Drapery

Her hair thoughtfully played in the wind while her legs carried the rest of her across the crowded balcony. The breeze tugged at her black cardigan and she thought about him, more than she wanted to, wishing the wind had his fingertips, or carried his scent. The doors to the balcony were swung wide open, and the off-white drapes flapped around, filling the party with a soothing sound that carried through the room and down the hall to the elevators. She pushed through the faces and made her way back inside. She loved being outside, but she was chain-smoking and she knew exactly why. Everyone admired the dress under her sweater, making motions and passing comments as she slowly moved past them. They all told her how beautiful she looked, and how she should feel beautiful in such a dress. She wanted to feel as glamourous as they painted her out to be, but he wasn't there, so she had no reason to. In fact, she felt invisible. She felt like she was drowning in false flattery and cheap attempts to be made a plaything, and all she wanted was to be alone. She followed the sound of the curtains down the hall to the elevators, and called for one. 

The sign was pretty clear, but she didn't care. She lit her cigarette anyway, blowing smoke rings at every floor she passed. She was tired. Tired of the bullshit hotel wall colors, tired of the bullshit people that passed themselves off as loving friends. She was tired of the over-lit rooms and the perfect we-just-cleaned-this smell. She was tired of keycards, and tired of her dress, tired of the shoes and makeup that she would never use again. She was tired of the lifeless night, and how the party sucked the beauty right out of the sky. Most of all, she was tired of pretending that she didn't care; pretending that she would never grow tired of her facade. She walked out of the elevator, leaving her smoke behind, and hastily made her way to her room, throwing her heels halfway down the hall. She slid the keycard in the door and missed sex instantly. The door slammed closed behind her; the bent keycard at the foot of its frame. she picked up the phone and waited for it to ring, she didn't even have time to listen for a dial tone.

"Hello?"

"I love you."

"Hey! What time is it there?"

"Can you come home?"

"...okay. I'll wake you up for breakfast in the morning."

She has a way with Words

I fell in love with schizophrenia. Wait, that's not right. She's not crazy (though she is about certain things) but her moods swing just like children do at the public park; carelessly and somewhat lazily, without worry or fear. I fell in love with the erratic behavior, and the unexpected confessions. I fell in love with the schizophrenia. Maybe I'd have gone in with a bottle of pills, or a whole lot of grass, any sort of battle-weapon to prepare me. I didn't though. I fell alone, and hit rock bottom like a feather hits a hot amber. I let it consume me because the pain got me off; it still does. I didn't care then and I don't feel much differently now. But I'm comfortable here. I think she swings wildly because she needs someone to grab her; because she needs to be held, and calmed, until the next big rush. She knows I could never have enough, so she feeds it to me because I've been starved. She loves the control, and I love the taste of blood and sweat. We all gotta start somewhere right? I've tasted warmth, and love, too, though. But of course she's capable of both, she swings where she pleases; I push when she asks.

Something, That Feeling (pt. 2)

The truth is... my grandfather isn't a moron. I made him out to be one simply because I couldn't properly describe my state of mind otherwise. His lack of civility was not nearly as dramatic as I had made it. In fact, he was quite warm, and comforting. He knew I didn't mean what I had said. I stand corrected: he knew it wasn't directed at him, but he knew I meant every word. After I left him I walked to the deli at the excuse for a corner. I hated New Jersey because it was either all highways, or back roads that hadn't seen asphalt in years. In other words, you would either be hit by a car, and killed, or nudged in the leg and sue. What a place. It didn't take me long to cross the highway, but then again I wasn't really too concerned with being killed. I was hardly in the mood for caring about much at all. The deli was nothing I expected; the guy at the counter was white, but maybe that's the norm in South Jersey. None of this has much to do with anything. The point I want to, eventually, make is that the walk to the store and back is a blur to me. That entire day is just a mess of cigarettes, tissues, and God and his people. I couldn't tell you who I spoke to, if they had cried, what time I left, or why I said yes to being a pallbearer. I do remember the conversation with him though. I remember that as clear as day. I couldn't figure out why I remembered it, but I did. My younger cousins wouldn't leave me time to think about it. I will always be the oldest, though, so that will always be my place. At some point my father, who was slowly retiring from being the one to hold himself together, glanced at me. It may have happened quickly, it may not have, I don't remember. In either case, he glanced, and then nodded. It wasn't a 'how you holding up nod,' or an 'almost time to leave' nod. He nodded because he knew I had settled in my place; grown into my shoes. He approved. I'm not sure where I'm going with this, but my grandfather listened, and understood, and my father approved. 

It was an odd day. I remember feeling bad, but not for anyone's loss. I felt bad because I didn't feel anything. I wasn't sad, I wasn't confused, alone, brokenhearted, nothing. I've been in that situation more than once, and I always wondered if it had anything to do with my father, with the 'martyrdom,' as it were. 

"That's it." I said it aloud, right as people were paying their respects - funny how we were all brought to our knees, yet had no common ground to kneel on - without concern or consideration. The guests glanced over, but my father still approved; he once had shoes to fill as well. It made me feel slightly better, and if not better then something. Something was good enough for me.

"Jason, are you alright?" That was two, and it had only been an hour or so. I hate these 'functions.' 

"Yea I'm just fine. Listen I... I need a cigarette."

"Aren't you going to pay your respects."

"I'll let someone else take my spot in line, you know, keeping with the martyrdom and whatnot." She had no idea what I was talking about. No one did. No one could have...

Bright Lights and Admirations

I was brought to my knees as she laid there lifelessly. I started thinking about all the things that had been take away from me, wondering if it was okay to feel cheated; to feel remorse and sadness. I had taught myself not to a long time ago. I don't know why, it was just a reaction I guess. I couldn't shake the "poor me" feeling that was glued to every inch of my insides. I could hear my father saying "stop being such a martyr" and wondered if that's all there was to it. He was right. There was no reason to wallow in sadness and angst, so I didn't. I unbuttoned my suit jacket because I'm convinced I look good with my hands in my pockets and the tails drawn back. I walked outside. I don't know why, it was just a reaction. Some people are allergic to fish, and I'm allergic to caskets. That's just how it is. I started chain-smoking, but I didn't notice. I had it pointed out for me.

"You okay?"

"What a dumb fucking question. I mean, are you okay? Forget that. Do you really think 'are you okay' is an appropriate question?" I nearly bit my tongue off. I hadn't felt that angry in a long time, but for some reason I was filled with vile, putrid, rage. And I had nowhere to put it. "Listen, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Yes you did. It's okay, though. You're a pro at this, I'd imagine you've been asked that a lot."

"Nothing to be proud of."

"You know the entire family looks up to you." 

"Yea that was a nice thought but it doesn't work like that."

"No I'm serious! They all really do! They all wish they could keep their composure like you do. You don't break down, you don't cry even when people are crying on you for you! And they all admire you for it."

"You know what, man?"

"..."

"I'm pretty young, but I'm not new to this. I'm really fucking thrilled that they all think I'm awesome because they can't hold themselves together. But this isn't it. This is far from the surface. Everyone in that room...you know what, forget it."

"No go ahead, please. I want to be here for you."

"Oh my god! Please just stop! 'I want to be here for you'? Are you kidding me?" He didn't say anything. He looked terrified. I felt terrible, like I had just brought someone into my hell of an existence. "Look, I admire what you're trying to do, I really do, but the reason I'm so good at these things is because no one else is. I don't like my part, but I play it as well as I know how. Just...just don't ever be me, please?"

"I'd never want to." I smiled.

"Glad you understand. Good talk." I left it at that. I walked past the parking lot, past the hearse, and up the street, stabbing at the daemons with a lit cigarette and a grin.

I used to do this with words. I'd press a few keys, and I'd get something out of it. Eventually words would start flowing and swaying. They would find the mood and cling to it; grab on for dear fucking life, but not nearly as violently. That's how it used to be. I don't move so swiftly anymore. My knuckles should be crusted with dirt, rust, and age but they're not. They're still slick. 

Maybe the words are still there but they sound different. Maybe the thoughts have changed, the ideas, the fucking inspiration, the sounds of the clicking and kicking, the lights on the screen, the god damned fucking controls, the music, the fucking ear wrecking, bass screaming music! 

Wait whoa...wasn't I talking about writing?

Wind and Sails

She was just standing there, doing nothing. Nothing at all. She kept burning her hair on the end of her cigarette. I remember because I noted how long it was. I had a thing for long brown hair. I thought about talking to her. I thought about it a lot. My stomach shook so hard I couldn't keep my hands steady. "I'll just ask her for a light," I mumbled to myself. I tried to get a cigarette out of my pack, but I snapped it in half. I was a mess, and she was still doing nothing. The breeze seduced her hair, while the sun warmed her slowly. I couldn't watch, so I blacked it out. I was already walking, but I remember my line. Her eyes followed mine the whole way. She knew. 

"Hi, I'm Alex."

"Hi Alex, I'm Kayla."

"I mean, wait what...?"

"I said hi." And she smiled.