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?

Easy.

Media.

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.

“Richey…”

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.

“Teddy.”

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

6 comments:

  1. This is truly amazing. You have a great talent, I suppose. I wish I could write as good as you. And I love the whole idea of the story, I felt the shiver going down my spine a few times. Stay beautiful xx

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thank you! It's one of my favourite stories to re-read and I quite enjoy my fanfiction even if I don't write it as often, I like basing characters on real people and twisting them in a reality I've created.

    Thank you and stay beautiful as well
    x

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  3. Besides from that fact that it's fan fiction, you have such a style of writing where philosophical, maybe personal thoughts come alive. There are a myriad of portrayals in the thoughts of your characters, of Richie.
    I liked that a lot, hope we can talk about it.
    The production, the thoughts, the attitude, it revealed so much.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Thank you so so much:3

    Writing is personal thoughts and opinions to me, sometimes I even take small incidents from life and edit them, but mostly the actions and settings are fictional, but the opinions and thoughts are mostly my own. In my more recent work I use settings more known to me as they inspire me, for instance Used Lighter, nearly every scene can be shown which place inspired me and had been used.

    I'd love to talk about it, so please feel free to ask away:D

    <3

    ReplyDelete