as she waits in line, hair falling up to her waist, the front bangs held up by a matching orange headbang clashing with her hair faking the neat look heavily.

I take my pizza and put it down as he grins, his light eyes looking down and he smiles at me, as if saying ‘hey, I like this girl’.

‘Hey, I like that guy’.

I hate endings and I wonder if he’d be the one with the bouquet or I’ll be the one banging the door done, tears upon my eyes, regret or even despise? Will we yell, clutch each other as an attempt to start everything.

Shall it be a girl or a guy?

Will that person have a braid or everything horrifyingly loose, as if it could sweep the floor with the shredded memories mixed with tears and salty dust, which can be taken as a gum and chewed if you feel fucking nostalgic.


I raise my eyes to the red haired teenager who is fiddling with nothing at all, the smile sparkling upon his face but there are no fireworks and I realize that it is addressed towards me, I take a handful of my hair, raising my eyebrows.

“Is it because my hair is brown?” He shakes his head, his light blue eyes never leaving my hazel and I drop my hand, feeling the weight upon my leg as if it’s not my own and Nick has made a move on me with his eyes closed and lips ready.

“No, you just look really cuddly.” He grins madly, his face protected by his hands and the blush across my own pale cheeks.

“Oh.” I say. “I am, cuddly, I mean.” So he cuddles me.


This was supposed to be a long story, but I love how it ends, but maybe I'll finnish it later or it'll be stuck with Richey's tension and Nick's whatever he is feeling, noooot spoiling.

I am a fangirl.

This was written on the height of my Richey Edwards addiction, explaining the names, the title (the song has no connection, just the word combination rather if to be fairly honest and dare I say, sarcasm).

I've been posting poems lately and no short stories, while I browsing and thinking of aother I stumbled on this (all wednesday stories/poems are chosen from the written folders or boxes if such exist and there is no me sitting, chewing my pinkie as I figure out what to write for wednesday).

I've been working on short stories, poems and a novel lately, which shall be posted in the end. Everything will be posted, it just takes weeks and that's it really.

The poll is still up and so far Exit is winning, which also makes me happy and the main couple in the series would be intersting with their differences and sudden change in one of them.

Escaping reality, it means both, right? Or do you lure one in?

Ah, spoilers, I say I spoil when it's not.

And on that note, I leave you to think.

Thank you.

Hell Hates You