I Told Him

I told him. Didn’t I tell him. You know. Of how it would be. Not how it was. I swear I told him. I might’ve told him. I’m sure I told him. Though if I didn’t tell him I’ll… no, I told him, I told him.

 

Sitting next to me, he clutched at his knees while muttering. Thoughts like a merry-go-round, but less a merry- than a confusion-. Muddle. Muddle-go-round. I mentioned it to him, though he didn’t actually respond. Just kept on sitting on my pillow. As he did. All the time. I said this too. I told him how it annoyed me now, but he was too occupied to move. So I moved. Rooms.

Because of the way it’s laid out, his room wasn’t more than a few steps down the way from mine. Same look, of course. The white grime on the walls. I just wanted some sleep and I couldn’t very well sleep with thighs on my pillow. I lay on his, looking at the white grime. The walls weren’t white by origin. Cream paint thinly over cinder blocks. Cinder blocks that seemed to trap cold air between them, so lying with your back to them was the only way to preserve any body heat. You had to curl into a ball with your hands between your legs some nights, just to keep circulation. It was harder to do on his bed. I’d worked myself a little rut-hole in mine, the mattress suited my shape now.

 

If only he’d get off my pillow.

 

I stood again and moved back to my room. I was going to sleep on my bed tonight. It’d been two days. And they didn’t care if people swapped rooms. They only cared that there was one person per room. They’d do a little walk around, not really caring to notice if the room number matched the person in it’s number. As long as it was one per room, and all rooms were occupied.

So I stood in front of him.

 

It wasn’t me, it was him, I told him. But he didn’t listen. Not my fault. Not my fault.

 

Crazy words. Still going round and round. Yoyo head now. Because with each syllable his head was going down, then up, then down, then up again. I told him to move. I liked him. But not enough.

 

Can you move?

 

What, why. I’m not done. That’s what I said. I’m done. I’m completely done. I told him, I swear. But he didn’t listen. I just… did it. I said I would. I told him I was done.

 

Can you. Move? Now. I want to sleep. I want to sleep now.

 

Oh, God.

 

He wasn’t about to move. For anyone. So I walked out of my room again. Not defeated, just thinking. I was about three storeys up. One below me, another below that, then the ground a long way down from that. If you walk out any of these rooms you see the big space they can look down and watch. Communal area, for walking around, policed from above and the sides. It was a bit calming to watch how far I was above everything else. If I looked up I could see the floor above mine, then the ceiling. Complete with cream-painted metal beams. To support the ceiling. All metal. One barred skylight. Nothing in particular. To stop anyone breaking it, I suppose.

I tapped my fingernails on the bars I was leaning against. I wanted to sleep. Every muscle was telling me to sleep now. I could try to sleep in his room but it was too cold. And the bed didn’t fit me. At all. And I could try to wait until he left but I was already annoyed. I wanted a few minutes on my own before they’d come and lock the doors.

 

I walked back in.

 

Can you get out please. I want to sleep.

 

Can you get out, I’m not done.

 

Yeah well. I’m done.

 

So I grabbed his shoulders. Stepped back and pulled him up. Or tried that but his knees were still bent and he fell on to his side on the floor as I let him go. But he offered no resistance. Probably a little surprised his friend was forcing him out the room.

 

I told you, I wanted to sleep.

 

No but I.

 

I wasn’t really listening. I just took his arm again, but this time he got to his feet. Muscle was there now, he was something. That was okay. I didn’t mind. I was still angrier. I walked backwards with him near me, hands pushing weakly at me. Not wanting a fight to start. But still.

I got him out my room, and went to push him back into his, a few steps away. He kept pushing at me. Palms on my chest. It wasn’t really okay, I didn’t really like it. I shook my head at him, told him again to leave me alone in my room. Not to come in again.

 

But it’s my room.

 

No, that’s your room. Behind you.

 

That’s not my room. That was my room.

 

So I pushed him again. To make him let go of me, which he did. And I moved and he followed me, keeping his hands up to push me. But I pushed him again from a different angle. And he didn’t try to push me anymore.

 

I went back to my room. To prove myself, I sat on my pillow, where he’d been sitting. I could already hear something happening from beyond my cinderblock walls but I didn’t mind now. I had my pillow and my bed back. All that off-white. My pillow. Sort of lilac but not quite. Lilac that was ill and pale.

I felt my own head spin for a minute. Put it down to sleeplessness. He’d been in my room for fifteen minutes before I’d got him out now. Very irritating.

 

I folded my knees up to my chest to keep out the cold as I rested my thighs on my pillow. Picked at a loose thread on my trouser knee. It came off. Left a slight hole.

 

Oi.

 

I looked up. Someone standing there in my way, in the way of my thinking. I kept my hands on my knees calmly.

 

I saw what you just did. C’mon. Up. Off the bed. It’s not yours. Anymore. Not now you did that.

 

I blinked a little. Dressed like me, was he, the man in front of me. I opened my mouth.

 

I told him. Didn’t I tell him. You know. Of how it would be. Not how it was. I swear I told him. I might’ve told him. I’m sure I told him. Though if I didn’t tell him I’ll… no, I told him, I told him.

The Lies We Tell Ourselves

I am a worthwhile human being.

No you’re not. You ignore your own problems and other people’s. What you think you do to help people is no more than a meaningless and empty statement. There is always something else on your mind than what you should be doing, or what you are doing. You cannot set yourself on anything. Any ideal is never good enough. More is always yearned for. You berate people and you don’t realise it. You’re not worthwhile.

• People want to help me if I’m in trouble.

No they don’t. The people you think care about you don’t care nearly as much as you think they do. Your problems are yours and yours alone. Sure, you can talk about it all you want. But, in the end, no one will come to your aid if you tell anyone you’re going to end yourself. They might offer a kind word or a plea, but that’s what people do. They want to feel good about themselves, they don’t want to help. People stroke their egos trying to help people, giving them false hope and advice where it is not wanted and won’t help. And anyone who’s genuine will have given up long ago by now, because they realise the same things. No one will really help you.

• I have friends who love me.

No you don’t. Friends vanish at a moment’s notice. A best friend can turn their back on you for someone else. And if you turn your back, you’ll get stabbed in it instantly. You can feel more for someone than they feel for you, and that’s always the case. You could run a mile for someone and they’d move an inch for you. But it goes both ways – someone would run a mile for you and you’d barely move for them. You have no friends.

• Tomorrow will be a better day.

No it won’t be. Tomorrow will be worse. The pain you’ve felt today will be doubled by tomorrow. You can fool yourself into thinking you’re having a nice time – you can go out to a restaurant, you can play an online game, you can write, draw, compose or produce, but it’s all in vain. Tomorrow is just as bad as today, if not worse. What you tell yourself is only a layer, a thin layer that you don’t want to think past. You don’t want to ruin your own day. But as painful as today is, tomorrow will bring something worse. It won’t be a better day.

• I’ve learned from my mistake.

No you haven’t. You will continue to make that mistake over and over again, subjecting yourself to the definition of insanity, when in reality you should have learned to avoid this mistake before you made it. You don’t think enough, you assume too much and you trust too much. Mistakes are constant, as long as life exists on this earth. And you never learn from them. You just keep doing what hurt you before. You never learn.

• I am attractive.

No you’re not. In the fleeting moments you might have where your ego expands, and you catch yourself in the mirror, you apparently fail to notice your chewed lip, your uneven eyebrows, your tired eyes, your fat neck, your terrible hair, your awful posture, your depreciating eyelashes and your exposed wounds. You believe your clothes fit and work, though, from behind, you look a complete wreck. Your shoes are scuffed and broken, and your makeup is lopsided. You think you will turn heads with your beauty, maybe meet a stranger who will change your life. But you won’t. It’s a stupid wish. You are not attractive.

• People listen to me.

No they don’t. You are invisible and ignored. You can write a speech full of promises in flowery language but no one will listen. You can take pictures you’ve spent hours preparing for. But no one will look at them. You are unappreciated, and you deserve no appreciation. No one listens to you.

• I am talented.

No you’re not. Any talent or skill you have is vastly inflated by your own deluded mind. You can design websites over months only to have it ignored. No one cares about your talent. No one wants to waste their life praising you for doing something anyone could do. Talent does not exist. Whether art-, music-, writing-, business-, politics-, food- or science-related, it doesn’t matter. People have seen everything before and they expect nothing from you. You are not talented.

• The things I do make a difference.

No, they do not. You can donate a vast amount of money to a charity but that won’t matter. Any needy man, child or animal will get less than 0.01% of what you donated put forward to help them. Your existence does not improve anyone’s life, nor does it matter. You will die and be forgotten, and no one will mourn you. The world will keep spinning without your input. You make no difference.

I am a good person.

No you’re not. You are selfish, dreadfully so. You are greed-oriented. You are an addict. Your help means nothing. Your help is meek at best. You smile at everyone though detest them inside. Nobody knows what you look like when you truly care. Any tears you cry for someone else are tears of selfishness, you want to prove to yourself you care about them, so you cry with them. This makes you feel good for feeling emotion. You are selfish and greed-driven, intent on making yourself content. You are not a good person.

How do you feel, you fucking liar?

Ever so Slightly Human – Part II of II

As a continuation, I’m astounded I wasn’t birthed sooner. I’ll enter into this world as blind as a shrew, unsure; whose continuation am I? I can stumble around in the darkness that is my world for as long as I have to, but what drives me? Heroism, thrust or something different? Desire, perhaps, or longing. Different but similar. I’m a continuation, I’m an echo of something written long ago.

Who is it though? Assume, momentarily, every story stands upright. Two legs, two arms, the boring human figurine. No wings, no snouts, no tusks.

The feet slink up from ankles, forming the curved swell of the calves, folding into knees at the front and still rising, thickening, spiralling around muscles to the hips, cascading down to form genitals and passing up again, a mid-line of the torso, and still the edges fold outwards, forwards and backwards, creating curves of breasts and soft spikes of collar-bones, switching perpendicular, falling down towards rippled elbows, over forearms and ending in the fingers. And no head or neck to be seen.

Is this what we all are?

Simple continuations, nothing ever thinking for itself. We live – our hearts beat softly beneath ribcages composed of backspacing and deletions. But it’s time for thinking that we’ve been here before.

We, the stories, are continuous continuations. Nothing new, I realise. The first episode of a saga stands a few metres away from me, headless, neckless. Not even that tall. The fantasy trope, I could imagine, redone and rehashed, made new, wringed out, tried again, but still a continuation, possibly, of another world. And unthinking and headless.

Episode two of the same saga stands to its left. Much smaller, missing the right arm. Missing both legs – but this is not why it’s short. Its body is much shorter than that of the first saga’s. And the third is nothing more than a torso, upright but unliving. I think I am starting to comprehend.

 

I search for the biggest body I can find. I want to discover what it is. I see it not too far off – black skin, a weak torso but strong legs, male, smooth and hairless. I stay below it, staring up, thinking nothing, mind quietly working. I stare at the place the body’s head should be.

And I see, I almost see a chin. It seems as though the neck extends – and it’s unusual there is a neck at all – into a chin. Nothing above, no face, no ear, no head, no brain. Just a neck, a chin and the rest of the heavy body, weight bearing down on itself. The feet are large, and I fully expect the white ground to crack and splinter beneath its form, but it remains stable. Supportive.

I wonder.

Is this figure the form of a story… or a continuation… that exceeded all limits? The types of stories some wonder why they ever got published or shelved. The types of stories some want to read but cannot dive into. The types of stories you feel envious that your friend understands.

I wonder.

Could this continuation be a book without a protagonist? Or written entirely without a full-stop? Or a book with no solid character at all? Or a story without an arc. Or a book devoid of all surrounding description. Or a story that uses the blankness of pages to enhance it. Or a book describing objects written by a blind man. Or a book filled with gibberish that becomes beautiful literature once you figure out how to read it. Or an event with no resolution.

Looking up at it, it is easy to think. But not so easy to consider a solution, an answer, to this. Who wrote this? Why is the figure of this book a huge, hairless black man? Why does this one have a neck and chin, an occurrence so rare I’ve not seen it before?

But alas the questions will remain floating in this emptiness, not one of them ever getting an answer. But I can understand this.

 

So I, a meagre and small continuation with no context to its birth, turn away. But still my blank mind rages with thoughts and I soon find myself still.

All around me, these stories, these continuations, these sagas and series and solos, stand as still as pillars. A storm could whisk the air around them, tsunamis could crash against their differing bodies, sledgehammers could buffet them, but they would not move. Any dents, or cracks, or chips would be minimal. But I, a moving version, would certainly get washed away. I am vulnerable, clearly.

And yet, another thought from my intangible soup of mind. I can see. I, unlike the tall and unthinking pillars, can not only move, but see. I can think. I can reason. I am small but different, very different. Nothing here can see me, though I am not hidden. These bodies are not dead, they live within their shaded shells, but they are senseless, motionless, invulnerable.

I am something very different.

 

I move on for some time, weaving, floating between each continuation. How am I different? What makes me a continuation worth eyes? What makes me worth movement? Numb feet that drag my body between lines and rows and columns and attentions. Are there more like me?

I pass bodies in the shape of women, some overweight, some slim, some missing limbs and some with extra. The same with the men, some have grotesque additions, body parts stuck on loosely, like a growth. And I remain silent through it all, letting my eyes take it in, letting my mind stay as silent and as cold as it needs to be. It works fast like this.

Some bodies are small, but not small like the 2nd and 3rd sagas I saw before. These are the head- and neckless bodies of children. Their tubby stomachs remain forever thrusted forward, elbows at their sides, and I wonder why some are smaller, some are bigger and some are missing limbs.

They are the same as the adult bodies in that way. The continuations of stories they are unlinked to, I suppose. Headless, thoughtless, but containing the heart and soul of something worthwhile. But yet, they see nothing, they think nothing, they are nothing.

I wonder about them.

V: The True Freedom – Material [Lull]

IV: The True Freedom – Care [Lull]

Happiness resides not in possessions, and not in gold, happiness dwells in the soul.

– Democritus

 

I’ve already secured a vault in my mind,

To slowly clear out. Without her

Permission, of course, for she would only whine.

When she notices the absence,

Of the phonograph,

Or the bedside lamp,

Or the hairpins,

Or the doorhandles,

I’ll tell her. But not before. She deserves

her shred of glory now. To live in sunshine now.

Before the perishing explanation of peace I hope to

gift her passes my lips as I tell her

where her life has gone.

She’s higher than this now.

 

She can look around, sure, look around, sure,

For everything she hasn’t got. Or she could glance

at what she has.

O, glory one,

It’s standard. Purpose. Life. Driven. All of it,

Waylaid by the struggles of material. Cast it aside.

Or, stand aside as I do it for you. And cast off your

dress. Unhook your bra. Step out of your shoes.

Your stockings too. They’re what you don’t need.

You’re purer than this.

 

And I imagine her body. Celestial. Sweat of work glimmering

like stars on that pale figuresse, I caress the sweet silk of her

dress. Before disposing of it.

A tight pucker of a belly button. The centrepiece between the

curves of her waist, flowing down, opaque, to thighs, knees, calves,

And I would fall at her feet, as the whole world should, if I wasn’t

her brother. To pollute her with my touch is toxic, thought

or practice, as I feel her shoulder in my palm.

Her eyes remain open.

And she goes to speak. But I quieten her.

Everything you need to say has been heard. Before you even move

your tongue or your teeth, everyone hears you, everyone responds.

And I respond.

 

Bite your tongue! Do not ask me. Only listen. Would any goddess,

Living or dead, require anything you say you need? Would any goddess,

Need obsessions, possessions, fodder and filler? Would any goddess,

Oppose the stripping of these things?

To purify, to nourish and exploit,

You are free of all. Your needs are moot, your possessions are forgotten.

Memory is a concept, time is unprepared, will is heightened.

Nothing you need. You need nothing.

So don’t ask me why. Bite your tongue! And raise.

 

I glance at her again. Empty eyes and the contents of tears streaming from them.

I have wronged her. But care, I do not.

This is for the best. And raise.

I promise her, I swear to her.

My goddess sibling, I swear to you.

You are higher than this. You are a form greater than the solar

system. A curse lifted from the single spoken word of God.

You are the white of snow. I swear to you, even snow is less.

And raise.

Higher than this material Earth, where your

spirit will attach itself to the clouds. You are deserving.

Let them see you. Let your hair become darker than the night sky.

Let your eyes be the sun and moon, and your sweat be the stars.

Only have yourself. Everything else is polluting.

Tumble and sleep in the empty universe and fill it

with yourself. You are purer than nothing.

So raise yourself.

 

Double Sunday

I lived through one Sunday, played football one Sunday, wore odd socks one Sunday, went out for a meal with my father and sister one Sunday, stepped into the road one Sunday, got home one Sunday, fell into a coma one Sunday.

 

I woke up out of the coma one Sunday, was greeting to a morning sun one Sunday, felt my hair was longer one Sunday, stretched my legs out of bed one Sunday, noticed I had missed three months one Sunday, sat on the edge of my hospital bed one Sunday, knew my sister’s birthday had gone past one Sunday, knew I’d missed my life one Sunday.

 

I lived through one Sunday and awoke on another.

XI: Scrawl

X: Scrawl

SCREAM ALL YOU WANT NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU.

SCREAM ALL YOU WANT.

NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU.

OR

SCREAM ALL YOU WANT NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR YOU.

WHICH ONE IS TRUE? I MEAN SCREAMS, EVEN SILENT ONES, ARE OBVIOUS.

THE PAINED BLUE EYES FROM SLEEPLESS NIGHTS AND THE RED RIMS FROM THE SALT, THAT’S A SCREAM.

THE CRACKED KNUCKLES AND SCARS FROM A CONSTANT AND HABITUAL BODILY-RAPE HOBBY, THAT’S A SCREAM.

THE IMPORTANT SUDDENLY GETTING TOSSED ASIDE AND RELOCATED ELSEWHERE, TO ROT AND FEEL EMPTY WITHOUT ANYONE’S INPUT, THAT’S A SCREAM.

AND PEOPLE SEE THEM.

THEY JUST DON’T WANT TO HEAR THEM.

V: Suicide Room

IV: Suicide Room

 

Disclaimer:

This file is not a pre-approved Suicide Room Case. However, it has become available to the public. It was discovered, and has been encrypted in such a way that hacking attempts have only managed to reveal unwilling words that do not work within any context. It is clearly a well-hidden file.

It has been released to the public under these conditions:
1) The main goal of releasing this file to the public is to recruit a larger number of people who could potentially figure out what it inside the document.
2) The contents of the document may not be used publicly until pre-approved by the Suicide Room.
3) Any readable and understandable contents of this document, if discovered, are to be reported immediately.
4) Any contents found unreported will be met with stern punishment.
5) Any names or assigned numbers within the document will be thoroughly investigated upon report and discovery.

To attempt to read the document, please select it below:

ENCRYPTED_DOCUMENT

Your co-operation on this endeavour is appreciated.

 

 

Hint: Pay special attention to the words used in III: Suicide Room

X: Scrawl

IX: Scrawl

 

IT’S NO USE. NO USE CALLING. THOSE WHO I PRETEND LOVE ME ARE USELESS.

PLEASE, KILL ME IF YOU CAN, I WON’T STRUGGLE.

I WILL BE HAPPILY SHOT DOWN – IF I COULD STOP BREATHING FOR A MINUTE, AND ALLOW MY UNWELCOME SOUL TO PASS THROUGH MY HATING LIPS, I WOULD AND I WOULD NOT MISS IT.

GOD DAMN, SOMETIMES THE PAIN TAKES ME OVER COMPLETELY UNTIL WORTHLESSNESS SETS IN TO THE POINT WHERE ASKING FOR HELP IS POINTLESS. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO.

TEARS RUST MY CHEEKS UNTIL I AM AS RED AND BROKEN AS DAYLIGHT.

WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

I CANNOT SCREAM FOR FEAR OF BRINGING MORE UPON MYSELF.

I CANNOT LET IT OUT FOR FEAR OF BEING ALONE FOR FAR TOO LONG AGAIN.

I CANNOT TELL THOSE I DON’T KNOW BECAUSE THEY HAVEN’T THE TIME NOR THE ENERGY.

WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

I AM SAFER LIKE THIS.
LONELIER
BUT SAFER LIKE THIS.

I WILL HAPPILY DIE, ROT AND FEAST WITHIN THE EARTH.

JUST KILL ME.

JUST BURY ME.

IT’S WORTH IT TO BE FREE OF THIS.

JUST LET ME DIE.

WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

HO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

O WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

HELP ME.

HELP ME.

HELP ME.

HELP ME.

HELP ME.