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.


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.


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?


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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