Ed was probably sitting in his room, not thinking about school, dropping off the dreadful subject out of his head, drinking something warm and surfing the internet about his latest hobby, maybe talking online. But then it didn’t seem like Ed was a social person. My parents would call us loners and even try to make us befriend each other that Ed thought it was some stupid plan to marry their kids.
I’d chew on my nail, as his friend would shrug at me and let his fringe cover his eyes as Ed would ignore us both. I was too embarrassed to do something in front of them and apparently they did too. Brian, Ed’s friend would ask Ed questions from while to while more likely inside jokes, until my parents would let me out of Eddie’s room, calling that hour ‘brother-sister time’ which also included Brian from while to while, but I could see them calling it ‘loner time’ behind out backs.
I think Brian was the only friend who actually came to our house, since I never had close and I always was afraid of letting people near me, Jeremy had girlfriends and Ed just had Brian from while to while. I couldn’t understand how come they were close until once they drifted apart then back again like on and off relationship.
Brian was ok, but nothing special. He was a bit more social than Ed, but still was labeled as a loner. He had looks, which attracted girls who didn’t know him, but aside from that nothing special he held. He drew well, but he dropped it like a reflection of Ed. He was good at everything Ed wasn’t but eventually he’d get bored of it. Eddie was irritated at that trying to show that he was better, but Brian never actually minded. He just shrugged it off, calmly, switching the topic.
Mum started disliking Brian asking me weird questions, but I just tilted my head in confusion. I had my brother’s future in my head and I didn’t want to mix it with her own image, no matter if reality shatters hers.
I told her that once, receiving a slap.
I stared at her.
Had I imagined it?
Had I imagined the yells blaming my inner closure, the fear of reality, my obsession with different musicians, even if I had loved Jonny for quite a while now, they still thought I had others, as if I was a slut who did it through her own dreams.
Had I imagined my father’s blind accuses at Brian, who was innocent, at Ed who just stared?
Had I imagined Jeremy’s girlfriends, two of them running into the corridor as if it was a real fight?
Had I imagined Jeremy shrug and swears at each of us before going into the kitchen to take his afternoon milk?
Had I imagined Mason, leaning against the wall, his eyes pleading me, drenched in curiosity for me to go on?
-
This chapter is short because combining two small relevant chapters together would be quite stupid, as the next part is a completely different part of Exit. I'll stop here before I say anything else.
It's quite weird how when your stories just age and you end up closing your eyes in embarrassment at some thoughts like, seriously, I wrote that?
Chapter 18
Sunday, 30 October 2011
Thursday, 27 October 2011
Country Cast
Drink the pill
All the sluts will dissappear
The garden gnomes will eat the grass
Balloons will become your ass
The dicks will just fly off
The dildos now stuck in the windows
Are christmas lights
Hooray! Hooray!
We have a jolly holiday
Those folks upon these streets
With stuck out dicks
Died
All the sluts will dissappear
The garden gnomes will eat the grass
Balloons will become your ass
The dicks will just fly off
The dildos now stuck in the windows
Are christmas lights
Hooray! Hooray!
We have a jolly holiday
Those folks upon these streets
With stuck out dicks
Died
Tuesday, 25 October 2011
Exit. Chapter 16
Mason.
I could shred the ideal image.
I hadn’t seen him.
He didn’t grab toast from my mouth yanking it in a mocking playing way to release my lips. He didn’t lie on my bed, one leg crossed as he’d stare at the ceiling feeling his eyelids go heavy and shut down with a mute bang. Then he’d sleep on my bed, as his legs would fall slowly, his head tilt to one side and his breath steady. Would he flinch if I brushed a steak out of his eyes? Was it dyed?
I didn’t see any roots, but maybe it was newly dyed.
It always was.
Maybe he was so keen on hiding his hair roots like I did with my scribbles.
I rolled my sleeves up revealing the birds, girlies, stars, quotes to run outside and deep the breathable air. I tugged on my tuque as the pink steaks fell on my shoulders. Had I grown them out that much?
Then I felt naked, that I rubbed the back of my neck in embarrassment, just like Mason did, copying his gesture.
Smirk.
Blink.
Imagination. I look back, then I turn around to expect to see him in the mirror, spreading his arms on the glass on the other way, a new hungry sparkle in his eyes, as his shirt would be unbuttoned several more buttons than usual, sleeves pulled up, hair messed up, several steaks clinging to the forehead by a natural glue called sweat. Teal eyes would watch me, unreadable, as I’d think of rolling my sleeves down. To myself I was naked, I was revealing myself and he was watching me. Mason would attempt to stretch out his arm, but fail due to the glass.
I’d roll my sleeve down, then he’d unbutton his shirt causing me to stop. I wasn’t the only one feeling naked now. I gulped as I watched him untie his tie, his eyes focusing on the neat knot. Then teal would look up, as he’d catch me staring at his exposed neck.
“Bo? I forgot my keeeys.”
“Just a second.” I yelled, looking down, rolling the sleeves down, pulling on my tuque. I didn’t look at the mirror, but as I zipped my hoodie, trying to get rid of the feeling, printing the feeling inside, so that it wouldn’t jump into the real world, I felt a hand cross my cheek in a gentle way.
Then it was gone.
Just like that. Like always. I get torn as I feel my hands shake as I open the door, realizing that I had locked it unless it had been locked by itself. Marcie jumps inside, her tongue producing billions words in a second, as I cannot concentrate in her speech, rubbing my arms, wondering how come I was so cold. I looked at her pretending to understand what the topic was. She kept going, going, going until I understood that I didn’t get about who she was talking about. I could have asked, but I shrugged off that idea, catching the ends of phrases, trying to glue them with my bare hands.
Then Marcie picked up her year books, clutching them against her chest as I stood up, afraid that they might go. I had mine at my parent’s house, so the possibility of asking them was useless. I could have asked Ed, but I didn’t bother and asking Jeremy was no use as I wasn’t the same sex, earning no possible respect.
“Bo? Are you alright? I said Evan lost his and he wants to stare at his girlfriend’s past lurvers. But I mean, look, he is too cute but I mean, there’s his girlfriend, the ex and the ex-ex, who he keeps in contact with and is a bitch. Actually, she’s not as much as the ex. The girlfriend and the ex-ex are best friend but due to the girlfriend’s status she hates her making her-“
Then I dazed off, as she ended the story and headed out with a bang, promising to return soon and drown myself in further discussions, despite my interest and possibility of answering even a yes instead of my usual mechanic nods.
I lie there in my bed, keeping my eyes closed, hoping that Marcie would take long. She’d meet that Martin guy, who she was dating, despite the other girlfriend’s he held. Was it prestigious? Was it cool to hold so many girlfriends as if they had strings tied to their throats which he could pull and voila there they were, ready to do anything for the ‘dying desperate Martin’?
I didn’t want to stand up and look into the mirror.
Martin was probably stroking Marcie’s hair holding her in a hypnotic wave, ready to pounce on her. Does he remind me my brother? But then my brother never held a museum, it was like take out, use, throw away thing.
I didn’t want to head out into the exit.
How was Jeremy? Was he coming? Of course he was. How could he miss the opportunity to screw up some high school girls, who in his head were made for everything, but then in his eyes everybody was made for everything. As if everybody had to risk, take everything from life. Is that a good thing? Open up to everybody exposing yourself, corrupting the ideal image and repeating it so many times that it became daily, boring and dull.
I wanted him to come. I didn’t want to over stress myself.
I wanted him to barge in like Evan would usually, grab the book near my bed, scan its contents, raise eyebrows and chat about some new pin-up model he dreamt about aside from his girlfriend or all two at once. Why not?
Did I want him to come?
-
The mirror scene, actually all the romance scenes were actually reread for pure amusement before.
Chapter 17
I could shred the ideal image.
I hadn’t seen him.
He didn’t grab toast from my mouth yanking it in a mocking playing way to release my lips. He didn’t lie on my bed, one leg crossed as he’d stare at the ceiling feeling his eyelids go heavy and shut down with a mute bang. Then he’d sleep on my bed, as his legs would fall slowly, his head tilt to one side and his breath steady. Would he flinch if I brushed a steak out of his eyes? Was it dyed?
I didn’t see any roots, but maybe it was newly dyed.
It always was.
Maybe he was so keen on hiding his hair roots like I did with my scribbles.
I rolled my sleeves up revealing the birds, girlies, stars, quotes to run outside and deep the breathable air. I tugged on my tuque as the pink steaks fell on my shoulders. Had I grown them out that much?
Then I felt naked, that I rubbed the back of my neck in embarrassment, just like Mason did, copying his gesture.
Smirk.
Blink.
Imagination. I look back, then I turn around to expect to see him in the mirror, spreading his arms on the glass on the other way, a new hungry sparkle in his eyes, as his shirt would be unbuttoned several more buttons than usual, sleeves pulled up, hair messed up, several steaks clinging to the forehead by a natural glue called sweat. Teal eyes would watch me, unreadable, as I’d think of rolling my sleeves down. To myself I was naked, I was revealing myself and he was watching me. Mason would attempt to stretch out his arm, but fail due to the glass.
I’d roll my sleeve down, then he’d unbutton his shirt causing me to stop. I wasn’t the only one feeling naked now. I gulped as I watched him untie his tie, his eyes focusing on the neat knot. Then teal would look up, as he’d catch me staring at his exposed neck.
“Bo? I forgot my keeeys.”
“Just a second.” I yelled, looking down, rolling the sleeves down, pulling on my tuque. I didn’t look at the mirror, but as I zipped my hoodie, trying to get rid of the feeling, printing the feeling inside, so that it wouldn’t jump into the real world, I felt a hand cross my cheek in a gentle way.
Then it was gone.
Just like that. Like always. I get torn as I feel my hands shake as I open the door, realizing that I had locked it unless it had been locked by itself. Marcie jumps inside, her tongue producing billions words in a second, as I cannot concentrate in her speech, rubbing my arms, wondering how come I was so cold. I looked at her pretending to understand what the topic was. She kept going, going, going until I understood that I didn’t get about who she was talking about. I could have asked, but I shrugged off that idea, catching the ends of phrases, trying to glue them with my bare hands.
Then Marcie picked up her year books, clutching them against her chest as I stood up, afraid that they might go. I had mine at my parent’s house, so the possibility of asking them was useless. I could have asked Ed, but I didn’t bother and asking Jeremy was no use as I wasn’t the same sex, earning no possible respect.
“Bo? Are you alright? I said Evan lost his and he wants to stare at his girlfriend’s past lurvers. But I mean, look, he is too cute but I mean, there’s his girlfriend, the ex and the ex-ex, who he keeps in contact with and is a bitch. Actually, she’s not as much as the ex. The girlfriend and the ex-ex are best friend but due to the girlfriend’s status she hates her making her-“
Then I dazed off, as she ended the story and headed out with a bang, promising to return soon and drown myself in further discussions, despite my interest and possibility of answering even a yes instead of my usual mechanic nods.
I lie there in my bed, keeping my eyes closed, hoping that Marcie would take long. She’d meet that Martin guy, who she was dating, despite the other girlfriend’s he held. Was it prestigious? Was it cool to hold so many girlfriends as if they had strings tied to their throats which he could pull and voila there they were, ready to do anything for the ‘dying desperate Martin’?
I didn’t want to stand up and look into the mirror.
Martin was probably stroking Marcie’s hair holding her in a hypnotic wave, ready to pounce on her. Does he remind me my brother? But then my brother never held a museum, it was like take out, use, throw away thing.
I didn’t want to head out into the exit.
How was Jeremy? Was he coming? Of course he was. How could he miss the opportunity to screw up some high school girls, who in his head were made for everything, but then in his eyes everybody was made for everything. As if everybody had to risk, take everything from life. Is that a good thing? Open up to everybody exposing yourself, corrupting the ideal image and repeating it so many times that it became daily, boring and dull.
I wanted him to come. I didn’t want to over stress myself.
I wanted him to barge in like Evan would usually, grab the book near my bed, scan its contents, raise eyebrows and chat about some new pin-up model he dreamt about aside from his girlfriend or all two at once. Why not?
Did I want him to come?
-
The mirror scene, actually all the romance scenes were actually reread for pure amusement before.
Chapter 17
Wednesday, 19 October 2011
Muerte
I poured water on my fingers
And
I saw blood
Such a beautiful hallucination
Of the past
I’ve seen as a child
As I’ve tasted air
And exhaled
Something
For the rest
To consume
As they’d take
The fucking same
Air
They do not deserve
Country Cast
And
I saw blood
Such a beautiful hallucination
Of the past
I’ve seen as a child
As I’ve tasted air
And exhaled
Something
For the rest
To consume
As they’d take
The fucking same
Air
They do not deserve
Country Cast
Monday, 17 October 2011
Exit. Chapter 15
I had one flowery cross, given by that wannabe aunt of mine. I fiddled with the chain as I was given, wondering what should I do with it. It was pretty, but it didn’t catch my eye as a wearable thing. But then my closets were stuffed with things I would buy from while to while, something like a corpse would build. Marcie seemed to ask me if she could wear them.
I couldn’t say no, but in the end I said it.
She shrugged and stopped.
It was like the nail varnish.
I had a drawer where all my nail varnish was stuffed in, the drawer heavier than an airplane with rows and rows of colourful chemicals. I had a thing, I loved the colours, but not even once in my life I dyed my nails. I didn’t even know how to, I liked to take them out and stare at their intense unreal colour as I’d shake the bottle, as a smile crept up into my face. But as soon as I’d hear the door’s lock fiddle I’d throw the bottle into the drawer, panic and push the drawer back with a thud. I wasn’t just closing the drawer, I was closing people out of myself, out of the drawer of my imagination.
Out of my life.
Earning the teacher’s thought on that I might be suicidal. Just because I wasn’t as girly and closed-up, like a raincoat on a winter’s storm. Life was such a horrible storm. Maybe I should dye my nails, let them choke under the bright colours and up to my shoulders. But then the colours would drain as life would stare at them, eating them, scrapping them off in mean way. Just like she does it to us, leading us up to death.
But then what is it? What’s death? Is it the end of the slow motion walk of life? Poetic. What was there behind the eternal closed eyes, no matter if we closed them on our own or not? I’d flinch in scenes where the eyes gets closed as much as they are left open. It feels unreal, like when you kill an annoying fly and then it’s lying there as if was supposed to be. Then a plunge of guilt takes over you, did it really deserve to be swapped until whatever happened the shock, broken bones, overflow of blood that lead it to death.
Was I afraid of death?
How can I be afraid of something I don’t know?
But then maybe it’s the unknown fabric slowly falling over the eyes that drives people insane? It’s like a taboo, like drawing the devil until you get so attracted, too accustomed to the thought that you go insane, insane for the rest. Twitching? Screaming? Life-threatening? What did the person do? Mumble prayers, shake, clutching the hands to the chest, count its pulse, eat pill after pill, drag cig after cig, bite nail after nail, cut after each cut?
What was held in that he turned insane?
Maybe he tried to avoid death that way or lure it closer, feeling the cold weapon against the neck feeling it trace a cut, go deeper, cutting the life wires like paper with scissors with bonus effects as the life would crawl out of the cut, exposing the flesh, the eyes hinting the wound, maybe a groan fading out into nothing until the sensation would flow all over the body devouring it, leaving it in there as a sign of glory.
What was it like to die?
Pain?
Fear?
Relief?
What would happen later on?
I believed that it was eternal dreaming, never believing in heaven despite the kids' whispers behind my back, as they would know my reaction to that. Children with wings. White. Fluffy. Clouds. Kingdom. Eternal.
Then I found out that there was no eternal dreaming.
I don’t remember how I was explained about that, but the fact that there was no dream, it shocked me. There was no place to dream even death. Death would just tear it out, like the person essence, pulling the scalp in a painful way but giving a good, expensive painkiller at the beginning and maybe some anaesthesia to draw the person in a lull, to drive the life’s scars away and you’d just float without and with nothing.
What was death like?
A girl?
A boy?
No one at all?
The chill hiding behind cemetery graves, greeting the newly dead to sink in the ground? What is it? Did I want to meet it?
I covered my ears when I was told about clinical death, afraid to find out what was it like to see nothing, to think nothing and to be nothing. I waited, I waited for my uncle to go insane but he never did, he kept going as if nothing happened. And then he died and there was no connection and I’d never find out, if I could, I would, he’d be dead anyway. Maybe he never dreamed? The numbers going in his head, as he’d count the tables, chairs, walls, everything, words, pauses, breaths, pulses, heartbeats until he died in the end. It shocked me that he still got dragged into that nothingness, no way to be pulled out, only sucked it.
Was I afraid?
I was.
I deadly was.
Up to the point that I never reminded myself and once I would I would clasp my ears, my eyes like the no evil seeing monkey, begging for the thought to go away.
I was afraid of even clasping death’s hand let alone someone who lost the battle or survived once. I locked myself in a room, hoping that I could avoid my uncle, somebody who had seen death, seen it under its mask, hood and endless conclusions of the alive.
I was deathly afraid of seeing my parents as I could see them pulling the drawers open, nail varnish bottles scattering, clothes ruffling in search of something that could tell them about me, but they never bothered asking me straight, knowing that I’d be silent. I’d just stare at one spot, feeling Jonny rub my shoulder, saying that his parents were the same.
But they weren’t. His dad died, he had a brother while I had two. One, I had said, thought enough about them, despite the occasional flood of thoughts I noticed the year books piled on Marcie’s desk, maybe she ruffled them through.
Chapter 16
I couldn’t say no, but in the end I said it.
She shrugged and stopped.
It was like the nail varnish.
I had a drawer where all my nail varnish was stuffed in, the drawer heavier than an airplane with rows and rows of colourful chemicals. I had a thing, I loved the colours, but not even once in my life I dyed my nails. I didn’t even know how to, I liked to take them out and stare at their intense unreal colour as I’d shake the bottle, as a smile crept up into my face. But as soon as I’d hear the door’s lock fiddle I’d throw the bottle into the drawer, panic and push the drawer back with a thud. I wasn’t just closing the drawer, I was closing people out of myself, out of the drawer of my imagination.
Out of my life.
Earning the teacher’s thought on that I might be suicidal. Just because I wasn’t as girly and closed-up, like a raincoat on a winter’s storm. Life was such a horrible storm. Maybe I should dye my nails, let them choke under the bright colours and up to my shoulders. But then the colours would drain as life would stare at them, eating them, scrapping them off in mean way. Just like she does it to us, leading us up to death.
But then what is it? What’s death? Is it the end of the slow motion walk of life? Poetic. What was there behind the eternal closed eyes, no matter if we closed them on our own or not? I’d flinch in scenes where the eyes gets closed as much as they are left open. It feels unreal, like when you kill an annoying fly and then it’s lying there as if was supposed to be. Then a plunge of guilt takes over you, did it really deserve to be swapped until whatever happened the shock, broken bones, overflow of blood that lead it to death.
Was I afraid of death?
How can I be afraid of something I don’t know?
But then maybe it’s the unknown fabric slowly falling over the eyes that drives people insane? It’s like a taboo, like drawing the devil until you get so attracted, too accustomed to the thought that you go insane, insane for the rest. Twitching? Screaming? Life-threatening? What did the person do? Mumble prayers, shake, clutching the hands to the chest, count its pulse, eat pill after pill, drag cig after cig, bite nail after nail, cut after each cut?
What was held in that he turned insane?
Maybe he tried to avoid death that way or lure it closer, feeling the cold weapon against the neck feeling it trace a cut, go deeper, cutting the life wires like paper with scissors with bonus effects as the life would crawl out of the cut, exposing the flesh, the eyes hinting the wound, maybe a groan fading out into nothing until the sensation would flow all over the body devouring it, leaving it in there as a sign of glory.
What was it like to die?
Pain?
Fear?
Relief?
What would happen later on?
I believed that it was eternal dreaming, never believing in heaven despite the kids' whispers behind my back, as they would know my reaction to that. Children with wings. White. Fluffy. Clouds. Kingdom. Eternal.
Then I found out that there was no eternal dreaming.
I don’t remember how I was explained about that, but the fact that there was no dream, it shocked me. There was no place to dream even death. Death would just tear it out, like the person essence, pulling the scalp in a painful way but giving a good, expensive painkiller at the beginning and maybe some anaesthesia to draw the person in a lull, to drive the life’s scars away and you’d just float without and with nothing.
What was death like?
A girl?
A boy?
No one at all?
The chill hiding behind cemetery graves, greeting the newly dead to sink in the ground? What is it? Did I want to meet it?
I covered my ears when I was told about clinical death, afraid to find out what was it like to see nothing, to think nothing and to be nothing. I waited, I waited for my uncle to go insane but he never did, he kept going as if nothing happened. And then he died and there was no connection and I’d never find out, if I could, I would, he’d be dead anyway. Maybe he never dreamed? The numbers going in his head, as he’d count the tables, chairs, walls, everything, words, pauses, breaths, pulses, heartbeats until he died in the end. It shocked me that he still got dragged into that nothingness, no way to be pulled out, only sucked it.
Was I afraid?
I was.
I deadly was.
Up to the point that I never reminded myself and once I would I would clasp my ears, my eyes like the no evil seeing monkey, begging for the thought to go away.
I was afraid of even clasping death’s hand let alone someone who lost the battle or survived once. I locked myself in a room, hoping that I could avoid my uncle, somebody who had seen death, seen it under its mask, hood and endless conclusions of the alive.
I was deathly afraid of seeing my parents as I could see them pulling the drawers open, nail varnish bottles scattering, clothes ruffling in search of something that could tell them about me, but they never bothered asking me straight, knowing that I’d be silent. I’d just stare at one spot, feeling Jonny rub my shoulder, saying that his parents were the same.
But they weren’t. His dad died, he had a brother while I had two. One, I had said, thought enough about them, despite the occasional flood of thoughts I noticed the year books piled on Marcie’s desk, maybe she ruffled them through.
Chapter 16
Wednesday, 12 October 2011
Tuesday, 11 October 2011
Exit. Chapter 14
My other brother was quiet, having a few friends, giving me a feeling that they even talked in silence. He watched the world through thick specs trying himself out in something creative, but failing and moving on later with a quick shrug of the shoulders.
A shrug.
Is the world, reality a fade, a shrug or done shrug?
And there was me. Somebody who was closed up as possible hiding her arms behind long sleeves, a tuque always upon her forehead and headphone cords sticking out of her ears.
My brother ignored it and kept bringing boyfriends, my second brother kept failing and I kept closing up.
Only there was the problem of no more space to dream. I was getting desperate, nearly hysterical, shouting at myself for being useless at dragging my parents and family out of my space. I wanted a grab a piece of chalk, yell at them for stop molesting me with their useless suggestions and use chalk on their faces. I wouldn’t stand their melancholic eyes.
Get a fashionable haircut, Roberta.
Dress more famine.
Get a nice boyfriend.
Bring him to us.
Marry him.
Become a housewife and close your eyes on his cheats.
Deal with asshole children.
Rot in peace.
Screw you.
That’s why I shoved the idea in their fat faces, my mind yelling at me, grabbing me by my face leaving noticeable scars of misery. How poetic, was written on their faces.
My brother shrugged, knowing, praying that I’ll still end up as a housewife as he believed I like all other females I was a chewing gum, I’d be proof, as the taste disappeared I was no longer approvable and the next would come, only I was made for other guys to use.
The other shrugged, asking me several polite questions but more with his eyes studying me in such a heartbreaking gaze that I wanted to punch him, but I never was violent.
I never was poetic.
And here I was doing something, something to escape.
In a poetic way.
It didn’t matter all that did was the speech that I might find the ideal guy and follow the damned plan written by men throughout centuries, with no other way to survive.
It was like a play.
Only I was no longer part in the fucking play.
I escaped. I had room to dream.
I even had that cupboard or whatever it was, where my dreams folded into one big dusty, cozy dream with a teal touch to it leaving a gooey fuzzy feeling inside. Was it really a cupboard, a closet with those dreams crumbled up inside, falling, colouring the room in milliseconds as I’d blink and everything would take place, as if it was always there.
But then, had I chosen that door before?
Had I felt that chill creep up to me, had I ever seen Mason before?
Had I?
Was it a déjà vu? But there was no feeling, it was just a thought with no background, just like a sudden choke during breathing.
Like that choke during breakfast.
Parent’s week.
Shitload.
I choked on it as I imagined my parents walk around elbowing me as some guy would greet me or the other way round and the same applied if a girl did, only then the questions followed, two one after another ‘Eddie, Eddie, do you like her? No, stop it, Jeremy, enough, enough. She’s not yours.’ Then a humiliating action of my parents covering my older brother’s eyes. Eddie would shrug, fixing his glasses, as my parents would pray that he wasn’t gay.
He had a girlfriend, apparently, well, I believed he had. I saw him with a girl and the story flowed in my head. But then I saw him with the same guy and another scenario drew itself up in my mind.
Jeremy would pout but would end up with the girl on his lap by the end of the damned day. Usually my parents would drag him out of there and start talking some long chat about respecting women and crap which I could tell him myself in a more reasonable way, but my brother never listened. He just fucked.
So it was the three of us, all corrupted, one anti-feministic player, who was too open for any girl possible and two one of them clearing trying to desperately find everything about him, like a journey into the self and that left me.
Oh, and moronic parents.
Right, and more moronic family members.
I guess I could say I was ok with seeing Ed, as he’d just strode into the small village near our boarding school or stick his nose into a book somewhere quiet and parents off-limits. Jeremy? Hell, no, I had enough watching of the back of his head with some girl, which would change tomorrow.
My parents thought it fun, as we’d reunite to find out what classes I was failing or how come I was closing up and if I wasn’t suicidal. Of course I was! Who remembers March’s jumping of the cliff attempt? Fun!
I hated the fact that people loved digging their noses into my business, even Spear’s business. I mean, come on, that’s just mean… even if she’s losing Barbie in IQ. I flipped my fingers throughout one, but then I felt so guilty that I actually helped those photographers which have no lives and jump on celeb cars, get hit by canned beans that I spent the rest of my money on charity for no real reason.
I even headed to church, thinking if it actually was a sin.
It was, in my eyes.
I walked outside, wondering if I even had a cross, as I realized that I was an atheist. So was it a double-sin, to pray and not believe?
-
Exit is nearing it's end really. I always had an on and off relation, maybe now just because it's written and Exit needs no editing, I miss doing that like with Papercut for instance.
Most likely the next novel will be Toby Sketches.
Chapter 15
A shrug.
Is the world, reality a fade, a shrug or done shrug?
And there was me. Somebody who was closed up as possible hiding her arms behind long sleeves, a tuque always upon her forehead and headphone cords sticking out of her ears.
My brother ignored it and kept bringing boyfriends, my second brother kept failing and I kept closing up.
Only there was the problem of no more space to dream. I was getting desperate, nearly hysterical, shouting at myself for being useless at dragging my parents and family out of my space. I wanted a grab a piece of chalk, yell at them for stop molesting me with their useless suggestions and use chalk on their faces. I wouldn’t stand their melancholic eyes.
Get a fashionable haircut, Roberta.
Dress more famine.
Get a nice boyfriend.
Bring him to us.
Marry him.
Become a housewife and close your eyes on his cheats.
Deal with asshole children.
Rot in peace.
Screw you.
That’s why I shoved the idea in their fat faces, my mind yelling at me, grabbing me by my face leaving noticeable scars of misery. How poetic, was written on their faces.
My brother shrugged, knowing, praying that I’ll still end up as a housewife as he believed I like all other females I was a chewing gum, I’d be proof, as the taste disappeared I was no longer approvable and the next would come, only I was made for other guys to use.
The other shrugged, asking me several polite questions but more with his eyes studying me in such a heartbreaking gaze that I wanted to punch him, but I never was violent.
I never was poetic.
And here I was doing something, something to escape.
In a poetic way.
It didn’t matter all that did was the speech that I might find the ideal guy and follow the damned plan written by men throughout centuries, with no other way to survive.
It was like a play.
Only I was no longer part in the fucking play.
I escaped. I had room to dream.
I even had that cupboard or whatever it was, where my dreams folded into one big dusty, cozy dream with a teal touch to it leaving a gooey fuzzy feeling inside. Was it really a cupboard, a closet with those dreams crumbled up inside, falling, colouring the room in milliseconds as I’d blink and everything would take place, as if it was always there.
But then, had I chosen that door before?
Had I felt that chill creep up to me, had I ever seen Mason before?
Had I?
Was it a déjà vu? But there was no feeling, it was just a thought with no background, just like a sudden choke during breathing.
Like that choke during breakfast.
Parent’s week.
Shitload.
I choked on it as I imagined my parents walk around elbowing me as some guy would greet me or the other way round and the same applied if a girl did, only then the questions followed, two one after another ‘Eddie, Eddie, do you like her? No, stop it, Jeremy, enough, enough. She’s not yours.’ Then a humiliating action of my parents covering my older brother’s eyes. Eddie would shrug, fixing his glasses, as my parents would pray that he wasn’t gay.
He had a girlfriend, apparently, well, I believed he had. I saw him with a girl and the story flowed in my head. But then I saw him with the same guy and another scenario drew itself up in my mind.
Jeremy would pout but would end up with the girl on his lap by the end of the damned day. Usually my parents would drag him out of there and start talking some long chat about respecting women and crap which I could tell him myself in a more reasonable way, but my brother never listened. He just fucked.
So it was the three of us, all corrupted, one anti-feministic player, who was too open for any girl possible and two one of them clearing trying to desperately find everything about him, like a journey into the self and that left me.
Oh, and moronic parents.
Right, and more moronic family members.
I guess I could say I was ok with seeing Ed, as he’d just strode into the small village near our boarding school or stick his nose into a book somewhere quiet and parents off-limits. Jeremy? Hell, no, I had enough watching of the back of his head with some girl, which would change tomorrow.
My parents thought it fun, as we’d reunite to find out what classes I was failing or how come I was closing up and if I wasn’t suicidal. Of course I was! Who remembers March’s jumping of the cliff attempt? Fun!
I hated the fact that people loved digging their noses into my business, even Spear’s business. I mean, come on, that’s just mean… even if she’s losing Barbie in IQ. I flipped my fingers throughout one, but then I felt so guilty that I actually helped those photographers which have no lives and jump on celeb cars, get hit by canned beans that I spent the rest of my money on charity for no real reason.
I even headed to church, thinking if it actually was a sin.
It was, in my eyes.
I walked outside, wondering if I even had a cross, as I realized that I was an atheist. So was it a double-sin, to pray and not believe?
-
Exit is nearing it's end really. I always had an on and off relation, maybe now just because it's written and Exit needs no editing, I miss doing that like with Papercut for instance.
Most likely the next novel will be Toby Sketches.
Chapter 15
Thursday, 6 October 2011
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
Exit. Chapter 13
I could see him on the outside, right? This was real enough, the burnt tip of my tongue was real, the wooden floor covered in several carpets aiming for some sort of messed up vintage look and comfort as a back stroke of the head. I could fling myself forwards how much I wanted, I could kiss him to my heart’s desire, but I held still, my body straight, as I tried to figure out my next move.
Money.
It was different.
Mason smirked at my attempt to put usual, regular money but put down a banknote with some writer whom I wouldn’t remember from the shocked curiosity. I thanked him, as he shrugged with a smile upon his lips. Maybe if he was some over two-hundred year old gramps he’d say something about my young age and how much I had to learn.
How much did I have to learn?
But according to grown-ups, friends, mates, everybody you’re just not mature enough. Then there’s the long monologue, because I hate to argue aloud, even when I know what to say, about how I know nothing and yet they know all.
Do they?
It’s like those chats no matter between what genders as you talk about crushes. There’s always the ‘I know what love is and yes my 47437547464364367 choice is the love of my life’ and then the next will follow with more shining, denying the rest, the ones who walked the same moonlight, the same street as the talker was desperate to find the idol.
But even the ideal breaks as they get bored and hold another ideal image.
It’s so easy to shatter the ideal image.
Then why should I struggle with one?
I just had like my perfect, fine, ideal but despite everything I wouldn’t ever-ever come up to them and repeat absolutely everything I hold in my head. That’s the beauty. The one-sided relationship. A relationship which never dies, a relationship into yourself as you discover your weak sides, how immature you may be or how rough through the planned out one-sided loves.
Did you ever love, Mason?
Would he nod, in a banal way and whisper my name?
Then maybe the image would shatter.
But it doesn’t.
Because:
1) Mason isn’t like that
2) I didn’t/never asked him
But then never say never. Maybe one day the poetic question will flow out of my lips and I’ll cover my lips too late, my cheeks giving out, a pink steak falling from my tuque, as Mason would smirk in a friendly, curious way, look at the ceiling in a thoughtful manner, tapping his fingers against the nearest wooden object or any other object, his teal eyes looking into the distance, maybe for effect maybe not. But then he’d pull me close, maybe not and not answer anything, knowing how much I regretted the dreadful question which escaped from my foolish mouth for no exact reason, which could be found on the surface but could be blamed to my female nature. Because despite everything, somewhere in a deep corner we count how many kids we want, the house, the job, the loyal friends, the friendly smiling hair stylist, manicurist and whatever I’ll need to make myself gorgeous as far as I’ll be able to be at the age which I’ll be at those visits following a hundred others in desperation to change the appearance knowing that either way the reaction will be the same.
1) A positive shrug
2) A whatever shrug
Either way it’s a shrug, it takes a professional, not really to understand the secret behind the shrug.
Like the ‘see you’.
We both shrug, not knowing when the next bumping will take place and worrying over the other’s emotion, afraid to shatter the dream in our heads.
I walked back, ignoring, thinking that the rehearsal was over. I thanked the teacher, not knowing from what knowing that I had the script in my hand, not bothering wherever I was with it through the door or not. It didn’t matter.
The floors.
The stairs.
They irritated me with a passion. I wanted to walk them with my eyes closed imagining that there was dust mixed with snow, like an error, dust with snow, as if the snow wall wool. I pulled on my headphones tighter, making the music louder, opening my eyes in order to reduce the possibility of stumbling into someone or my own faithful death. Like a usual one in one offer, my eyes were opened to the weird glances, annoyed, but hiding it with a sugar coating mouthing at my music choice. What was wrong with Planet Telex?
Nothing.
Unless you are immature enough to listen whatever hits the top 100 or whatever other stupid banal reason.
They were all so colourless, so dreadful, so irritating.
Back there I could make them all listen what I wished, I could make them do whatever I wanted, I could pull the strings or press several buttons. It felt… nice, as if I could taste their blood, making some sort of sick connection, like, feeling a beat, if talking in a poetic way.
I loved it.
I loved the fact that I could also erase it, rub, rub, rub, gone.
Why had I chosen boarding school?
Why not anything else?
Because I was sick of the constant nagging of my family at my immature older brother’s changing girlfriends, one after another, all of them wrapped up as presents, as seductive as they could for a guy, to grab my brother’s arm and strode around. Womanizer. That’s what he was called, one after another, like the cigarettes I saw him smoke one after another as the need would come, as women he created would become boring.
All in ugly heels, I remember I had flicked a few Marcie’s Vogues. They had nice heels. Marcie had nice heels. While my brother’s ‘girlfriends’ were slutty, they seemed very fuckable and a laugh for guys to tell and compare how they fucked that girl, they seemed to be easily removed as a condom. I wondered if any of them were on the pill, if they’d have the guts to ask the parents with a brief ‘I get fucked by guys and they want their cum to fill my body and maybe one of those who will fuck me until I bleed and his friend making me gag with his erect dick in my throat will marry me and we’ll live and divorce’. It seemed disgusting.
-
Exit is nearing it's end.
The thing with Exit was, it was never finished, it just dropped half-way and as time grew, that's how it should end really with a brief explication and that's it.
Maybe a poll will be up again or maybe I'll just choose something at complete random.
Thank you
About Roberta, the more I read Exit deeper, the more I realize that I cannot edit it. Roberta has the single mindset and yes, I believe that it's not about age or something else which changes the mentality. It's either you're alone or you have someone.
That's the struggle and the fear many express or choose art over some love feeling.
Thing is, it just makes you more complete and gives you another border to break. Now you can describe what complete is and describe relations without the sugar coating and their depth.
Chapter 14
Money.
It was different.
Mason smirked at my attempt to put usual, regular money but put down a banknote with some writer whom I wouldn’t remember from the shocked curiosity. I thanked him, as he shrugged with a smile upon his lips. Maybe if he was some over two-hundred year old gramps he’d say something about my young age and how much I had to learn.
How much did I have to learn?
But according to grown-ups, friends, mates, everybody you’re just not mature enough. Then there’s the long monologue, because I hate to argue aloud, even when I know what to say, about how I know nothing and yet they know all.
Do they?
It’s like those chats no matter between what genders as you talk about crushes. There’s always the ‘I know what love is and yes my 47437547464364367 choice is the love of my life’ and then the next will follow with more shining, denying the rest, the ones who walked the same moonlight, the same street as the talker was desperate to find the idol.
But even the ideal breaks as they get bored and hold another ideal image.
It’s so easy to shatter the ideal image.
Then why should I struggle with one?
I just had like my perfect, fine, ideal but despite everything I wouldn’t ever-ever come up to them and repeat absolutely everything I hold in my head. That’s the beauty. The one-sided relationship. A relationship which never dies, a relationship into yourself as you discover your weak sides, how immature you may be or how rough through the planned out one-sided loves.
Did you ever love, Mason?
Would he nod, in a banal way and whisper my name?
Then maybe the image would shatter.
But it doesn’t.
Because:
1) Mason isn’t like that
2) I didn’t/never asked him
But then never say never. Maybe one day the poetic question will flow out of my lips and I’ll cover my lips too late, my cheeks giving out, a pink steak falling from my tuque, as Mason would smirk in a friendly, curious way, look at the ceiling in a thoughtful manner, tapping his fingers against the nearest wooden object or any other object, his teal eyes looking into the distance, maybe for effect maybe not. But then he’d pull me close, maybe not and not answer anything, knowing how much I regretted the dreadful question which escaped from my foolish mouth for no exact reason, which could be found on the surface but could be blamed to my female nature. Because despite everything, somewhere in a deep corner we count how many kids we want, the house, the job, the loyal friends, the friendly smiling hair stylist, manicurist and whatever I’ll need to make myself gorgeous as far as I’ll be able to be at the age which I’ll be at those visits following a hundred others in desperation to change the appearance knowing that either way the reaction will be the same.
1) A positive shrug
2) A whatever shrug
Either way it’s a shrug, it takes a professional, not really to understand the secret behind the shrug.
Like the ‘see you’.
We both shrug, not knowing when the next bumping will take place and worrying over the other’s emotion, afraid to shatter the dream in our heads.
I walked back, ignoring, thinking that the rehearsal was over. I thanked the teacher, not knowing from what knowing that I had the script in my hand, not bothering wherever I was with it through the door or not. It didn’t matter.
The floors.
The stairs.
They irritated me with a passion. I wanted to walk them with my eyes closed imagining that there was dust mixed with snow, like an error, dust with snow, as if the snow wall wool. I pulled on my headphones tighter, making the music louder, opening my eyes in order to reduce the possibility of stumbling into someone or my own faithful death. Like a usual one in one offer, my eyes were opened to the weird glances, annoyed, but hiding it with a sugar coating mouthing at my music choice. What was wrong with Planet Telex?
Nothing.
Unless you are immature enough to listen whatever hits the top 100 or whatever other stupid banal reason.
They were all so colourless, so dreadful, so irritating.
Back there I could make them all listen what I wished, I could make them do whatever I wanted, I could pull the strings or press several buttons. It felt… nice, as if I could taste their blood, making some sort of sick connection, like, feeling a beat, if talking in a poetic way.
I loved it.
I loved the fact that I could also erase it, rub, rub, rub, gone.
Why had I chosen boarding school?
Why not anything else?
Because I was sick of the constant nagging of my family at my immature older brother’s changing girlfriends, one after another, all of them wrapped up as presents, as seductive as they could for a guy, to grab my brother’s arm and strode around. Womanizer. That’s what he was called, one after another, like the cigarettes I saw him smoke one after another as the need would come, as women he created would become boring.
All in ugly heels, I remember I had flicked a few Marcie’s Vogues. They had nice heels. Marcie had nice heels. While my brother’s ‘girlfriends’ were slutty, they seemed very fuckable and a laugh for guys to tell and compare how they fucked that girl, they seemed to be easily removed as a condom. I wondered if any of them were on the pill, if they’d have the guts to ask the parents with a brief ‘I get fucked by guys and they want their cum to fill my body and maybe one of those who will fuck me until I bleed and his friend making me gag with his erect dick in my throat will marry me and we’ll live and divorce’. It seemed disgusting.
-
Exit is nearing it's end.
The thing with Exit was, it was never finished, it just dropped half-way and as time grew, that's how it should end really with a brief explication and that's it.
Maybe a poll will be up again or maybe I'll just choose something at complete random.
Thank you
About Roberta, the more I read Exit deeper, the more I realize that I cannot edit it. Roberta has the single mindset and yes, I believe that it's not about age or something else which changes the mentality. It's either you're alone or you have someone.
That's the struggle and the fear many express or choose art over some love feeling.
Thing is, it just makes you more complete and gives you another border to break. Now you can describe what complete is and describe relations without the sugar coating and their depth.
Chapter 14
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