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

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