Dream

Musik: One After 909 - The Beatles
Klieden: Blue checkered blouse, demin skirt, footless tights and spotty socks
Filme: ...
Buchen: The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne

So, I wrote this short piece about a dream I had. I wouldn't post it, only it was pretty interesting. I hope nobody tries to phycho-analyse me on the basis of this. It was just a dream; the residue of a partially functioning brain.

It is pristine, perfectly white and clear. Everything has been sterilized and is sharp and clean. The surfaces shine dully; industrial steel. The instruments sparkle invitingly, whispering conspiratorially to one another. There will be blood, they say, and we shall partake in the blood. It shall stain us and will become irreversible just as every other stain becomes of us. The room is quiet until she enters it, with her starch white uniform and bleached hair. Her being is soft compared to the room. She cannot hear a thing and it is deafening her.

The tap does not drip. There is no water in the basin; it is dry like everything else. She wets her lips before venturing to turn the tap on. The water blasts suddenly onto her hands, a veritable tidal wave of motion amongst the stillness. For a few seconds nothing seems out of the ordinary. When she realises, she cries out and the sound is so quiet as to be imperceptible.

As the water hits her hands, she recognises, the skin appears to disintegrate – exposing the blood and muscle beneath. The blood-stained bones poke out beneath the pink, meaty sinews and pulsing veins. And yet…she can feel no pain. She stares, morbidly fascinated by the sensation. Her blood washes into the sink, circling the drain darkly.

Almost as though coming to her senses she quickly turns off the fast-flowing jet of water. Her hands remain in their sinewy state, although still without pain. But the blood is dripping and dripping. It will not stop. She stares and stares. It will not stop. She wraps her hands in the bandages beside the instrument. Still, it will not stop. Soon there is a pool of blood leaking across the pristine surface. The instruments sigh as it reaches them. It stops.

Killer

This is my second post today, although technically not since it's past midnight. I wrote this story off the cuff a little earlier, but it turned out pretty well so I decided to post it. It's about a serial killer. I just fancied a change from all the cheerful stuff I usually write.

I’m staring at you, but you’re so deeply asleep that you don’t notice; don’t even flinch as my eyes attempt to read your soul. Your breathing is deep and regular, your long eyelashes drip onto your cheeks and there is a strand of hair falling across your face. The rest of your mane of dark curls falls across the pillow behind you, covering it almost entirely. In your sleep you’ve thrown the duvet to one side so that I can see your naked form perfectly. Your skin is remarkably flawless, soft and milky white. You bundle your arms up to your chest, curling up into an almost foetal position, though one leg stretches out whilst the other bends up slightly. I can see the pattern of your ribs, the bluish tinge of your veins through your skin. Could you be any more perfect? I push the hair back from your face, and you flex your eyebrows a little in reaction but remain deeply within your slumber.

I should go. One more minute. I want to imprint this upon my memory forever. The girl I did not kill. Could not bear to. Or else, I wouldn’t bear it.

But why? You started out much like the others. We met within the throbbing beats and over-indulgent alcohol sales.

“Can I buy you a drink?”
“I don’t know, can you?”
“Certainly. What would you like?”
“Whisky,”
“What type?”
“What?”
“Type?”
“Do they even sell whisky here?”
“I’d expect the cheap variety, yes,”
“I fucking hate whisky,”
“Then why drink it?”
“It has this thing called a ‘high alcoholic percentage’,”
“I see. If that’s what you want then I’d recommend Jack Daniels,”
“I hate that even more. What’s your name?”
“It’s Archie,”
“Cute. You know something, Archie?”
“A few things. What in particular?”
“You’re kind of beautiful,”

Nobody had ever said that to me before. Not in so many words. I’d had; handsome, attractive, fit, buff all of the inane sayings that girls like you have. But you weren’t like them. I hadn’t noticed under the coloured lights just how pale you were; the way you were dressed like them, but at the same time not at all like them. You wore heels and a dress but if one looked closely one could see that the dress bore the words ‘Born To Kill’, which I almost dared to hope was a Kubrick reference.

You let me buy you that god-damn whisky, but you didn’t try to make awkward conversation over the hopelessly loud shit-fest that was supposed to be called ‘music’. You danced. But I had never seen anyone dance in this way; like it had no meaning other than to serve your own needs. You weren’t putting on a show, but somehow this made you all the more attractive. The heart I often forget I possess started fluttering like a startled caged bird, like a thirteen year old with a crush. This was swiftly followed with a cold dose of fear. What on earth were you doing to me? This was not allowed. I would not let you get away with this. And that is when I decided you were to die; like the others.

The first time it happened it was an accident. The second time I meant it. My tally is up to six girls. You were to be number seven; but I guess you were lucky.

You let me lead you quietly away from the club.
“We’re going home?”
“Yes…we?”
“I’m coming with you?”
“Of course,”
“I hope you know that I don’t normally do this,”
“I do now,”
“What do you want to do…once we’re there, I mean?”

You asked the question with large, mockingly innocent eyes. I smiled at the joke and kissed you softly on the lips. It was so affectionate that even I was taken aback. This act seemed so jarringly out of character that I did it again, just to ensure that it had actually occurred. Sure enough I felt your lips on my own and my face turned red, my pulse racing from the simplest touch.

In the taxi you held my hand, like a school girl holds hands with her sweetheart. I let you. That is when I knew that something was most definitely, horribly wrong.

When you walked into my apartment you went straight to the bedroom. There was no pretence of other intentions. I undressed you slowly, taking my time to discover every inch of you. Your beauty took my breath away. I forgot to question how I was feeling, entirely lost in you. Your sweet scent, how the skin on your neck tasted, the soft moans of pleasure you made when I touched you. Everything was slow, careful yet so intense that I felt the most amazing, earth-shattering joy I had ever experienced. No-one else had ever made me feel this way. It wasn’t right.

“Can I stay here?”
“Yes,”
“Thank you,”

We both lay awake for a while. Words were unnecessary as we had just experienced one another so intimately that there was nothing more to be communicated. Eventually, you fell asleep.

I am still staring at you, thinking of this. Thinking of how, if you were someone else, I would have taken the pillow beside me and smothered you until the last breath left your body. How I would have stared at your corpse a while before placing it in a bed of lily’s atop the coffins I kept especially for these occasions. I would have admired your beauty in death before burying you deep within the garden plot. I would have placed an angel gravestone there because I never knew your name. Then, I would cry for you just as I cried for the others. But you had to die, I would have reasoned, because otherwise I would have to die. It was them or it was me. So far, it had always been them. But I can’t even comprehend seeing your corpse.

So, what do I do? I know it. I know what I must do, but I am frightened. I am weak. What is most painless? I have no gun, no dagger. Ah, but I do live on the thirteenth floor. The window, of course how could I have been so stupid? The window; the oblivion. I open the door to the balcony as quietly as I can, so as not to wake you.

It is so cold, but I suppose that doesn’t matter too much. I clamber over the railing, holding on whilst leaning over and staring at the street below. I know the fall will kill me. It is my intention to die. Just let go. Let go. Why will my hands not obey? I’m crying, I realise. I close my eyes; brace myself and then relax my hold without thinking of the consequences. A fast, falling sensation…

Ready

Musik: Anywhere - Evanescence
Klieden: PJs, not gonna lie
Filme: The Shining (Kubrick) - yes, again
Buchen: Any of the numerous critical essays I have to read...

I've been reading a bit of Wordsworth recently, so this poem was kind of inspired by that. The idea of using normal, everyday language and putting oneself in the position of the average man (or woman). I'm not sure if I agree with Wordsworth, but I'm experimenting nonetheless. It's called Ready.

I am ready.
A sticky kitchen floor,
Plates piled high, rotting food, cans and bottles,
Fluorescent strobe lighting,
Damaged, moth-eaten sofa,
Photographs of ungainly youths,
Faces plastered to each door.
Stained clothes corrode the carpets,
Unmade beds from the night before,
Mismatched décor, personal and impersonal,
Solitary latrine, laughing darkly,
Bugs in the shower,
Sopping wet towels from leaks…
My home.

Yes, I am ready.
My high heels peel off the floor,
As we walk out the door.
Tonight I am not dressed so much as displayed for all to see.
Long legs ending in a point,
Breasts pushed up from under my tiny dress,
Face covered, a virtual art exhibition.
I hobble to the place I ought to be,
Am presently, pleasantly met with a throbbing vibration;
I let it flow through my body, let the beat carry me,
Along with a few cheap vodka shots.
Soon my mind is racing, heart beating ten to dozen,
Here, the floor is sticky, too.
Flashing epileptic lights,
A thousand sardines all crushed into a can,
So hot all you can do is keep on, keeping on.

He’s rubbing up against me
But I’m too far gone to care all that much.
He buys me some cheap shit, very alcoholic
Which I down with a grimace.
Still, he won’t let go,
Movies his face close to mine
And I let our lips touch
Because yesterday I saw my One True Love
Give it up to some jumped up slag.
This is revenge.
On that note, I follow as he leads me from the room,
I’m not ready;
But I know what to do.
Only, everything’s so different with him…
I whimper as his fingers roam
And I get no pleasure, only pain,
Try to make him stop
But I’ve gone too far.
His breath is ragged, close to my ear,
Stinks of tobacco and green,
Hands are rough, coarse,
Tugging at my dress,
How am I lying down?

It’s so dark, but he is everywhere,
Invading my every sense.
My brain won’t function, can’t think straight
God, he’s not even using a condom.
Bastard’s going to knock me up.
Oh, it hurts so much when you’re dry and scared!
Let it stop, let it be over
He’s so heavy,
Didn’t look so heavy
I lie back, try to think of better things;
The One I Love.
But that only makes me cry.
Seems like forever,
But he finishes.

I turn over, can’t even speak
Want to die,
Make-up running like some tortured clown,
Dress God-knows where,
Need to get home,
Cannot move,
Crawl slowly off the bed
And I perceive that he is gone.

Now I am alone.

The cold light flickers on:
Shit, my own room.
At least now I can give into it.
I curl up, foetal
Howl like a new-born.

I am ready.
But the only thing I feel ready for now is the end.
They’re here, they’re back;
My flatmates.
Can hear their laughing, jeering
Drunken singing
Smell the stench of sweat and urine,
Don’t ever want to meet their eyes again.
They can never know.
With one final sniff I lock this up inside.
Stumble over to my desk, wipe the crap off my face, brush my hair,
Pull on soft cotton pyjamas and pad into the kitchen.
Sticky floor on bare feet,
Cups of tasteless tea.
Listen as they recount the stories,
Speak none of my own.
Now, I’m ready again.

Missing

Musik: Polly - Nirvana
Klieden: Pinafore type dress with tartan shirt attached underneath and black tights
Filme: Ed Wood (Burton)
Buchen: The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky

I hope you like my new profile picture. It's from Halloween; I dressed up like a doll. I thought it'd make a good picture to accompany my blogs.

This is a poem called Missing.

It is not like before,
When the waves were beating against the shore;
It is not like that anymore.
The wind used to call and call-
Till it would cause a brawl,
Amongst the leaves and trees tall,
That were listening in;
Before it would even begin,
To make me grin,
Make me cry at my own sin.
It will not be like that again.
For now it is winter, it is snowing.
Once I was burning, now I am but glowing.
The waters are eerily calm,
They are soft now; they do me no harm.
Flakes falling from the sky muffle the land,
I leave footprints wherever I stand,
But they are instantly filled
My will has been killed.
Should I recognise this strange place?
When I don’t recognise my own face?
There is nothing wrong with me;
My eyes still work; I can still see.
But no whispers, no-
Ragged corpses, dazzling angels, no-
Nobody to talk to anymore.
I am alone now,
I don’t know how.
Let me weep,
But I cannot make even a peep.
It is not like before.
It is not like that anymore.