by Sandy Masia
“No one understands you. They don’t get you. They don’t see you. You are invisible,” tears race down my cheeks as the calling whispered from within. “You don’t deserve anything. You are a freak. A wandering mistake, unlovable, and nothing. Not even the gods who created you can love you. All you give will be taken from you. You will always lose friends and carry this unbearable pain in your soul.”
“Why can’t I be happy?”
“You are incapable of it. How can you even know what is happiness when you do find it if you have never felt it before? You will always be lifeless, lost, and dead inside. Come, come, jump!”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“Your very existence.”
“Will death extinguish it?”
“Come, jump!”
“Will it be painful?” My heart thudded.
“Yessss… sweet explosions of pain. It’s the most beautiful thing. No drug can make you feel that good. This does not have to go on. You must break to become less fractured. “
“Will I go home?”
No answer.
“What is the crop?”
No answer.
“How can I trust you?”
Silence, then it slowly spoke, “Look inside yourself.”
“How do I get to the crop?”
Silence.
“You lie, right? You’re lying,” I bawled, trembling to my loins
Silence.
I picked up the razor blade from the windowsill and started slashing my wrist. That way it would leave me alone for a moment. A moment of strange incomplete and murky peace was worth the trouble, always. The hopelessness and helplessness lingered like drug abuse shame.
Chapter 7
1
Dark sky grumbled above, thrashing us with sweet vomit and turning the world into acid. As green as Scarleton was tonight something was flooding the life in it. It was not the water that raced down from the hills or the rain, carried by the gale that beat down mercilessly. It rendered the streets quiet and desolate, an usual occurrence in a city where Friday nights tremble with drunken commotion and congested with party people. Usually at the time cars boomed with party music roaming the streets, on the sidewalks drunk students chanting various bar songs, cheering girls, rowdy conversations and vendors selling fast-food. It was the peak of freedom, rebellion and victory for these students and they were shredding it to oblivion every chance they got. Their minds and spirits were united in making mayhem. On those nights the streets were bright, too bright. Tonight the streetlights were dead and in the shadows a darkness was lurking, scheming and conspiring. The sky unsuccessfully trying to hold in the rage and menace. Malevolence residing in the alleys, chilling. Eye balls quivered and darted their glances about, apprehensive.
“She sends you here and you are here,” Macfearson said, his face still frigid with disbelief and protest. “Gosh, Mac, how did it come to this?”
“It’s a smoking lifeling fest in there,” Macxermillio said, sounding the least confident about our assigned task compared to before when we were not standing in front of the bar.
Sounds of revelry were buzzing out the bar. That musk of friends, hook-ups, cougars, girlfriends, students, sex, flirting, conversations, jokes and rejection. All the overwhelming and disconcerting things to a deathling’s ears. A racket.
“Guys I am the one getting drenched here can we go in please?” I ignored them.
“Oh, that’s what you get for being a whiny little pretend-to-be lifeling,” said Macfearson.
“Sandy, all of the bullshit going on in there hates us. Even if we were a good band, or famous you know they won’t like us. We do not belong in their world and they don’t even appreciate our existence. They call you a freak because of us. We are you and you are us but they do not see that. They are perfectly human but we are not,” Macxermillio said, staring down at me, pleading. It became more apparent to me, although I always knew, how half-heartedly he was doing all of this. Macxermillio, always easy to compromise within reason. I couldn’t count the times his brain and his heart were on lockdown. Like all things strong and hard that ability withered with time.
I gazed at him and I knew what he meant. We were never really part of the normal. Found my gaze shifting to their long cotton trench coats, for a time amazed by the fact they were so dry, untouched by the rain. As I shifted my focus I could see the rain curling around their bodies before contact as if repelled by a layer of energy.
“Guys, let’s just do this?” I begged. “It will be good. It might just work.” I was trying to convince myself and it showed in how hollow my tone was.
The place had the worst nausea-inducing smell of them all, and that was the smell of superficiality. Superficiality meant hypocrisy, deceit, silent rejection and humiliation. How do you read a visage when it is constantly masked? How do you read the signs? Even with those sharp eyes we were like Oedipus.
“I don’t see it. Feels like a waste of life to me,” Macfearson downheartedly replied. Jaws clenching. A mixture of distaste and anger radiated from him either at the prospect or at me. It was hard to tell.
“How is this meant to help? Did you at least ask her that?” Macxermillio asked, the conviction that the whole task was futile shamelessly displayed.
“Like we haven’t tried people before,” Macfearson added. “Did we grow up in the wild here or something? Why are we here? With them?” he pointed towards the bar. He sighed then added. “We are enough.”
I sighed, dropped my shoulders almost oblivious to how hard the rain was bashing me. “I don’t know guys,” my voice came out strained, tears forming in my eyes. “Maybe it is a test to see if we are truly who we say we are.”
This was becoming that moment where desperation produced belief even in the most unintelligible things. I so wanted that to be truth, hopelessly hoping. Possible because the mind has a way of fooling itself especially when the heart is involved, situations turn dire because that bastard beating heart is stubborn to change. So stubborn that it won’t stop beating even when stopping would reduce suffering and the benefits of living were outweighed by those of death. Is the heart a foolish thing? It seems that way, but then how things seem and how things actually are is totally different.
“Fuckin’ Jesus! Are you crying?” Macferson asked, frustrated with me. He went on to vent under his breath.
“I’m not conforming to their sinister ways. I want whatever this is to be honest and pure,” Macxermillio said.
“Macfearson, do you have that sword on you?” I asked.
“Yes. Why?” He frowned.
“Why bring it here?” I asked, puzzled.
“Why bring me here?” he replied. As I opened my mouth to protest, he grunted, “You are a dirty motherfucker. A cunning bastard with no gratitude.”
I could only stare. Made quiet by where the insults and accusations could escalate.
He added, “Some people just don’t deserve to live and I am god enough in this world to decide that.”
Macxermillio and Macfearson were never conventional. Collars of their thick ashy trench coats were elevated like Mount Etna. Macfearson’s hair long and white like a wizard’s, they were just in their late twenties but the scar that straddled Macxermillio’s left cheek to his right eyebrow was there since life began to slip. How many souls had they claimed?
2
Once a door is opened nothing can ever change the fact that it has been opened. A time traveller can come and undo it but nothing changes the fact it had been opened. The cosmos is carved with trails of unfinished and abandoned paths, these truths are information and instances that can never be erased. That within this universe, from subjective point of view, from a view that is disturbingly ignorant (by nature not by choice) nothing we do leaves trails behind if we decide to undo it. Nothing said can be taken back, nothing done can be undone but something broken can be fixed while something dead cannot be. To say it simply, there is no such thing as turning back…no such thing as repressed
memories either. As we warily stood by door of the bar, awaiting a never coming sign to enter, we knew this fact. Everything is permanent. The heart of Scarleton resided in this bar and that was not good thing. I was cold and soaked but they were dry and warm. That alone served as an incentive to enter.
“It’s never too late to change your mind, Sandy,” Macxermillio murmured. His face saturated in sentiment.
“It seems like if she wanted you would kill us.,” Macfearson moaned his heart out.
“How can I kill a part of me?” I said.
“You are suicidal, that’s how.”
“Why are you so threatened by this? I am not changing into something else different! There is something she expects us to learn here,” I promised and the promises I made to myself I kept and there were no exceptions.
“They say it’s small steps, Sandz. This sure looks like one of those.” Macfearson sighed. “Fuck, I have never seen you like this. Is there something she told you that you are not telling us?”.
“Of course not,” I lied, squirming inside so that it does not show. It was maybe too late to try hiding that I am lying, because the words had already came out my mouth without any proper execution for the illusion of truth and confidence.
Macfearson stared at me for a while, quite incredulous. His eyes surveyed my face and eyes for cracks, that is all a person with eyes as sharp as his only needed to peek in the inside. He knew how to read another deathling more than anyone else. Then he said, “Okay, let’s go in.” His eyes fixed on me, clearly conveying he will be watching me and the fact he is agreeing to this is no sign that he believed me; but , ‘hey, let’s be civil and patient about these things’ (not because I, Macfearson, am a patient person but because I have so much confidence in my abilities that I know it won’t take long to know something is wrong). An observant fellow he was.
I nodded to this challenge disguised as a sudden ease and agreement.
We ambled in like an animated searchlight tower jumping into the deep, uncertain in its ability to float and remain above water or find what it seeks in the immense dark ocean among a million creatures. Risking being lost and crushed under the weight of the overwhelmingly vast waters, the volume of them immeasurable.
“Nobody notices us. It’s as if we didn’t just walk in,” Macfeaqrson said, scanning the room.
“We’re just dead to them. But we were always dead since the beginning. What is it any way about life that’s worth having. It’s just empty and nothing is good…I bet that death is sweeter. Just not being able to feel anything and forget that you were. I hate these people,” Macxermillio said.
“Macx, it doesn’t feel so sweet from where I’m standing,” Macfearson sarcastically said.
“Look how happy they look, it’s as if they are dead,” Macxermillio said. “Sandy, do you know what exactly we are to look for here?”
I replied, “From what I gather we just have to interact and things will work themselves out.”
“We’ve never been good at that,” Macxermillio said.
“I thought we might pay someone.”
Genuine happiness is like light, there is no denying its presence and how annoyingly bright it is. Music set the norm and conduct, weaving the social atmosphere and attitude. For us, an unsurprisingly hostile atmosphere. Kisses for love, hugs for acceptance, smiles for pleasure and games for belonging. We stood there resentful of their happiness. Something was eerily ritualistic about it.
“Hi!” Called a blonde girl through her conniving superficial smile. Running her delicate fingers through her wavy shiny hair, chin cocked back she transfixed me with her ravish glance. That is when the tides of her perfume started rolling in. I assumed she had run down the stairs from the second floor. She was a presence, whether of worry or delight was hard to tell then. In an arbitrary sense she was repelling, maybe because I sensed her expectations and standards. Too lifeling for me to live up to, which did not bother me.
Superficiality meant that an elusive door of opportunity was open but at the same time that I was a possible victim of deceit or manipulation. Illusions are not real, that is the very fundamental feature about them including that they swindle one’s consciousness and mental faculties to doom. And beauty also is a kind of an illusion, although real, it makes you susceptible to repeating and making the same old mistakes. The irresistible mirage of the soul.
“Hey,” I softly replied. She had to read my lips. It showed in her eyes and in how her smile faltered at how disappointing that had been.
Her smile gradually came back on, forced and hollow. “Kim”
I shook her hand, limp and fragile to touch. “Sandy.”
“How long have you been waiting here?”
“Um…two minutes at best.” I was uncertain, all felt foreign and forlorn. Even if her hands were driven by a veritable need to help the situation was hopeless. I tried to convey the opposite of what I felt for the sake of deceiving Macreason the hawk (maybe myself more than anything).
“I moved from the bar upstairs because the service was slow. Hope it is not the same with this one,” she told me, as I gave her the disquieting cold and empty stare. Inadequacy of my social skills demotivated me, the over-sensitiveness making it even more harder to say anything.
Useful information, I thought, an unpredictable and seemingly random thought.
I grinned, my eyes gliding up her cascading hair to her green eyes. “Can I get you something?”
She smiled and sized me with her eyes, rejection stinging from her glance(not at all unexpected, I never measured up anyway). “Um…no I got it,” She said shifting her focus to the bar, a nudge and a fuck-you of a kind.
“She is actually thinking that you wanna screw her tonight,” Macfearson whispered into my ears, sending a chill down my spine. “I thought she would fall for the black guy big cock thing. Maybe give you a chance?”
“In this case, Sandy, you are just not tall enough, I guess,” Macxermillio said.
They were right, at least I believed.
I blurted. “I will give you a fifty if you spend thirty minutes with me.”
Startled she shifted he attention back, clearly the wrong idea was on her mind.
I reconstructed my word, “I just wanna talk at that table over there…that’s all I want. You just seem like a nice person.”
Her face was smeared with bewilderment and suspicion. She must have thought it was weird and strange, but for a half-drunk girl she didn’t think of it as weird as she might have if she were sober. I craved to talk with her, have a conversation that is naturally intimate and close to heart. I had been lonely for a long time.
3
“Thank God I got myself a boob-saver tonight!” said Kim.
“Boob-saver?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah you know, I now have fifty bucks for my mouth instead of showing a guy my bobs for a fifty” she shrugged with a pout.
I stared down at her boobs, quite tantalizing they were. “They’re good I see no reason why a guy wouldn’t do so.”
“You think? Wanna have a look?”
“No thanks,” I said at first but thinking it might upset her I afterwards agreed reluctantly. Life is not a film and we should not try making it one, this situation was beginning to be more like one. Not exciting for me nonetheless. As far as I was concerned this did not feel worth the tears I spared in the therapy session.
What am I supposed to get from this creature of great and maybe underserved bliss?
She giggled, gazed at me contemplatively ,or so it seemed to me. “Why did you say no at first?”
I sighed. “I have general respect for women I would say.”
“Ah, nice guy, I see. Says a lot.” She nodded tentatively, eyes on the floor.
“Like what?”
“Why you’re lonely and desperate.” She sounded bemused.
Desperate and lonely but not for the reasons you confer.
“Ah. I see.”
“Wanna get laid?”
She twittered. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“How much you are willing to pay.”
“So there is a price,” I paused. “I don’t do this kind of a thing.”
“I will pretend like I have never heard that one.”
“That is modest of you. Why do you think men say that?”
“They care what I think of them,” she shrugged.
“Fifty for your boobs. Another fifty for a blow job. Another one for penetration and another fifty for anal?”
“Two hundred and fifty!”
“What’s the other fifty for?”
“For the time.”
“Okay.” I nodded.
“So your place or the bathroom or my place?”
I frowned. “No…um I just wanna…wanna talk.”
“You don’t sound so sure?” she smirked coyly.
“You are hard to resist I will not lie.” I flattered her.
She held my hand and brushed my shoulder from across the table, her lush breasts my eyes’ prize. “I will make your night, honey heart,” she whispered seductively. Her voice was truly suitable for phone sex. I was salivating, not because of the orthodox sexual trappings.
Macfearson nudged me. “Fuck her like a whore!” All sarcastic.
Macxermillio whispered, “Is this truly what you need, or what will make you any better? Is this what the whole trip was about?”
“If the world wants to fuck, I say fuck it,” Macfearson said.
“Fearson, how can this be helpful?” Macxermillio said.
I gulped and leaned back.
“Fuck me!” she said it like a pornstar would. Every man dreamed of fucking one once in a lifetime at least.
I looked around to check if anyone was looking or if anyone on the table nearby could hear.
“I won’t lie…I really want to,” I said. Rage in my pants and a storm in my mind. Not of the orthodox appetite.