Tuesday, 5 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Six

I shaved finally, not as if I was scary, I just got told, I want to look like Santa Claus then I'd walk down, the cords stretching, as if they'd be my wings and I walk naked to Tesco as an angel, to buy blonde dye, not like I looked like the ideal image of myself in my mid-thirties, because judging several musicians, you get the thought that I’ll earn a short haircut and light, not shaved look along with some constant girlfriend which I’ll end up asking myself: why her?

Then maybe a divorce will follow or maybe I’ll end up with the right one.

Fucks sake let her listen to something decent and not yell at the sight of nudity, by nudity I mean my hairy leg.

But that doesn’t erase the lack of shaving problem.

I'm not shaving my legs, I like scaring monsters.

I wonder as I stare deeply into my reflection watching the bruises grow and two identical deep stripes under my left eye, one longer than the other. I trace them then the opposite cheek wondering if I have anything there as well. I look up, trying to speak up but failing, ended up coughing and bending so that I touch my knees.

Maybe my legs are scary.

Shit, I'm ill.

I quickly look down my steaks falling down on my eyes up to the point that doing a fringe is actually possible. I gag at the thought and while pulling a shirt over my body I consider walking around the hospital, just for a while, I have less liquid to communicate with my body, injections more frequent as I get told to try and get adapted to my home, as if I wasn't alone in the accident.

The nurse shoves a bright scarf, a two-sided one in fashionable ornaments but I shrug it off, feeling my feet ease in my usual footwear. I breathe in the hospital sweet air of drugs, feeling myself cough, but covering in order for the nurse not to spot me. I walk down maniacally ignoring the nurses and several patients on wheelchairs as they greet me, I wave back, realizing that outer besides the scars, I shouldn't be here, I have a small notebook in my back pocket but I don’t even hesitate walking on, on and on into the corridor wondering if I’ll ever reach the end.

In the end I get caught that I even got a feeling that I’ll be wheeled back because due to my fast pace I break out in cough, as I get more liquid blown into my body that I wonder if it’s heroin because it makes me dizzy and smiley, that I smile at the nurse and kiss her. I want my one.

I got greeted by a guy in a leg cast as I was reading some classic shonen manga. He smiled at me and began playing his guitar, his own friendlier looking nurse humming to his tune hitting the wrong notes.

I ignored him despite the tingling feeling. I watched him string the cords out of the instrument in a rather jealous way as I remembered my own failed attempts up to the point that I wanted to hide myself under the pillow and ignore the ideal tunes, which would spring in my head out of the blue.

The night gave you music.

The traffic ate it.

The guy pouted asking me if I liked, I wanted to mouth, swear at him, but did nothing returning my gaze to my manga grabbing it as he made a second attempt. I watched him in the corner of my eyes as he closed his eyes his head bobbing to the music, mouthing words.

I rolled my eyes and grabbed my notebook, third in a month or the days.

Anyone can play guitar and sing shite to get a shag.


He stared at me in shock biting a nail in the process, running a hand through his hair until his eyes rested on my notebook. His dark curls danced against his dark skin as he watched me carefully.

“Can’t you speak?”

Thank you for reminding me.

No. Lost my voice. What’s your name? You keep mouthing words, if you feel so attached to them why don’t you just set them free? I mean all I can do is cough.

In the end I crossed out my last line feeling annoyed at my sudden closure to the tanned skin guy with curls who knew how to play the guitar. Even if it was pink, it had six strings unless you bite them off or chop them off with your erect cock.

“I’m Lars.” He smiled, his teeth a pearly white. Great, I sighted, trying not to sink into his music, irritated by the fact that he was good looking and a good guitarist unlike me.

“What’s your name?” He asked after five songs waiting for some positive review as glossy and sparkly as his eyes were. I rubbed my face with my hands nearly yanking the wires off, as I made a disgusted face behind my palms, hiding it like an Easter egg, only a well hidden for nobody but me to find.

I want to be your easter bunny, Noah.

Fucker, you wank.


“Like Noah’s ark thing?” Thing? I’ll fucking let you drown, with the rest of the freaking sinners, thank you. He smiled wider, giving myself a theme song as he’s sing about how nice my name was. In the end I practically felt memories thumping their way back into my head, as if Yumi was barging once more into my life more than a friend.

I’m tired. Sorry. Fuck off.

I crossed out the last line as well, as he exited my room with an encouraging wave.

I asked the nurse to keep my room off limits to stupid, annoying guitarists with broken legs. She called me a grumpy grandpa. I held my tongue thankful for holding my emotions after all she could suck out my blood and give it for people who actually need it leaving me to rot. I'm too much of a fucker with a boner to die, anyway, might as well, save someone who can't fuck.

Day Six-Seven

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