Saturday, 2 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Two

But then maybe you shouldn’t start a diary like that? Is this how you do this shit?

Name: Noah

Age: Would you believe me that I am 28 stuck in a teenager’s body? No? Shame.

Hair colour: Green, but immortals think that it is black.

Eye colour: Maybe my eating habits? No? Violet.

But then you shouldn’t start a diary like that.

I saw my sister hide a pack of cigs under her skirt as her boots were too obvious; sadly her boyfriend didn’t fit there as well. It's not like I'd pull him over me and tease his nose until he sneezes and I lick his snot off.

The feeling of being calm doesn’t last long as I feel the stitches on my legs as I wiggle my fingers trying to set the wounds free, but I fail as I try to stand up. It's like I can fly either, so I look at the mirror which is above my sister, to see my hair messed up, eyes beaten up and lips swollen and I fall back down into the depths of the hospital caves, I fail as the wires drag me down. I get told that it’s not as scary as it looks, but I have seen it all, all is written upon one's face. I hide under the covers and my sister raises them to join my world.

I want to ask what the fuck, but I croak instead giving out several coughs, I cover my mouth with my free right hand with the fact that I am a lefty. How nice. I roll my eyes earning a giggle from the nurse I sigh, feeling a dying need for tea. I try to speak up again, yet I cough.

I own a harem apparently.


I get told that I cannot speak. I'm not dumb, a temporary lack of voice doesn't mean that I am stupid, but people believe that. I stare and try to prove her wrong, but coughing instead. I look at the clock hanging above the door, as a feel a sudden feel of panic as I try to say something but nothing comes out and I am pinned against the bed along with the giggling nurse and ticking clock.

Tick, tick, tick.

Even the clock can speak but I can’t.

It doesn't say much besides the time, but then I speak too. I speak death or faintness or accident or clinical death or hisses.

She gives me some yellow notebook and a pen. I sigh, wondering why can’t I have my own trying to hint a facial expression to the given freebie but I sigh instead.

I’m too calm for my own good. I pull the tip of the pen with my swollen mouth as I scribble with my hand shaking.

What happened?

She giggles stroking my head as if I am interested in her attention or her puffy lips or rather short nurse dress, which I can go under and lose my virginity to, I wonder if it feels that warm and wet which the mind hints, it may be an illusion or a truthful deja vu as I have surely had sex before or have participated being the lucky spermatozoid, it reminds me of a freaky porn movie, but I shrug it off, ignoring my brain. I expect her to press a kiss against my mouth but nothing happens, gladly. I don't feel like wanking to her anyway. I'm way too cool.

Oh, yeah, I wank to Megan Fox.


Instead I stare at her and nod dumbly, wondering if the doctor is stupid enough to give me a dumb explanation unlike the nurse. I expect my parents to run inside but the nurse tells me about how I am guarded from the cruel outside world or rather waves just like Noah’s ark protected him, a bald doctor is, most likely outside with his arms stretched out covering the door from my sobbing parents to enter the room.

So the beloved is the puffy lipped nurse?



Shit, I forget what I write and think.



I want to vomit.

I see green.

Did I already?

Can I get it back to have the eased post vomit feel?

I am a model or whoever vomits.

I gag.

She asks me if I’m alright.

I shake my head.

Vomit, vomit, vomit, sexy vomit.

I get my head petted like a three year old. She asks me what I’m I scribbling, but I can’t help it, maybe due to my constant rambling on everything now the words escape from my fingertips pressing the marker.

I talk too much, now I can't, so I scribble.

Look, mommy, I'm a writer, I scribble:

Not your business

I write it and feel a need to show it but I hold myself turning over the page and continuing writing. I look down to see my black converse neatly dropped near my bed along with a pair of clean socks. I stare dropping my hand down wondering if I can poke them. I catch the nurse’s glance but judging her look I see that I am not the only one if her career is with heavy mental problems.

M, blood.

I shrug and close the notebook, pressing my eyelids together and falling asleep.

Day Three

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