Tuesday, 29 March 2011

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.


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