LASTGLASS

“Last glass goes to you,” I say as I look at you from across the table. Letters on your cover scream an origin, a past history, I do not know, nor care about. A cup of vodka begs, pleads, for me to drink it. I do not.
I pick you up, open you up, light you up. And I inhale. Burning intoxication hits my lungs. I inhale deeper.
The fingers in between which I hold you near me for another drag tremble, too steadily for anyone to notice, too heavily for me to ignore. I exhale, and as my mind tells my body to sigh down and do so, the nicotine rush goes up, up, up, to my head.
I close my eyes and let it hit me, and try to focus on my hand again, by taking that second drag, inhaling, and ashing in the cup in front of me, all in the slowest motion you can possibly imagine.
My first cigarette in ten hours and thirty-seven minutes. I haven’t been counting.
My last glass of vodka. Not that I’m counting.

LOVEISGONE

What is it with people?
If one would ought to describe what love is, most people would fervently agree if one would mention the word 'trust'.
I once read something that would later on become my motto when it came to love:

"Love means trusting someone enough they have the opportunity to break your heart, but trusting them not to."

So love equals trust. It is the key factor when it comes to love: both loving and being loved revolve around trust. So why are people not trustworthy anymore? Did they decide to just wake up one day and stop loving?
It's funny (well.. "funny") how the people you love best and trust most, can end up breaking your heart unintentionally like no one else could possibly even dream of doing.
I find myself writing more: a lot of diary entries and a couple of letters I will never send. The thing about diaries is that they can't hurt your already damaged heart. It's always there for you, keeping your most precious memories alive and the uttermost deep secrets secret. The thing about letters is that they make you vulnerable: you express emotion in them and share a little piece of yourself with the person reading your letter. That's why my letters are for strangers: I don't know them, there is no attachment or bond that can be broken, yet I give them something precious; something no one else has but me. I give them an idea of what my soul looks like.
It's easy to confide in a stranger, both anonymously and identified. Someone out there heard you, knows your secret; you got it off your chest and don't have to worry about getting hurt, because what power does a stranger have over you, really?
I love strangers, because I can trust them. And that heals. I'm only afraid of 'real' friends, because they have that power,- the power to destory you on the inside.
So think to yourself who would be a better friend to love: your best friend, whom you trust and/but of whom you know (s)he is going to hurt you in the end, one way or another (whether it is intentionally done so or not doesn't matter)? Or the stranger, next to you on the bus or in the train, who will keep your secret forever?

I love strangers. They're my best friends, whom I just haven't met before.

PARASITE

New entry that I scribbled when I was waiting at the psychiatrist to pay the bill and run away. I had little time, so don't expect it to be perfect, for I finished it on the bus on my way home.
I hope that after you have read it, you will give me your honest opinion and thoughts about it. I am talking about an entire nation of people that is depressed and that wants to be helped, but can't ask for help, because they simply don't have the strength to do so. So if someone you know [or you suspect] has a certain disorder or illness [even if it is addiction to alcohol or drugs, or anything else of that matter] and is being a bitch, just be there for them. Because you never know when you might need those people yourself. Behind every bitch is a broken heart and a parasite that's eating it.


If someone has a disorder, they live with it 24/7. At a certain point, most often just before it gets better, the person has truly become the disorder, the problem, and he or she most of the time acknowledges this.
As they start to learn how to cope with the various side effects of their disorder(s), they learn how to cope with themselves. They learn how to outgrow the disorder, the illness, they have, but because they are able to identify themselves with their sickness better and better, it gets harder and harder to outgrow something that is so very much of their own.
Learning how to outgrow the parasite of your sickness, is often equal to learning how to outgrow a part of the self: outgrowing the characteristics which marked your personality. So where in fact to most people it seems as if the people in 'recovery' are trying to overcome their disorder, where it seems they are trying to let go of it,- they are actually overcoming and letting go of themselves.
Hard as it is to let oneself go, slip away, the person in the process has to stay focused. They are often just as repulsed by themselves as you are by them; to tell you the truth: they are even more repulsed.
So how does one let go? Simply enough as they do everything regular, from breathing and blinking to eating and drinking.

They remind themselves of how repulsed they are by themselves and how repulsed others are by them. They keep mentioning it; out loud, in loud, it doesn't matter. However... There is a contradictory force at work here. Because even though these people hate themselves, they mostly hate how they are not in control over their disease. No matter what you think or what others may think; nobody is in perfect control of their own disorder, that's what makes it a disorder. The contradiction lies in the fact that these people don't know anything before or after their illness; they hate it, but it's everything they have that they know is real. So whilst knowing the parasite is killing them from the inside out, it has grown on them and they are scared-so scared - of loosing it, that it becomes almost impossible.
By mentioning the parasite, calling it by its name, regardless of the tone in which they do so, they are slowly killing it. They are attacking it, whilst honouring it for the last time: they attack it how it has attacked them, and by being major bitches about their own sicknesses to others and themselves, they show the parasite in themselves at the same time as they mark their death beds.

They are scared of letting them go, of letting themselves go, but only by first becoming one with their own parasites, their own illnesses, they can spit them out. Only by remembering themselves how repulsive their disorder is, will they be able to overcome it.

The night is always darkest before dawn.

THEINNERME

This is the eighth entry in my diary.
I'd like to share it with you so you might get a broader perspective.
Because that's what I'm trying to do here: get you to be more open-minded and creative thinking.
I have also tagged it as one of 'My Stories', because it's not really a diary-entry. It is more of a little story I was scribbling on the inside of a cigarette pack and then rewrote in my diary.
Hope you're all doing well.
Love and more,
Camilla



Being depressed is all about the inner self; about searching for it, finding it and then loosing it. It is an endless circle and by the time the common people figure that out, it's too late for suicide and they die of age.

You don't know what depressed is. You may have read about it or seen a couple of movies or known someone that was/is depressed, but you don't know what it is.

Being depressed is not sleeping the right amount of nights, long enough to forget how many nights you skipped in the first place. It is not being able to walk a straight line without falling sideways. It is forgetting who you are, what you do and why. It is why. One, big, W H Y ?
Why are you spacing out? Why do you hear voices? Why do people keep looking at you? Why are you here? Why life? Why not choose death instead?
You don't deserve anything. Not even to be happy. So why are you here, wasting space, money, water and food?

You stop eating, because you forget to. Then you continue with not eating, because it just feels so good. And once it doesn't feel good enough anymore, you can't stop yourself.
All you can think about, is yourself, even though you're the last person you'd take care of. Your thoughts mess with your head, body and soul.
You're dying.

And even though you want to die, you don't even see it's happening already. You'd be a lot happier if you'd realise your dying wish was literally coming true.
You make yourself so important by always thinking everything is about you; people looking, talking, not doing anything... It's all somehow related to your tiny spot in this universe. Stop making the world revolve around you; it doesn't, and it never will.
So you don't tell anyone you got raped, because you don't think you're pretty enough for them to believe you. You're anorexic. Bulimic. You have an abortion. You're alone. All alone.

The pain you feel is real. The fact that you hide from it behind not eating or binging, or purging even, doesn't make it less real.
You're depressed; searching for the inner you.

I don't believe in happiness. No, I believe in the moments in between the moments of unhappiness and depression.
You're searching for yourself, which leaves you with the big W H Y ?'s. You find yourself, which some people might want to call 'happiness', just for the sake of it. But then you loose yourself, which makes you unhappy again and the start for the search of the inner you starts all over again.

This is how everything about yourself, except for one thing, always changes. What remains the same, is the fact that you're always changing.

It's What You Do To Me

My dad stormed into my room and pushed the knife in my hand. "There you go. With permission and everything." I stared at him questioningly. He sighed and said: "Alright, let's see if this works, then," and with those words, he started to pull up the left sleeve of his blue smart-casual shirt. "Do it. Come one, do it. Or I'll do it myself," he threatened. I looked him in the eye and then to his bare left underarm, with his right hand still clasping the sleeve of the shirt at the heighth of the elbow, in order for it not to roll back down.
I felt the pocket knife gain more and more weight in my hand as seconds were ticking by and finally, I clicked the knife in its grip and as I wanted to lay it away, my father grasped it out of my hand. "No! You do it. Now. Or else I will," he threatened again. His sleeve had rolled down a bit, with the sudden movement and as my father saw that, his eyes widened. I stole the moment to hastily leave my room and go downstairs, where my mother was cooking dinner, but he was too quick.
"Sit-down-now," he hissed. I did.
"Open the clasp knife," he continued. I did.
"Now take a look at it, slowly. Take the time to look at how beautifully it shines. Except for those times you used the tip of it, it hasn't been used, has it? So just look at it. Look at how.. Clean it is." He spoke slowly now and seemed to stretch the word 'clean', but that might as well have been my imagination. It was as if he got me into some sort of trance, because when he said the following, I made a little jump on my bed.
"Give me the knife," he said harshly.

I turned the knife- I pointed the knife towards me and handed him the side with the grip. In the slow movement of handing him the pocket knife, the tip of it crossed right palm. It stung and I saw a drop of blood fall on my yellow skirt. My dad saw it too and he smiled, "Sharp, isn't it?"
Then he put the tip of the pocket knife to his left wrist and drew a hardly noticeable line from the left to the right. All you could see, was a thin, light red line, and only if you'd look closely you could see it. My eyes were wide as plates and my mouth was wide open.
My dad looked at me. "Hurts doesn't it?"
I noticed my eyes were wide and my mouths was open, stupidly. I didn't want to look affected by his trick, so I acted coolly: "Only if you want it to. Isn't that the point?"
He pulled up his left sleeve higher this time, till just above his elbow, and drew another line with the point of the knife. This time vertical. And deeper.
As a reaction, I gasped and held my hand in front of my mouth, that was open again. I looked at his eyes, that were focused on me, rather than on his arm, surprisingly enough. He kept looking me in the eye, but I couldn't look at him. I kept looking at his mouth, how it was twitching. I kept looking at the carve in his lower arm, how the blood sippled out of it.

"D-dad.." I muttered.
Within one movement of his hand, he closed the pocket knife and he threw it on my bed. He then rolled his sleeve down and wanted to walk away.
"D-d-dad..." I stuttered again. He fiercely turned around and started screaming.

"Did you like that? Did that ease your pain?! Did it make it easier for you? Are your problems gone now?"
"What.. What are you talking about..?" My voice was hardly audible for myself, I don't understand how he could've understood it.
"THIS. I am talking about THIS. Every single time you bring that knife to yourself, whatever part of your body, you bring it to me too. Every time you cut yourself, you cut me too." He held out his arm, showed how the blood was soaking the fabrics of his earlier blue shirt. He rolled it up, grabbed my hand and made me touch his wounds.
"YOU did this. YOU are the one that is not only causing yourself terrible pain and scars, but also us. Do you think we want to see you hurt yourself? Do you not think we are hurt by your pain?"

My fingers slowly followed the lines on his lower arm. My index finger felt as if it had been numb and was regaining its feel to it- it tingled. It hurt.
I looked up, in the light blue eyes of my father. He was ageing, but not yet old. His hair was gray, but not yet falling out. He was desperate, but not yet giving up.

A tear found its way down my cheek and somehow it fell on the bare skin, close to my dad's elbow. I sniffed and and followed the lines on his lower arm again, with a finger that was wet by the salty tear that had fallen down. He pulled away as a reflex to the stinging, but I held his hand with my free hand, so he wouldn't pull away entirely.
When I looked up, I saw my dad had tears in his eyes as well.. I said I was sorry. And he gave me the tightest hug ever. My chin rested in the hole between his right colar bone and his neck. I heard him sniff. And for the slightest of moments, I thought I heard him say he loved me.

"Your pain is our pain. You do not only do this to yourself; you're doing it to us. And it hurts, it really does." He held my shoulders and gave a little squeeze. "It's our pain too. We love you."
And with that, he walked away.

Stephanie: It tears you apart.

This is the follow up of Juggling Coke Bottles and The Park.


It Tears You Apart

"My dear, my David.
I don't think I'll have the guts to give you this letter, but it doesn't really matter. As long as I write it.
There's so much I want to tell you, but there are only so many ways to tell you these things and after a while it gets all chewed out, so let's just skip the formalities, shall we?
If everything went according to plan, you're in the park where we had our first kiss right now. If you are, I want you to sit down on the bench where the couple just sat. In case you're not in the park, I want you to please stop reading and go to our park before you read on."

David looked around him and saw that the street lamp had turned on. In merely 2 minutes, dusk had stretched its long arms over the city and David imagined people being far away, arriving to a warm home, a family, to find them all waiting. But not for him this time.
Quickly, David walked towards the bench where the couple had been sitting only minutes before. His fingers were stiff from the cold and it took him a while before he got the piece of paper unfolded again. When he did, he flattened it out on his knee and continued reading fastidiously.

"I like your curls. I like your jumpy mattress. I hate your childish T-shirts with holes in them and the way you never clean anything up, but the curls and the mattress make up for those. I love it when you buy a drink for me, even after I initially declined it. I like it when I walk away and you chase after me, because you are the only person that knows better than I do, that I want to be in your arms- not walk away from them. I like the level we were on, not needing to be together 'officially' to prove to others that what we had was real, because whatever was real for us, was real in general. I hate how despite that level, there were bumps in the road that caused tension, which in the end caused this semi-breakup. I like how you are able to pretend not to care, but again- I hate how that confused me overall."

David stopped reading and noticed that he had stopped breathing. He folded the letter the other way and shoved it under his upper right leg, so he had his hands free to blow in them. And they say the weather gets better from February onwards....

"What I liked about you most, was how you kept hurting me and begging me for more at the same time. You kept breaking my heart, but after doing so, you would always mend it and start over from the beginning. You had me going in circles- I would leave you. You would beg me for mercy. I would tell you we could not be together. You took off. I would beg you for mercy. Remember those days, David? I do. They tore me apart. But isn't that what love does; tear you apart?"

He was crying. He was actually crying. Not in 6 years had David let a tear spring from his eyes for emotional reasons. The last time he cried before he met Stephanie was when his best friend died in a car accident, in which he only broke his nose. And then he met her.. Until this very day, David has still not figured out how one person can have such a great impact on someone else. How can one person lift you up that high? And how can that person drop you down this hard? How come there are people who know exactly what to say or do to make you the happiest man alive, or the most miserable, for that matter? How come it is always the unexpected people you come to care about and, well.. Love?
Oh. My. God....

David stood up and almost fell over. His aggression in standing up, caused dizziness and for a moment he thought he was going to throw up. He leaned with his right arm against the stone wall next to the bench, panting and finding it hard to swallow. Clenching his left hand into a fist, with the letter inside, David slowly stood up. His left arm was now shaking because of the tension in it and he looked at the remains of the letter in his fist. He could not read any further. Every word reminded him of Stephanie's teasing, crooked, smile- every word seemed a joke, but he was afraid that this time nobody would jump around the corner and say 'KIDDING!'
The curtain of night had now been rolled down completely and to read the rest of the letter, David would have to stand under the streetlamp. Bad sign. She wanted him to read it on the bench and if he couldn't right now, he'd better not read it at all. She was the one that told him that: if you're not supposed to do something, fate will let you know soon enough. Don't argue it, don't question it- just follow it.

David let the letter fall and picked up his bag that he left in the corner at the entrance of the little park. He took off to the gig where he had to juggle- never to look back at the park; never to know what the end of the letter beheld. It started drizzling.
In the meanwhile, in the back, a girl stood there, watching the scene. She had a navy jacket casually thrown over her shoulder and as soon as David turned around the corner, she stepped into the light of the streetlamp, which lighted up the silver lines on her face. She picked up the letter of the floor and held it in her hand, carefully, as if not to crush it any further. Then, she brought the piece of paper to her lips and laid it on the floor again.
It stopped drizzling and she walked away.

"It's a sacrifice you make. And I did; I sacrificed this for you, because I loved you. Why did you think I was not able to be with you? It's what this love did to me; it tore me apart. Remember that if you are thinking of me- whenever, wherever... I'll be thinking of you too. And if you think this tore you apart, remember that it doesn't come close to half how torn apart I am over this.
So, please leave me alone. I don't think you can mend my heart this time. And even if you can, you'd break it all over again and if I'm frank.. I don't think that's all there is to love. Sorry. But this time I'll try to find love for which I'm not the only one sacrificing myself.
I love you. You don't love me. In case you do- I ask you to turn around right now. If you don't turn around but walk away after throwing this letter on the ground.. I'll get over it.

I wish you the best and more.
Love. And more.
Steph."

Sorrow Of Lan.

For English, we had to write a creative response to a certain part in the book 'Sorrow Of War', by Bao Ninh. 'Sorrow Of War' is a book about life during the Vietnamese war, written by one of the ten Vietnamese survivors. Only ten out of 500 Vietnamese warriors survived and Bao Ninh was one of them. The book is written in the third perspective, from the point of view of Kien, who is a commander in the Missing In Action (MIA) team. It is not a light book and certainly not easy to understand, considering it are mainly flashbacks that one reads and flashbacks don't ever come in chronological order. This book is not written in chronological order, which emphasises the chaos during (and after) this terrible war. I strongly recommend anyone to read this book, even if it is only because of Ninh's amazing writing style or the story (for the diehard lovebirds: the story is not about war, but about the effects of war; the war is merely a setting. The real story is about love!).
Here is my creative response,- it's a certain chapter from the book I picked to write from a different point of view. As I said, it was originally written from Kien's point of view and now I wrote it from Lan's point of view. Even if you haven't read the book, you will understand this piece. I got a tres good grade for it :)

(No title, so let's just call it 'Sorrow Of Lan' for now, haha)

Opening the door, Lan looked into the eyes of a man she no longer knew. For a moment, the two remained silent, but then Lan recognised the tall, handsome stranger. His once so young, unblemished face held a more serious look now, scarred by the long days of war. Even in his eyes she could see that the man at the door had aged and, indeed, gravely changed. He was no longer the boy she knew from the old days which seemed further and further away whenever memories drifted up in her mind.
"Sorrowful Spirit," she whispered.

The name that could only be called by recognition, belonged to Kien, the commander of the Mission In Action team who had settled at Doi Mo with two other soldiers in his younger years. She saw confusion in his eyes and chuckled and shrugged nervously: "When you settled here, I was only thirteen years young." Lan paused and thought of what had been when Kien and the other soldiers had settled at her house. "And the girls of this region have always been reserved and unattractive," she added softly, sadly. She felt her muscles tense up, but instead of seeing the expected look of disapproval in Kien's eyes, she saw something that she would have placed as admiration, if not pleasant surprise. Lan knew that she, of course, had changed too. Her body was now full-grown and all her childish features had disappeared with the long, long days of war.

"Of all the people that have been here, only you have returned, Kien. My brothers, classmates and my husband, too, were all younger than you, and joined up many years later than you. But none of them has returned, just you." However intrigued with Kien's altered appearances, Lan could not look athim anymore. The scars on his face were too familiar...

After Lan paid tribute to her mother with Kien, night had begun to settle upon the village. The late afternoon sun stretched her last tingly rays out over the long grass, like children stretching their arms when they yawn after having just woken up.
"You're the only one that came back. Don't go, don't... Leave me alone." Lan paused, still not looking at Kien. "Will you please stay with me for the night?" As Lan asked Kien to stay, her eyes carefully travelled from his feet to his eyes again. He looked at her and then nodded resolutely.

The night seemed short, to both of them. Especially Lan felt pleasantly surprised by how gentle Kien was with her after she had approached him. Firstly, he had seemed cautious, careful. She wasn't sure if he had wanted to make love with her, but when she had wanted to leave his room, he said one of the few sentences during his whole stay: "Please, stay. You look beautiful."
She had turned around and lied down on the bed. They did not speak; they did not need words. All the noticeable sound, besides the sound of their breaths and bodies moving, came from the night-birds from the edge of the forest and the far away rippling of the slow stream in the hamlet of Doi Mo. Time seemed to pass by too slowly at the time, but when all was over, night seemed to have passed too briefly.

Early in the morning, Lan walked Kien through the long grass, wet with dew. For the last time, she would see someone, Kien, leaving. Not able to find words that could possibly describe her state, Lan ended up saying: "Live peacefully, my dear. Try not to be sad, and try no to think poorly of me. And one other small favour: if you come to the end of your wandering and seem to have no place left to go and no one to turn to, remember you have a place here with me, always. You have a home and a woman. A friend. You started this war in Doi Mo and you returned. You can return again, once more." Kien let her trace the lines of his strong, broad shoulders and touch his graying hair, as she talked. When finished, he nodded silently and hardly noticeably. He looked into her tearing eyes and hugged her. Lan could feel his heart beating against hers, or was it hers against his? She placed her face in the curve of his neck and said, with a muffled voice: "Please, please go now. I shall never forget you. Please, don't forget me, not completely. This love comes so unexpected..."

Lan's grip loosened and so did Kien's. "Please, go now," she repeated quietly. And he did. It was up to Lan to wait once again, endlessly, for someone that might never return. The tears that had wet her eyes, now wet her face as well, as they fell out of her eyes and were gushing over her cheeks. Lan watched Kien walk away, she watched him slow down and slightly turn around once, as if hesitating to come back. Then, he turned around and walked on. She stayed in front of her house, on the edge of the grass field. She stayed until the tears stopped coming and then walked back home, through the wet grass, with a face still wet from crying. When she passed the tombstones of her mother and son, she stood still for a brief moment, to wipe the salt off her cheeks. She looked at the tombstone of her son and then up at the sky, that was starting to brighten up. She smiled.

The Park

Here a sequel to the (pretty recent) story Juggling Coke Bottles. The story Juggling Coke Bottles was written from the point of view of the female persona in the story, but this story is written from the point of view of the guy.
I fail.
I need to edit it quite a lot, but I can't be bothered at the moment, to be honest, as I'm in a terrible piss-mood and just want to throw vases against the wall and smack my head against it as well. Or something like that, at least.
Hope you all are doing better.



THE PARK:

"I don't have much time, because Patrick's waiting for me." She threw a glance in the direction of the entrance of the park. I followed the direction of her eyes and could see that, just around the corner, there stood a broad bloke, with his arms crossed over each other. He was obviously waiting for something,- or someone. She looked at me again and continued talking: "..but I just wanted to say a couple of things."
I gulped the lump in my throat down and said: "What?"
Her eyes scrutinised me. They were bright blue and they seemed to look right through me whenever she was playing this trick on me. She knew I couldn't handle her looking at me that way,- I never told her, but she should definitely have noticed. Don't girls always notice those things? I found it so hard to look straight back at her, but I tried. I really did. What do you want?

"I have a boyfriend," she said.
What?
"I have a boyfriend and I came here to tell you so. This leaves me two options. It leaves me the option to tell you that I have a boyfriend, but that I still want you." Pause. I looked at her, I guess a bit confused. She looked to the floor and then quickly added: "Just physically, of course," she shrugged, found my eyes again. "We would continue whatever it is we had before it stopped and we wouldn't tell anyone. It would be our own, exciting secret." I still looked at her. I was doing pretty well, I think. But for how long?
She sighed, then continued. "This would be the entire story and the entire truth as well, now it comes to that. But there is another option." Pause. I noted she was struggling to keep looking right at me, yet still she went on. "The second option I have, is to tell you that I have a boyfriend and that would be it,- that would be the entire story. And it's true, it's not a lie or anything. I would just pretend that there wasn't more to tell and you would just have to pretend I had never mentioned the first option."

I nodded, tried to push another lump in my throat down. It fell right into my stomach.
I couldn't look at her anymore, so I decided to try to carelessly look at a couple that was sitting on one of the benches in the park, on Stephanie's left hand and my right. "Right," I was able to push over my lips, but only barely. I was starting to feel more and more uncomfortable, as the seconds ticked away.
"Mm-hm.." followed by something she mumbled. "I prefer the second option, so let's follow that one," she threw another glance into the direction of the entrance and then added, breathlessly, "for now."
"Yes," I brought out, trying to look unaffected.
"This, of course, brings up other options, but this time they are not meant for me to be followed. I'll tell you the two options that my decision has left you with. When I walk away, you can decide to do... Well.. Nothing. You just stare at my back until I've walked towards the entrance, hugged Patrick and walked away with him, without having looked back at you one last time. But there's another option. When I walk away, you could choose to follow." The last few words, she uttered in a way as if she stretched every syllable. "Again, I prefer the second one. I prefer you coming after me, calling my name and touching my elbow. I prefer you asking me what the fuck this all means and if this really is what I want. And I prefer you to call me a bitch." The look in her eyes was cold and distanced when I looked back at her,- she almost looked like a stranger. Do all girls change this radically over the course of one conversation?

"This is the moment where I walk away and try to say goodbye, in case you're not coming after me." She smiled that crooked smile of hers. It was the best thing about her,- it was completely real and didn't leave any questions whatsoever behind with me. "As you can see, I'm not really good at it though," she continued nervously, fidgeting her sleeve. "Well.. I guess I'll see you around, then. Bye, David."
I didn't say anything. I mean, what would you have said? What the fuck...

"Hey, Steph! Steph!! Wait up!" Before I knew it, I stood in front of her again and did all of the things she told me she preferred. "Why are you telling me all this?! We haven't been together in private since.. Last March. Why the fuck are you telling me all this, Steph?"
Her eyes crawled back up again, starting at my feet and ending at the most personal spot a person possesses... The soul. Still, she did not say a word. She wanted me to go through the hell of having to repeat everything she mentioned before.
"Is this what you want? What is it that you want, anyway? What did I do? I didn't do anything. I have always been honest with you and I have always been as clear as I could be. I even kept your jacket aside for you to come pick it up, but you never came. What did I do?!"
No motion. No motion, whatsoever. I thought I saw her hands turn into tight fists, at the sides of her body, but I didn't care, actually. It were her eyes that were impersonal; it were the eyes that got to me. I didn't know this person.
"Jesus, Steph, why are you being such a bitch? Why are you doing this? What do you want me to say?!" I threw my hands in the air, hopelessly. Wanting to find something else to vex my attention on to calm myself down a bit and to, once more, seem a tad careless, my eyes shot at the bench where the couple had been sitting a couple of minutes before. They had left.
Stephanie looked at me for a few seconds that seemed to last an eternity, but at the same time, she would never seem to take long enough. And then she smiled. Her lips curled and as she chuckled softly, her eyes rolled. Her body loosened up a little bit and she looked natural again,- herself. She blinked and for a moment it seemed like she was looking in the direction of the bloke at the entrance of the park again, but then she blinked once more and focused her look on our feet.
"Do you really think you've always been honest with me?" she asked, and she looked back up at me, comprehensively.
NO, I DON'T, but it's not like you'd understand anyway, would you? Jesus Christ...
"What do you want me to say?" The lumps in my throat hadn't come back and I was trying not to scream and make a scene in the middle of the park. I felt completely hopeless and stupid and to make matters even worse, I felt her eyes piercing into my soul and I heard the sweet laughter I had always loved so much about her. Right now, however, it couldn't possibly be more of a curse.

"I'll tell you something. If you would have been honest from the beginning, I would not be having this fucking conversation with you this very moment; it would not have been too late. But like I said, I have a boyfriend now, and that is the end of our story," she said, with ever so piercing eyes. Every single word she used to emphasise what she was saying, felt like a hammer slamming me against the side of the head; slowly, painfully.
That's it, then, I thought.
But it wasn't.
"You hurt me, so I guess this was my turn to hurt you. I just wanted to see if I could hurt you just as much as you could hurt me," she whispered, her voice hoarse and fragile.
Carefully not to make any sudden movements, she leaned in cautiously to hold my elbow tenderly and then gave me the softest kiss I had ever had, on her favourite place of the corner of my lips.
"Goodbye, David," she said, with another crook smile. This smile, I also knew; depending on to which side her mouth hung, I knew if she meant it or not. She didn't, right now.
"Goodbye," I whispered.
Her lips curled a bit up again and her eyes looked friendly now, comprehensive. It was almost as if she looked sorry. She let go of my elbow and as she let her arm hang down, I felt two of her fingers stroke my underarm slightly. She stopped smiling and then turned around. I watched her walk towards Patrick and give him a hug. He looked at me, questioning. Quickly, I broke the eye-contact by looking at the floor and tried to make my mind clear of all thoughts.

I don't know for how long I stood there like that, but when I looked up, Stephanie and the guy that came with her had already left. I felt.. Blanked, cold; but at the same time all sorts of thoughts were racing through my mind with the speed of light and I felt my cheeks glowing,- of unbelief, anger.. Fear.
The moment I took off to go home, I saw the guy that had been sitting on the bench with his girlfriend coming towards me. He was holding something and as he drew closer, I saw it was a small piece of paper. He handed it over to me. "She asked me to give you this," he said. "Take care, man." He gave me a pat on the shoulder and then disappeared out of my life.

Trying badly not to stumble over my own feet, I walked slowly to the bench the couple had been sitting on. After fidgeting for a short while with fingers that were stiff from the cold and trembling heavily because of the adrenaline rushing through my veins, I finally unfolded the piece of paper and flattened it on my knee. It didn't take me long to recognise the handwriting on it, or the words that were written in it. I stopped reading when my eyes were half-way the surface of the paper. I never cried. Never.

"Oh my god," I breathed out. I am so sorry.

Juggling coke bottles.

Hereby my new story. It's not about me, but you may pretend it is. If that makes you feel good.

I wanted to experiment and try something else for a change. My usual short stories are very short, very emotional. This turned out not to be that short. Nonetheless, in my own opinion, it is still very emotional, even though I didn't want it to be in the first place. When I was writing it, however, I got dragged along by the words a bit and I decided for the persona to be as emotional as the words wanted her to be.
I'm sorry if it shocks you. I'm sorry if it offends you. I'm sorry if you think it's too long.
But it made me feel good when I wrote it. Fiction is a great tool to help you paint the walls that you've built around you. It's a great tool to paint the walls inside your head with too. Sometimes, however, it can be considered a hammer, with which those walls are being knocked down. I still have to find out what kind of fiction this is. The paint? Or the hammer?





JUGGLING COKE BOTTLES:

I saw him coming towards me from across the other side of the trottoir. I had just smoked a cigarette and to act as if I hadn’t seen him coming in my direction, I pretended to be busy with pressing the fire out. After doing so, I opened my bag and pulled out of it a bottle of coke light. Unfortunately, I had never been good at opening bottles of soda in an elegant kind of way and this was one of those situations where it couldn’t possibly have looked less elegant. I opened the bottle and half of its contents came spilling out. The jeans I had been wearing, ceased being the spotless white colour they had initially been and as I saw the brown substance soak the fabrics enclosing my legs, I cursed under my breath. Of course I couldn’t remain anonymous this way and he saw me. Before I knew it, he stood right in front of me. He had a mocking look in his eyes, as he scanned my entire being. He did not only look at my body in a shameless way, but he also seemed to look right through me, as if he knew what was going on inside of me. As if he cared.

I shook this idea out of my brain and with an apologising smile, I stated: “Yeah... I’ve never really been good at opening bottles.” I shrugged and leaned in for a kiss. My eyes closed and my lips slightly pursed, I stood there for a couple of seconds, like a fish praying for a bit of air, until I opened my eyes to see he hadn’t moved a bit. He still had that mocking look in his eyes and it seemed to grow profoundly, when he saw how offended I was. He had rejected my lips in the middle of the street, with people looking at us, scrutinising every little thing we did and did not do. For a while, we just stood there, looking at each other. He didn’t move, the only thing that changed slightly, was his mouth. I could see he was trying to hold a smile back. What do you want? I begged him with my eyes. Then he turned around and said: “It’s that way.” Slowly, he turned his upper-body in my direction and gestured me to follow him, with a faint nod of the head. I picked up my bag and followed the mysterious person in front of me.

During the walk, we hardly spoke. He walked in front of me all the time and it felt a bit weird at first. At the moment I got used to the feeling of being ignored, he turned around. I immediately stopped walking as well and looked at him, curious of what he might do next. He stepped forward, in my direction. Every step he placed on the grey pavement, was placed confidently, yet cautiously. It was as if he walked in an incredible tedious slow-motion, but within a blink, his face was merely a couple of inches away from my face. Confused and still a bit offended, although also amused if I’m really honest, I pulled my body back, so I could have a proper look at the person in front of me. He wasn’t very tall; about two inches taller than I was. He had green eyes, with spots of brown in them, and a perfect nose. He had told me once that he had broken it four times, but I couldn’t see it; it was perfect. He had dark blond, curly hair, which he would mess up with his right hand, whenever deep in thought. He had a bit of a beard, not a long one, but one of those that men have when they haven’t shaved for about 5 days. He had big lips. He was chubby. He wore a childish T-shirt with a shark on it and a hole at one of the seems of his right sleeve. Frankly enough… It didn’t bother me. It didn’t even bother me that his right shoe was almost entire ripped from its sole. I could only look at those green eyes, with those tiny brown spots in them. Depending on how good the weather was, his eyes could become more of a mixture between sea-green and gold and whenever I looked into them then, it would feel as if I lost myself and drowned in them...

I felt his lips pressing against my lips. I felt his entire body pressing against mine. I felt his desire and I tried to hide mine, but I felt lost in his grip; I felt lost in his kiss. His hands were everywhere: first, he held my body against his, he pressed our bodies together as if he wanted to melt together, right there and then. Then he held my face, very gently, as if he was making up for the roughness of how the kiss had started out. His hands moved again and he held my head from the back. I felt his fingers run through my hair and his kiss became rougher again. I felt lost, I could hardly breathe and I wanted to get away from there; from him. But there was one thing that I wanted better: staying with him. I decided to let go of the desire and to share it with him. As I decided to do so, his grip softened and he stopped kissing me. He held my head; one of his hands at the back of my head, fingers entangled in my hair, and the other one brushed some hair out of my face. He leaned forward again and whispered something in my ear. “I want to fuck you. Right here, now.” I know, I thought to myself. I looked at him, smiled vaguely and tore myself away from him. “Too bad you need at least two people for that,” I was teasing him. Even though I knew it wasn’t the right thing to do and this would go wrong. But that was what made it interesting. And irresistible.
He grabbed my elbow and pulled me to him. The confidence he did this with, disgusted me. You were the one that rejected me, what do you want?! I turned around and started walking away. “What are you doing? Where are you going?” he shouted after me.
“I don’t care, as long as I’m not with you, you arrogant son of a bitch,” I shouted back.
Before I knew it, he stood in front of me again, holding both of my elbows this time. I felt my head spin and my knees shake. It's never good to feel things like anger, disgust and desire at the same time.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"With me? What is wrong with me?! I'll tell you what's wrong with you, you fucker. From the first time I had you in my sight, I knew that I was going to hate you. I knew you were disgusting and you weren't going to be capable of doing anything that would not make me loathe you. You are revolting and impossible to be around and I can't believe I'm here. What do you want from me?" Shit, I didn't seem to be able to stop talking anymore. Nerves...
Silence.
"What do you want?!" I threw my hands in the air and felt like a whining little child. He was the only person that could make me feel that way; I wasn't that young anymore in the eyes of some and in the eyes of others, I was too young.
He spoke. "I told you. I don't want to give you any wrong impression, it's just physical. Everything you just said, is completely mutual, I can assure you." He drew closer to me and I could feel his breath on my skin. It made me shiver. He whispered in my ear again: "I know you want to fuck me, why would you even bother denying it?" He leaned back and hid little tangles of hair behind my ears. "You know it's going to happen anyway."
"Yes, I do. But having a shown path, doesn't mean I'm following its direction," I answered. He seemed a bit confused.
"Well.. Why are you here, then?" he asked matter-of-factly.
I smiled, leaned in and bit on his lower-lip. "Let's go," I said.
For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, but then he smiled and said: "You're such a tease," and followed me.

Arrived at his one-room apartment, I didn't know what to do; it all felt new to me, regardless the fact this wasn't the first time I was alone with a man. I felt his eyes scanning me again and to focus on something else, to feel less nervous, I looked around. On several places, there were juggling balls and against the fridge, stood a couple of clubs. "You can't juggle," I said, more to myself than to him. I turned around to look at him. "Why do you have this stuff?"
He shrugged and started to laugh. "Because I don't juggle, remember?"
"Of course." I bit on my lip. Touche.
I walked around, as far as that was possible, and put down my stuff. I put my coke bottle on the kitchen table and took off my new navy-blue jacket. He reached for my jacket and without thinking about it, I gave it to him and sat down on the bed, absentmindedly. He tried to throw the jacket on one of the cupboards, but instead, it fell on the floor. My new jacket.
"Oh no, you did not just...." I exclaimed, ready to attack him with my words which would remember him of how he disgusted me and of how I really didn't want to be there. Obviously.

Instead of picking my jacket off the floor that didn't seem to have had a proper cleansing in years, he came towards me and pinned me down on the bed. He kissed me roughly and again his hands were everywhere. And on more places. After a couple of minutes of kissing underneath our breaths, he undressed me. It wasn't the romantic, slow kind of undressing, but more like the hasty 'I-want-you-but-we-only-have-10-minutes'-kind of undressing. This is too fast, I thought. He stopped kissing me, at that very moment, and took off my bra in a surprisingly slow manner, while he looked me in the eyes. Oh, fuck it. I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him. This time it was I, who was pressing our bodies against each other. I could feel him and didn't want to wait anymore; he didn't seem to be willing to do so either. He pinned my arms down above my head, on the pillow, and started to kiss my entire upper-body. He pressed his soft lips on my skin and before I could take the time to enjoy it, I felt a stinging pain at the place he kissed me. He was biting me.
"Ouch! What the fuck do you think you're doing, dick?!" I sat up and looked at my breast. There was a gigantic red patch on it and my eyes went from my breast to his face, back to my breast, in awe. "What the fuck man! Jesus!"
He answered me with a grin and I saw his head go down again. He laid me down on the bed once more and licked the sensitive spot where he had bitten me and I could feel him smiling against my skin. "I know something fun..." he said to my belly.
"Oh, I bet you do," I moaned. I didn't like this. I wanted to get out of there. But I loved it. What is he doing? I wondered, and I pulled up my head to see what he was doing, but it wasn't necessary. I felt it; he was biting me in the side. It tickled and stung and I didn't know if it felt good or not. I wanted him to stop and I wanted him to go on, I wanted to kick my feet around and scream and I wanted to lie still and be quiet...

I smacked him on the head. Not very hard, but hard enough for him to stop biting me. "What the..." he said, bringing his head up to see what was going on. I slapped him in the face. Again, I didn't slap him very hard; just hard enough for him to know that I didn't want him and I wasn't attracted to him. Or something like that.
"You're a pig. I hate you. Let go of me, you're hurting me."
"I'm becoming a bit insecure when you keep reminding me of the dick I really am," he shot back at me. Ouch, you need quite the confidence to be able to say you're feeling insecure. Did I want to get out of there? Yes. Did I play along and stay anyway? Yes.
"Well, someone has to tell you. Get off me."
"You don't want me to get off you."
"Yes, I do," I tried to fight what I felt. I really tried.
He slapped me in the face. I felt my entire cheek glowing and was speechless for a while. Then something inside of me snapped. It was self-control. I literally felt the self-control flow out of me and ripped off my pants. I tried throwing them on the cupboard, but just like the jacket, it fell on the ground. On the other side of the room, one of the clubs fell down.
"It's hard isn't it?" he said, smiling, under his breath.
I got on top of him and got off his jeans. His T-shirt was off already, but I couldn't remember taking it off. Who cares. I nibbled on his ear and he said: "Stop it. Fuck me."
I ignored him and continued nibbling his ear.
"I'm not kidding, just fuck me already."

When he said that, I sat up. I looked at my watch and then at him. "Hmm.. I think I'd better go."
He sat up too and switched our positions again. He pushed me against the bed and when I tried to get up, he slapped me in the face again. But this time, I liked it. I knew I deserved it; it was what I had been asking for all along, after all. Fine, I'll admit it. Damn it.

When we were done, we did it again. After that, David got up, pulled on a pair of black boxers and picked up the juggling clubs that were standing against the fridge. The one that had fallen down, had rolled away, so he picked up the next best thing he could juggle with, instead of that club. He found my coke bottle and started juggling with it.
I looked at him for a while.
"I take it back."
"Hm?" It looked cute, the way he juggled; wearing nothing but that pair of boxers, sticking the tip of his tongue out of his mouth, in utter concentration.
"You're a true juggler."
I watched him again, for a little while, then he dropped one of the clubs and I had to laugh.
"Is it like, your cigarette after sex or something?!"
"Nah. It's more something to bring me back to reality.." he answered.

I stood up, took a short, steaming hot shower and put on my jacket on the way out. He didn’t hold the door for me, nor did he have the decency to stand up. Why was I so attracted to this asshole?
I walked up to him, he still sat on the edge of his bed. Juggling, of course. I waited for the right moment and when I saw he stuck his tongue out of his mouth a bit again, I snatched one of the things he was juggling with out of the air. It was my coke bottle. To be honest, I was a bit surprised I had actually caught the bottle, as my reflexes aren’t that good, usually. I took the cap off the bottle and put the little opening to my lips. It tasted… Like nothing. It made my face twist and I put the cap back on the opening. He took the bottle from me and pulled me down by my hair, gently. He kissed me. "When am I seeing you again?"

What is this? I thought to myself. He didn’t want to give me any wrong impressions, but what was he doing? Exactly, giving me wrong impressions. But were they wrong? What-is-this?!
“How about.. Never? This was a one-time mistake. I do not know what will happen if we make it again and I do not wish to find out.” I bent over him and kissed him very softly on the corner of his lips. He turned his face away, didn’t look at me. Seeming not to use any breath whatsoever, he said: “You should go then. Otherwise I’d have to make you find out.” He still didn’t look at me. Why do you enjoy hurting me so much? Why do you not care? Why?
Without saying another word, I got my bag and walked towards the door. Door-knob in my hand, I realised something. My coke bottle. I walked back and snatched the bottle from his bed. “That is mine, thank you very much,” I snapped at him. But he didn’t look at me, didn’t seem to hear me.

I stood in the elevator and just before the doors closed, I saw his face, bewildered. He was holding my navy jacket. “Wait, you left your…” But it was too late. The doors had closed before he could finish what he had begun. I loved that jacket, but I knew I would not go back up to claim it. I knew I couldn’t.

I never saw him again in private. Sometimes, when meeting up with friends, he would be there, but we would pretend nothing happened. I was happy we could pretend to be friends. I was happy no one else knew. From time to time, however, I could see him throw a glance in my direction. It made me wonder what he had done with my jacket.

Now where's the pink paint? Let's fuck this white canvas up a bit!

I like writing about things that have never happened to me. I like to imagine what it would be like to have them happening to me. I sometimes cry because I know that it is merely fiction that I write, and life isn’t really a fairytale. It is a tale, indeed, but I don’t know what kind of tale. I hate to admit it, but I think I’d have to agree on Macbeth’s phrases:

“Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing! Signifying… Nothing.”

Sometimes I wonder what I will be remembered as. The random girl? The girl that talked to strangers? The girl with the big nose and a space between her two front-teeth? The girl next door? The exception? The caring one? The jealous one? I don’t know. I don’t even know how I’d like to be remembered. Of course it is nice if you’re remembered for who you were, not for what you looked like. But is this realistic? People don’t really know you. I know that, because they don’t know me either,- and I don’t know anyone myself. Who we are, are little cities inside our minds. We are our own architects and we have, subconsciously, chosen to become who we are. External factors helped us in becoming who we are nowadays, but our actions are chosen by ourselves. Maybe the people around us helped us in designing the cities in our heads, but we built them ourselves. We changed what we wanted to change and we have chosen the colours we painted our walls with. Spectators do not know what our cities look like, they can only think they know. They see us walking through our own streets, living lives inside of ourselves. They have to guess what we are seeing: the colours, the shapes, the weather… Sometimes they may be right, most times they’re really not. Sometimes we try to explain, but never will they see. Never will they understand; never will they know.
This is one of the reasons why I like writing so much. Or why I used to like writing so much. It’s the feeling of being in total control of your life and to let people think they know you. When I write in the 1st person, people immediately think I am writing about myself, about something that has happened to me in real life. People think I am just re-telling a situation, whereas I am only building up the city in my head when I'm telling a story. I hardly ever write about myself. I have noticed that as soon as people start to think they know you, they couldn’t be more wrong. That is why Greg scared me with his words, telling me I’m a scared person. He is one of those exceptions you might only run into once. On the other hand, I might as well write about myself and publicise the stuff, because people get the wrong impression of me anyway.

Considering the fact I'm sick at home and didn't even go to school today (I always go to school), I might write another story. The first one this year. It's about time.

Let's finish with another piece of Pierre Balmain.
And one of the best dresses in history. And in the future. I wish I knew the guy. Where he gets his inspiration from.. Is a mystery. Although I must say that the city of Paris isn't that unusual when it comes to arousing inspiration and ideas for a reason....
Love Pierre.

a Sunflower

There really is no stopping me now.
This is a story I started writing for my English teacher who is really keen on the idea of starting an after school writing workshop. I'd love to do the workshop, especially considering the fact that I never write anymore..
I should really finish this story, but I'm afraid I got 'out' of it as soon as I stopped writing it. But who knows.. I might give it a shot.
Do you like it?



A SUNFLOWER:

Her face, tender as the night but, though as poetic as Shakespeare's sonnets, often mistaken by photographs, had lost its usual white state, for the weather hadn't been awfully bad that summer.
Her personality was as uncatchable as the wind, but as destructive too. In the way she'd hardly ever let a word slip her lips, the mystery kept in her blue eyes, remained one of the most mysterious of mysteries.
When one speaks and uses words in his (or in this case: her) explanation, the characters which form the words, get blown away by the wind. She'd never liked the idea of words getting blown apart, so she'd -most of the time- keep them to herself. In that way she and her thoughts would stay together and she couldn't get things mixed up by losing some of the characters... And as the wind had never really been generous to her and didn't return any formerly lost characters, she didn't want to have the risk that she would forget anything again. She remembered more by not speaking and remembering things was getting more and more important, especially now.. Things were bad enough already.
And by the way - one learns more through observation than through discussion. Whilst discussing, one may lose eye on the true core of the discussion or, even worse, not hear the things that are yet to be heard.
She heard everything and even without letting go of a singular word, she could attract people to her, like bees to honey or mayonnaise to french fries. She could invite them to come even closer than they already were, for the faint blushing of her cheeks made her look happy and outgoing (even though I'm not quite sure if she really was).
Thank God she was alone right now,- sunsets are only to be seen in utter silence. She loved the idea of getting sucked into the sea, just like the sun did that afternoon. She loved the idea that every little sparkle in the water was a question, an answer or perhaps even a lost soul, waiting to be found...
Oh, the touch of the last sunbeams on her shoulders after a long, hot day at the beach! She could stay there forever, if the word itself hadn't already given away its finity. And, of course, if it wasn't for The Partay to take place that night.
She took a peek at her new pink watch with hearts on it and noticed she had to hurry. Ah well.
She got up and started walking, humming a song of which she didn't even know it existed.
~~~~~~
The wine tasted mighty sweet. Where most men turned their backs on the intoxiating smell, the women seemed to be liking it more and more with each swig they took. The air was filled with their laughter and the clinging of their glasses, which both probably wouldn't stop before the break of dawn.

My shiny new shoes.

Another story. Sorry, I think this is the most unproductive Sunday of my entire life. I have only been surfing the internet and I found a couple of my old stories. They make me want to write again.
What would you like to read?



MY SHINY NEW SHOES:

I grabbed her hand and hold it tight. Then I quickly looked down, to the ground underneath our feet. My shoes looked old and pretty dirty, but that's the way I like 'em best. Her shoes, however, were looking all shiny and new - they couldn't possibly fit her comfortably.
She pinched my hand and I looked up, to her tiny, beautiful face. I loved her - oh, how I loved that girl.
I smiled but then with a sob she began to cry.
'What's wrong?' I tried asking. 'What..' was what slipped off my lips.
It was probably the most scary moment in my entire life and I - I just didn't know what to do.

She told me the tears she was crying for me were like the tears God uses to cry for the weather. They're just necessary.
She kept smiling while the tears kept falling down from her gracious eyes - oceans of naked emotions. They rolled down, all the way down to her chin, as the waves washed upon the beach and got absorbed by the sand on my hand.
'I really love you, you know.'
-'I.. I do.' I pinched her hand.
'It's just..'
-'What? What is it?'
'I just don't wanna lose you. I would miss you too much.' Another sob.


I woke up next morning to find she'd already left.
And all she left behind, was a note on my desk -

To the most wonderful person I've ever met.

I was so scared of you - you can't even imagine. I was scared of calling you up, talking to you or doing anything with you, really. Oh, I was so scared. You and that horrible perfection of yours. Damn all of it.

The day you were gonna realise how perfect you are, was going to arrive soon anyway. And I just could not wait till that day.
So I'm sorry, but there was no other option left. I could not just wait till the day you were gonna leave me. I could not just.. Well, I couldn't. I'd rather leave myself, with a wonderful last memory of you, than just sit here and wait for you to do it.
I'd rather jump in front of a train with a magnific memory of us, still fresh on my mind - knowing all about our love.. Than jumping in front of that train, due to selfpity.

And now all we were and were not - is written in the clouds.


I loved you..
And I still do.
Forever
& ever more

Yours.



PS: I left you my shoes.
Please don't forget me.




I stood up and burnt the goddamn piece of paper.
I got on a train and with tsunamis gushing out of my eyes, I opened a window. And threw the ash away.
Now all we were and were not - is written in the clouds.


I won't ever forget you.





When I came home, I was exhausted. I went to my room immediately and fell on my bed - I was almost sleeping already.

But then I remembered - I had forgot something.
I looked around in my room and there they were - all shiny and new. She'd put a red ribbon on them and then settled them under my chair. As if they were never used and will never be used, either..
At a stretch I got on my feet and put the shoes on. I sat there, on the ground and I couldn't stop crying.
And that's how I fell asleep that day.
And the day after.

And the day after that.

Coconuts and Rain.

I have decided to post some of my stories.
I'd love to get some feedback on them. Tell me what you like, tell me what you don't like.
Tell me what you want to read next.

Because I actually care.



COCONUTS AND RAIN:

"Baby, look at me. Who would have ever thought that we would be standing here together? I can't even believe it myself.. How many times did I not almost leave you? And how many times did you not almost leave me?? You cannot just forget all that. You cannot just abandon all the work we put into this. You cannot just.." Silence. I tried to stay breathing and keep my heart in my chest. It was as if it was pounding so hard, that it could come out any time soon. I took a deep breath and blinked a couple of tears away. I gulped the lump in my throat down. "You cannot just leave."

He looked at me. Silent tears were streaming down his face. "I'm sorry," he said. One tear dripped off his chin. "I'm so sorry."
And with those words, he turned around and started walking away. My glance followed his back and saw how he turned around and looked back one more time. One time only..

And that's when I let the tears stream down my face. My ears forgot how to hear and couldn't hear all the sobs my body let out, but I could feel my chest humping up and down like crazy. My knees forgot how to carry all of my body weight and so I sank into the floor. My head forgot how to think and there I lay: on the ground, half conscious/half unconscious,- my tears making ripples in the little pool underneath me. If it weren't for the weather, I would've thought it had all come out of my eyes..


I stopped crying and I just thought of everything that had happened.
What... How... It wasn't very productive.
..His hair has the scent of coconuts. He uses this special shampoo, you see. German shampoo. And it smells great. Always when I wake up in the morning, the first thing I do, is sniffing his hair for a bit and then get up to get him some juice. I don't even know whether he likes the juice or not, but he always drinks the glass down till the last drop, which must say something about him, I guess..


When the rain stopped, something inside me snapped. I think I woke up,- literally and figurally. I tried to get up. My head was filled with saw-dust and I couldn't think straight. I don't know for how long I've been crying on the floor there, but it couldn't be less than three hours and a half; except for the streetlamp, some couple of meters ahead, it was almost completely dark.
Whilst walking in the direction of where I supposed my bike should be, I saw him. With his back he leaned against a tree, his head hanging down; as if waiting for something,-
or someone.

And before I could even think of why he stood there and what was best for me to do, I started running. I don't believe I've ever run that fast before, but at least.. It was for a certain purpose. Him. I knew that if I really didn't want to lose him, I had to give it my everything. I had to show him I cared, that I wanted him back. And that I meant it, when I had promised him all those times, that I would never let go of him.
And so I ran and ran. And ran. Till I stood right in front of him. We stood in front of each other and looked each other right in the eye and after a moment or three, he hugged me. He pushed his chest against my chest and I felt his heart beating against mine. Or was it mine against his?


"Baby?" His grip softened, but didn't let go.
"Hmm?" I still wasn't really able to talk, as you lot most probably understand.
"I'm sorry," his voice broke and as I heard, I grabbed him and held him tight.
"I love you," it's ok, I whispered. "I love you."
And as I did so, I sniffed his hair. It didn't smell of coconuts, funny enough. It smelled of rain. It smelled of hair that had been in rain. For a long, long time.





And that was when I knew I loved him.
And that we would be fine.