I sat at the bar and turned around to the woman sitting next to me
She had little pigtails, a weird Mohican spike and a beautiful jagged red fringe that dripped down over her left eye. She wore eyeliner in dots that trailed away like stars chasing each other across the sky.
I sipped on my gin and told her
‘You love me’
‘What?’
‘You don’t know it yet but you love me’
‘Excuse me? You’ve got a real nerve’
‘It’s true, you love me’
‘Well If I did, which I don’t, then what you’re saying now would instantly make me fall out of love, how fucking presumptuous of you?’
I then looked at her in the eyes, directly, intently
‘Secretly you love me’
‘Piss off!’ she snarled
I began to explain to her about the corridor in her brain.
I motioned towards her ear.
‘Inside your head, there’s this brain and surrounding itself there are thousands of corridors. If you walk down one of those alleyways it’s hung with the art and loves of your life, your ex’s, your parents and your memories.
You will see that there are doors to the left and to the right,
thousands of doors,
different sizes,
small,
large,
oak,
metal,
frosted glass doors that seem as fragile as sugar paper
entrances with numbers,
letter boxes,
doors of your past and
doors of your future.
So see that door at the end, the one with the number 11 on it?
Lets open it’
I sucked her into my world,
she was listening intently to every word,
every subtle nuance.
Descriptive words dripped from my mouth, as I painted the room we had entered.
It was like a principals office, a filing cabinet rested against the far wall and a leather couch hug tightly against a partition mounted with paintings and photographs of people I didn’t know. She instantly recognised each and every one of the faces, she spun around in circles and had to prop herself up against the desk to stop from collapsing under the weight of memories.
Time and distance didn’t make sense in this room, everything was out of sync and a haziness started to form.
I started to pull at the files in the cold metal cabinet.
Blank bits of paper flew out the window,
they flapped their crisp white wings, soared up into the night’s sky and turned into dreams.
Then I explained to her,
that in her brain there is a corridor
and in that corridor is a sequence of doors
and in one of those doors
there is a desk
and in that desk there is a drawer
and in the drawer there is a piece of paper
and on that piece of paper there is a note to yourself
We slowly
crawled
creeped
stuttered
stumbled
Towards the desk,
pulled the drawer open
and there it was.
A piece of paper, folded in four.
‘Unfold it’ I said.
She slowly opened the nest
and read the words out
‘Note to self : secretly, silently, I didn’t know it then, but I love him’
BANG
Suddenly we were back in the bar,
she looked at me
and her lips motioned the words
‘I love you’
But before I knew it
I was in a corridor again.
This time it wasn’t hers,
there were faces of people I knew surrounding me.
My old economics teacher,
a football coach and
an actor I never really liked.
The doors panned out around my body like flowers blooming in a field
I pushed the door open
and there was the same room,
with the same desk,
the same couch,
the same paintings, but now I recognized the faces.
There were my best friends
my parents,
my pets and
my dead relatives stared intensely at my feet.
I walked
slowly towards the desk
and opened the drawer.
The paper floated up in the air and landed on my palm.
I didn’t want to read the words,
I didn’t want the truth,
but the paper unfolded itself
and there were the words…
Stunned and shocked,
I choked and read them once more
…before everything zoomed out
and I was being pulled out of my brain.
I dug my heels in but the force was too strong
I propelled
back thru the doorway and
out of the corridors.
I opened up my eyes expecting to see the bar
and to see the woman I had met about five minutes before
There was no barman in sight.
I did see her though, but she was older by about half a century
I looked at my hands, they were wrinkled, my nails were withered and I could hardly breathe
but she was next to me
and it gave me great comfort.
I was in a bed, her bed…our bed.
I could hear children running around outside
Playing.
Laughing.
Chasing paper dreams of their future.
I looked around and there she lay,
her red hair dabbed with grey draped over her star-crossed eyes,
which were silent and closed.
She breathed slowly in her sleep
as I wiped the dreams from my eyes.
On my lap was the piece of paper.
I stood up and walked towards the exit,
opened the door
and headed towards the desk.
I pulled at the drawer, folded the paper in four,
and placed it delicately on the other notes that lay dormant.
I then walked back to the bed, where my wife, my lover and the mother of my children was dreaming about corridors of love.
Wednesday, 13 May 2009
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
Preparations for a Suicide (Part 1) (First Edit)
The rows of houses spawned out into the distance like a sea of gravestones; there was a military precision to their layout, all on parade and all standing to attention. Every home was a mirror of itself, the outside walls of the buildings painted yellow with a red trim and glossy white front doors reflected brightly off the distant sun. Something about this place seemed engineered, it was soulless, devoid of individuality and the people here seemed robotic, going about life as if creature of habits. They’d visit the same restaurants each week, eating identical meals and having the same arguments with each other. Everyone’s eyes were cemented grey and their heads faced South, shoe gazing.
John looked at the clock for the tenth time that hour, the time showed 4.53pm, he was waiting for his second wife, Joanna, to return, he would then walk slowly to the hallway to look at his reflection in the mirror. His salty dry tongue licked his index finger which then proceeded to moisten what small bit of hair he had left, he slicked his fringe to one side. Occasionally he’d pace the floors of the house they acquired 5 years ago, then sit down, stand up and sit down again. He couldn’t keep his hands in his pockets. She was late, again. The mirror reflected his pain. John Hope was 45, his dark hair was thinning but he wasn’t worried about going bald, that was in fact the least of his concerns. Above his lip slept a moustache that had adorned his face since his first wife left him 10 years prior to buying this property.
’30’ he thought to himself
There was an element of hope when his first wife, Lisa, left. A new beginning, young enough to start again but old enough to have the wisdom not to make the same mistakes. ‘It’s funny’ he thought to himself ‘how life has it’s little way of playing tricks on you’
John raised his hands to the mirror; they were like shovels, coarse and strong. Hands that had cradled Joanna, the woman he now loved, when her marriage had failed she came running to his arms. John remembered the times he was there to hold her, his hands used to brush aside her hair and his fingertips mopped up the tears that fell from their cavernous womb.
His hands showed signs of a man who had worked hard all his life, not like the children he had nurtured and bequeathed to his first wife, Lisa. John had always used his hands to make a living, working the fields, manual labour. After the ‘incident’ at the farm which led to his dismissal his shovel like hands seemed useless in the modern world. Bereft of a trade, his disintegration from society was swift.
John caught himself looking at his hands and noticed how they were shaking nervously. His eyes met in his own reflection and his left eyelid starting twitching. He checked his watch one more time. 4.55pm. His heartbeat sped up, he peered out of the window waiting for the return, waiting for her return. She’d be the same she was everyday, slightly dishevelled, he’d noticed many times that her shirt would be hanging out the back of her skirt. Many times he had watched her in the car applying make up, covering the traces of the act she’d just committed.
The paranoia slowly crept up on John, swiftly, he ran up the flight of carpeted stairs and started undressing methodically, placing his clothes neatly on the wooden chair by the bed, which hadn’t been used for it’s purpose for months. The shower spurted into life as the water threw itself over his naked body. John began scrubbing hard at his body to the point where his skin became red, small spots of blood began to form under the surface of his skin but he kept scrubbing harder, trying to wash over the thoughts that consumed his mind. The soap felt good over his body as he washed harder and harder, trying to clean himself from the thoughts that dirtied his soul.
Naked he stood in front of the mirror, looking at the creases and folds in his body. 45 and this was the point of no return, his body was diminishing in front of himself, the scars from the self-inflicted wounds over the years started to look like the map of the underground. Different coloured veins represented different journeys, that had travelled through his wiry body to his heart and back again.
For a moment there was silence, a stillness in time and all John could hear was the thumping of his heart beating against his ribcage. Then there was that thought again…
He knew where she was. He knew who she was with. His mind vibrated at the speed of light.
‘The Bitch’ he shouted out aloud
There she was with his best friend, Paul, screwing. Her noises set free and flying into the afternoon’s atmosphere, their faces contorted with pleasure as she cums over and over on his best friend’s cock. The seedy hotel room on North Street couldn’t confine the betrayal. He’d often driven over there to listen to his wife have orgasm after orgasm, just to torture himself. He’d sit opposite in his beaten up car, listening and waiting for the last shudder before speeding off back home to wait for her return. He knew the truth. She knew he knew the truth. Paul definitely knew that he knew, but yet they all carried on, as if nothing was going on. What made it worse for John was not the sexual pleasure she received but the laughing afterwards, the mocking, post coital they would laugh at John.
The car lurched into the drive and abruptly ground to a halt, John checked himself in the mirror once more.
‘This was the night’ he thought ‘this was the night he would reveal the truth’
In his jacket pocket slept an old colt .45 loaded with two single bullets, one for her and one for him. As he peered out the window and watched his wife go through her routine of denial, he brought his hand up towards the gun that rested against his heart. The cold metal helped slow down the pace of the beating rhythm inside his chest. Joanna’s black heels clicked noisily against the grey concrete path that led to the door that led to John that led to the end. The key inserted into the lock and the door swung open, in walked Joanna Hope.
‘Darlin’ I’m home, how was your day?’ she said without flinching, as if nothing had happened, as if the small trail of her husband’s best friend cum wasn’t trickling slowly out of herself and down her thigh.
John replied ‘I’m in the dining room, come in, I have a surprise for you’
‘Oh darling’ you shouldn’t have?!’ knowing full well that there was no surprise.
Joanna walked into the room and there was John, dressed in a suit, the same suit he wore everyday she returned home, the same suit he’d worn for the last 3 years upon her return, the suit they got married in ten years ago.
John approached her, kissed her gently on the cheek and said
‘I love you dear, I hope your day wasn’t too hard, would you care for a cup of tea?’
‘Yes dear…thank you’ she replied
John walked by his wife who was living a lie, entered the kitchen, pulled out the gun from his inside pocket and hid it in the same drawer he always hid it in and had done for the last 3 years. Glancing at the clock it was 6.07pm. The colourless liquid gushed out from the arched metal tap that glistened in the evening sun, John’s fingers were now steady, devoid of emotion, he smiled inwardly as he filled the kettle with water.
John looked at the clock for the tenth time that hour, the time showed 4.53pm, he was waiting for his second wife, Joanna, to return, he would then walk slowly to the hallway to look at his reflection in the mirror. His salty dry tongue licked his index finger which then proceeded to moisten what small bit of hair he had left, he slicked his fringe to one side. Occasionally he’d pace the floors of the house they acquired 5 years ago, then sit down, stand up and sit down again. He couldn’t keep his hands in his pockets. She was late, again. The mirror reflected his pain. John Hope was 45, his dark hair was thinning but he wasn’t worried about going bald, that was in fact the least of his concerns. Above his lip slept a moustache that had adorned his face since his first wife left him 10 years prior to buying this property.
’30’ he thought to himself
There was an element of hope when his first wife, Lisa, left. A new beginning, young enough to start again but old enough to have the wisdom not to make the same mistakes. ‘It’s funny’ he thought to himself ‘how life has it’s little way of playing tricks on you’
John raised his hands to the mirror; they were like shovels, coarse and strong. Hands that had cradled Joanna, the woman he now loved, when her marriage had failed she came running to his arms. John remembered the times he was there to hold her, his hands used to brush aside her hair and his fingertips mopped up the tears that fell from their cavernous womb.
His hands showed signs of a man who had worked hard all his life, not like the children he had nurtured and bequeathed to his first wife, Lisa. John had always used his hands to make a living, working the fields, manual labour. After the ‘incident’ at the farm which led to his dismissal his shovel like hands seemed useless in the modern world. Bereft of a trade, his disintegration from society was swift.
John caught himself looking at his hands and noticed how they were shaking nervously. His eyes met in his own reflection and his left eyelid starting twitching. He checked his watch one more time. 4.55pm. His heartbeat sped up, he peered out of the window waiting for the return, waiting for her return. She’d be the same she was everyday, slightly dishevelled, he’d noticed many times that her shirt would be hanging out the back of her skirt. Many times he had watched her in the car applying make up, covering the traces of the act she’d just committed.
The paranoia slowly crept up on John, swiftly, he ran up the flight of carpeted stairs and started undressing methodically, placing his clothes neatly on the wooden chair by the bed, which hadn’t been used for it’s purpose for months. The shower spurted into life as the water threw itself over his naked body. John began scrubbing hard at his body to the point where his skin became red, small spots of blood began to form under the surface of his skin but he kept scrubbing harder, trying to wash over the thoughts that consumed his mind. The soap felt good over his body as he washed harder and harder, trying to clean himself from the thoughts that dirtied his soul.
Naked he stood in front of the mirror, looking at the creases and folds in his body. 45 and this was the point of no return, his body was diminishing in front of himself, the scars from the self-inflicted wounds over the years started to look like the map of the underground. Different coloured veins represented different journeys, that had travelled through his wiry body to his heart and back again.
For a moment there was silence, a stillness in time and all John could hear was the thumping of his heart beating against his ribcage. Then there was that thought again…
He knew where she was. He knew who she was with. His mind vibrated at the speed of light.
‘The Bitch’ he shouted out aloud
There she was with his best friend, Paul, screwing. Her noises set free and flying into the afternoon’s atmosphere, their faces contorted with pleasure as she cums over and over on his best friend’s cock. The seedy hotel room on North Street couldn’t confine the betrayal. He’d often driven over there to listen to his wife have orgasm after orgasm, just to torture himself. He’d sit opposite in his beaten up car, listening and waiting for the last shudder before speeding off back home to wait for her return. He knew the truth. She knew he knew the truth. Paul definitely knew that he knew, but yet they all carried on, as if nothing was going on. What made it worse for John was not the sexual pleasure she received but the laughing afterwards, the mocking, post coital they would laugh at John.
The car lurched into the drive and abruptly ground to a halt, John checked himself in the mirror once more.
‘This was the night’ he thought ‘this was the night he would reveal the truth’
In his jacket pocket slept an old colt .45 loaded with two single bullets, one for her and one for him. As he peered out the window and watched his wife go through her routine of denial, he brought his hand up towards the gun that rested against his heart. The cold metal helped slow down the pace of the beating rhythm inside his chest. Joanna’s black heels clicked noisily against the grey concrete path that led to the door that led to John that led to the end. The key inserted into the lock and the door swung open, in walked Joanna Hope.
‘Darlin’ I’m home, how was your day?’ she said without flinching, as if nothing had happened, as if the small trail of her husband’s best friend cum wasn’t trickling slowly out of herself and down her thigh.
John replied ‘I’m in the dining room, come in, I have a surprise for you’
‘Oh darling’ you shouldn’t have?!’ knowing full well that there was no surprise.
Joanna walked into the room and there was John, dressed in a suit, the same suit he wore everyday she returned home, the same suit he’d worn for the last 3 years upon her return, the suit they got married in ten years ago.
John approached her, kissed her gently on the cheek and said
‘I love you dear, I hope your day wasn’t too hard, would you care for a cup of tea?’
‘Yes dear…thank you’ she replied
John walked by his wife who was living a lie, entered the kitchen, pulled out the gun from his inside pocket and hid it in the same drawer he always hid it in and had done for the last 3 years. Glancing at the clock it was 6.07pm. The colourless liquid gushed out from the arched metal tap that glistened in the evening sun, John’s fingers were now steady, devoid of emotion, he smiled inwardly as he filled the kettle with water.
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