Twankiie
I still can't see through the window. I press my face to the glass, the frost freezes my cheeks, but I wanted to see through the mist, through the ice, through the closed curtains, and into the warm inside. I closed my eyes and for a second I thought I could smell the fresh bread. It warmed my skin, my heart beat faster. I heard my grandfather say, "Nina, come,"
I couldn't stop, even though everything was in slow motion. Everything. I should've moved, I should've done something, anything, but I couldn't pick up my feet, I couldn't scream into my phone, I couldn't say the things I'd always wanted to say because I couldn't stop looking at it. Coming toward me, the thing showed no mercy, it showed no interest in who I was, the only meaning was what I was to it. Dinner.
I wanted to go, but Jonathan said no. He hated the movies. There was never anything good. Oh god, another remake? Oh GOD! Another sequel? Doesn't anyone have original ideas anymore? There are millions of books published every year, but all the cinema knows how to do is rewrite the same stories while they reheat the same popcorn, leftover from last months feature showings.
Last months feature showings, huh?
The stars are a natural nightlight that come over the black tarp of sky. I wish I knew more about them, every individual speck of light just gets overshadowed by the ones that have names. Orion's Belt -- do those stars have names or are they only recognized in the group of three? I guess I sort of feel sad for them after all.
I hate this fucking shirt.
I pull at the collar, loosening it. My skin is sweaty underneath the layers of polyester.
What kind of cheap suit is made of polyester?
I clench my jaw and stare into the mirror, looking myself over. My button-up is tucked into my pants, the blazer is too big and makes my shoulders look broader than they are, shrinking my head.
I clutched the doorknob. I didn't realize my mouth was hanging open until I felt the saliva slid down my chin. I wiped at it with the back of my hand. It was a few moments longer before I recovered. I blinked a number of times, thinking that maybe by resetting my vision, everything would become right with the world; but I was wrong, it didn't go away. Blinking just made my vision clearer.
Sitting at the table, it turned again.
I wasn't what they wanted.
I saw every face again and again.
The colors of the room melted together into one long stream of messy finger painting.
I was never what they wanted.
I think I've been on this ride more times than anyone else.
I don't know why you'd put paprika on the table. No one sprinkles it casually on supper.
I can't stop myself. I can't look at myself in the mirror.
I fucking hate what I see and I hate what he sees more.
I know--I fucking know he thinks I'm disgusting, but he won't say it. I know I'm disgusting because I think I'm disgusting--I know I'm disgusting.
I look at my hands, I look at the bruises on my neck, my arms, my legs. The bite marks. The smell that I've been spent.
I can't stop. I need it.
I want to stop. If I don't... If I can't...
I don't want to know what's going to happen to me.
I looked at the dirt. There wasn't much to it. It covered my hands with a dark, dirty film. The cracks and creases in my skin were darker than the rest of my hand.
There isn't much to it, I thought again, "but it's all I have." With a cupped hand, I brought the dirt to my mouth.
We use it to cook. I put bacon in it; the sizzling sweet apple wood fills the air.
In the evening we use it for steak or stir fry or some kind of casserole.
Today we use it for defense. It goes 'spang' as it smacks a decaying human in the face. Their teeth go loose and a glob of their nose goes flying off. Blood drips from the bottom of the pan like bacon grease seeping through the pan and I think, "'I'm so hungry. I wish I had some bacon right now..."
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writing since 2014 · 27 entries · 27 days shown up
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