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sometimes I just get this horrible sinking feeling for no reason at all. I'm not sure if it's boredom, or discontent; depression or idleness. for all I know it's a signal that there is something terribly wrong with the universe.
it gets all down in my chest and my lungs and sort of makes it hard for me to breathe. it is not the feeling one gets when they are in imminent danger or in trouble; not a jittery physical manifestation of some emotion or anything like that.
I sort of get the feeling that it's nothing but acute anxiety.
there are only three rooms in this house; a bed, a bath, an everything else.
when he walks, his hair nearly brushes the plaster ceiling. when I walk, I narrowly avoid falling through the cracks in the floor. there is one table in the center of the room, only it is not really a table. there are two chairs and two windows, a book case filled with books that are not mine. no food, no carpet, no dishes, no paint, no curtains, no protection from the cold.
but I am happy here. it is ours and I am not alone.
even when I am not alone I am alone. I am beside you, but you are not beside me. I do not understand how you can be so indifferent, yet so sincere. I believe you, even though I know full well that you do not mean your words.
because somewhere deep inside you do mean them. you do not, but you do. you want me but you do not. cast away your heartless facade. you do not mean it. that is not you, and you are not that. I see through it but I just can not break it down.
he stares at me though his glasses. I hate when he does that, because it is not he who is looking at me. it is a scary monster, not a boy. I reach to take them off of his face, but he pulls away before I can.
for a moment I am scared, before I realize that he is only hiding behind them. regardless of the fact, I am still uneasy. the monster is sometimes its own entity, he does not always control it.
I can't help but flinch. I would look away, but I dare not turn my back.
no matter how fast I saw it coming, how much I braced myself, I was never prepared. but I suppose one can never get used to excruciating pain.
my face, arms, wrists, shoulders, ribs; all bruised and sore from the last time. they only kept getting worse. he was to big for me to fight back, I could never hold any ground of my own. as soon as he got a hold on me, as soon as his knuckles touched my skin: my fight was over.
I always lay still until he finished, since retaliation only made him swing harder.
I met a boy once, by accident -- though I am sure it was not really an accident at all, considering the unusually perfect circumstances.
he looks just like a boy I used to know; has the same lilt to his speech and the same tall stride that I simply can not keep up with. he stared at me through his glasses the same way; took them off, put them on, and took them off again, just to be sure.
I swear that he is the same boy with a different face, though it is not even all that different.
I woke up one day and he was gone. a warning or a goodbye never once escaped his lips and I never saw it coming. he simply disappeared off the face of the earth in the matter of a few hours.
these days I understand. and I know it was probably for the best that I never knew. but I still can't get past never having a chance for closure. that is all I need to make everything right in the world again; just a few words that can be whispered over a telephone line or written in a letter.
he never whispered those three horrible, horrible words to me but once; and I the same. saying it cheapened the meaning and failed to convey the feeling. it was a rule that we never spoke what we really meant, since we both knew our words were never, ever sincere or simple.
when I took the shattered glasses off his face I could read it in the lines around his eyes and when he reached out I could feel it in the gentleness that lay within his massive hands. I knew and somehow he knew, too. that was all that mattered.
as is par usual, the inevitable will always prevail -- especially if I take no means to prevent it from happening. I figure that if I simply let existentialism have its way with me then I will end up in a generally agreeable place; and if it is not agreeable I can extricate myself as I see fit.
however, agreeable is a funny word with a funny sort of double or triple meaning.
if I am agreeable and you are agreeable then we are agreeable and will do agreeable things or be in a state of being agreeable in general.
I sat on the cold concrete, found myself watching the water rush past beneath my feet. it roared through the open gates, flowing downriver as nature wants. I looked up toward the horizon. the sky was a dim gray, growing ever lighter as the minutes passed. the sun was creeping up upon us, threatening daybreak. he was still, non-responsive; lost on another opiate nod like the one from which I'd just awakened. he was still breathing so I didn't worry. I looked out again, only seconds had passed but the sky shone a bright white.
the light stung my eyes.
I didn't know where we were going, but he did. each time I asked he looked at me with a mischievous glint in his shattered glasses; said nothing and smiled to himself. the road flew by beneath the headlights and I was restless. I was used to this sort of thing, but not knowing my destination was becoming more frightening the further north we got.
it occurred to me to rephrase my question. I asked him why we were driving north in the middle of the night. he smiled again, nearly grinning, and told me with a singular word: vacation.
I don’t know why I bother anymore.
I am not his first priority. I am not on his agenda. he does not want to see me. he does not care. he is full of words and knows wen to say them, but his actions are not consistent with them. he never calls, he never comes to see me, and he never ever is content to simply be. I do not believe a singular word he says.
I always suspect I am being cheated, slighted, and lied to. not because I am paranoid, but because actions tell all. I’m so afraid.
but in all reality, I am not afraid at all. everything is fine as quickly as it turned wrong. I'm not sure how or why, but that's simply how it goes. I've a sneaking suspicion that we both secretly love the anguish and strife. it reminds us of how good good can be when it's set beside the bad.
I will do fucked up shit to him, and him to me. I suspect he is schizophrenic, though he's never been to a doctor to prove it. I am all shades of my own personal crazy.
we are perfectly horrible together.
I've lost all desire to write what I used to write. I'm not sure why precisely, but I'm sure it has something to do with my prolonged sobriety.
the boy with black hair who I used to write is very distant from me now. he hasn't died, but he has regressed into near nothingness. I miss him, I want him back. he was everything ideal to me and everything I did and wanted to do.
perhaps it's just that my ideals have changed and he hasn't caught up to me yet. I must make myself resolve to find him again.
when I work so much I don't have time to think like I used to. I am no longer able to mentally enrich my life when weighted down with the burden of prolonged manual labor and the necessity of working to survive.
I work ten hour shifts; come home tired, sore, drained; sleep all day; wake up with enough time to get clean, ready, and leave again.
my hands are so sore I can barely write and when I have free time I am forced to spend it resting, as I never seem to get enough of it these days.
I realize that I've not touched a pen to paper in quite a long time.
I've written, but the words have been groceries and numbers. I've drawn, but the lines have been road maps and diagrams. I've held a pen between my fingers, but it was simply in place of a cigarette. ink has stained my skin, but it was simply smudged there from a poorly printed box.
god, everything is disappearing. I have trouble finding the cypress trees and floating lotus flowers. telephone poles are ceasing to sprout from the ground and I simply can not find that boy.
I don't know how we've become so separated, that boy who never really existed and myself. he used to be me. he had all my ambitions and goals. he achieved them, then I achieved them regardless of the deed.
I went from harmless to running cocaine, seeing throats get cut with jagged knives, and fighting with a year long opiate habit. I've seen a man get his fingers hammered off and spent days and months laying on my floor.
I think the problem is that I have no new ambitions. unless my last big dream is the fade into obscurity.
even though I am very young, I feel as though I've seen and done everything. I've lived like a rock star for an ultimately large portion of my very short life.
I've seen all the drugs and all the parties, all the violence and all the crime. the only event I've yet to witness is a man's slow death. instantaneous death is nothing compared to a drawn out one. I think that will be my final test, that's the breaking point. if I can watch that and be okay then I will know that I am truly doomed to this.
I've never been one to express my geographical heritage. my whole life, until now, I've only vaguely acknowledged my southern roots and even gone as far as to be ashamed of them.
my mother's family is strongly northern in beliefs and customs, but I am not. I am trashy, dirty, rural, antiquated; southern. I've never felt a need to express this until recently, until I know I'll likely be leaving it soon.
when I do go, I will carry with me customs that I've never practiced: swamp cabbage and turtle, gumbo and crawfish, dialect I've never spoken and old dixie.
he put the gun in my hand. the grip was cold and the metal was too heavy. I looked up at him and he stared back; blank, unforgiving. this was the third shot. this was it. my hand shook so bad I pressed the barrel against my head to keep it still. I looked at him again.
why was there a gun to my temple?
my vision was clouded and an acrid taste lingered in my sinuses. I couldn’t remember why we were sitting in the dark passing a loaded revolver back and forth. maybe he was having an episode.
“Schatzie,” I said. mo answer. “I love you, Schatzie.” no answer.
he took off his cracked, black-frame glasses, set them on the table, fixed me with another blank stare. I couldn’t stand it so I closed my eyes. I felt him watching me and had to look up again. he didn't give me a nod, smile, frown; nothing. I closed my eyes, took a breath, pulled the trigger.
the gun fell from my fingers to the table. all I could hear was the tinnitus buzz that was always screaming in my ears. “Trent, stop it. you're not funny.”
his pupils were so dilated that he barely had any eyes to stare at me with, just blackness. he pressed the barrel to the side of his neck and giggled.
click. nothing. no gore splattered across the ceiling.
he held the gun out for me, but I couldn't move my hand to take it. I was going to pull the trigger and I was going to die.
I noticed the clock ticking and I listened to it, counting the seconds. one minute, two minutes, three. he finally let the gun rest on the table, and let out an exasperated sigh.
"it's you or me," he said. "pick one." he picked the gun up again and pressed it against my forehead, right between my eyes. "you or me."
my good eye turned to inspect the barrel while my bad eye stared into oblivion. I could barely focus on something so close, much less at all. he started to push down on the trigger and my hand shot out instinctively to pull it myself. my fingers rested there for a minute. I closed my eyes, breathed out.
I dropped the revolved and it clattered across the table, barrel pointing at him.
it scattered the pile of white pills that had been piled neatly on the wood. they were still dripping down the back of my throat. he was grinning from ear to ear.
there was one cylinder left, and one bullet.
he picked it up, set it against the bottom of his jaw. I dug my hands into the edge of the table and the room spun. the edges of my vision faded into static like a broken television. he started to pull the trigger and I swear I heard the click of the pin hitting a bullet.
everything went black.
I woke up in a pool of my own blood. I wiped some off my face and found it was already congealed and cold. it was mainly leaking out my nose; my septum ring cut me when I punched myself in the face with the table.
the revolver was resting on the wood, inert and cold. it was staring me down. I had no idea what had just happened. I finally looked away and tried to reattach myself to reality.
he was sitting across from me, smiling gently. "glad to see you chose me."
I finally understand what he meant.
these days, I would give anything to have someone to play that stupid, dangerous game with. someone who cares enough to put a loaded gun to their head if they are not my first choice and first priority.
at the time, I didn't know the bullet he loaded in that gun was empty. I thought it was very real and very dangerous. I was fully prepared to shoot myself in the head for the sake of proving that I was sincere.
I still am, but my sincerity and seriousness is not reciprocated. he'd rather I die so he can survive.
the lights on the water were beautiful. bright, white, reflected into infinity like strings of pearls in a room full of mirrors. they danced and wavered about, waltzing with the stars. the horizon was nothing more than distant lights, jewels and pearls. jewels and pearls and little white pills.
it was cold outside but it didn't matter, because nothing but the light on the horizon is real, and even then it drifted around and slid in and out of view.
the flats behind us stretched into infinity, another sea of lights, one on top of the other, imitating the sky.
the room is losing its focus. you can’t stay where you are so you lay on the hard floor and it’s the most comfortable bed you’ve ever graced. the ceiling sparkles. you can barely keep your eyes open. shapes melt away and you can taste the candy in the back of your throat, a sweet reminder of where you are. and you wait and smile and the world becomes more soft around the edges. everything is warm; you’re laying in bed under the covers, and it’s too cold to go outside.
and then there is nothing but white. infinity. oblivion.
I adore you. I would do anything for you. all I want is to make you happy, be there for you. and I don't understand you at all.
why would you want to give all that up?
I wonder; are you stupid? are you crazy? is there something wrong with you? you treat me so bad I don't know why I bother any more. if I didn't promise you I'd stay I'd have been long gone by now. so would anyone else in their right mind. you are lucky you chose me to fuck with, else you'd be totally alone.
I can deal with being called all sorts of names. you can call me trashy, cheap, ugly, stupid, useless, insensitive, incompetent, tasteless; vulgar slurs, personal insults, whatever you want, justified or not. I will not care. it will not hurt me. I will not be bothered.
however, do not dare to call me a liar and do not dare to call me selfish. ever. especially when you are someone who I would never lie to and someone who I would do anything for and give anything to.
I'm not angry at all. I am hurt, wounded, stabbed in the chest.
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