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

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