(Another piece of my current project. Edited 07/23.)
I ask, what she is running away from?
The girl sitting on my bed, the old, used motel bed, she has black hair. It curls around her white face, around her big round eyes. She is completely naked, her knees are touching, her arms bend through at her elbow joints. Her entire body is pale, like she's never seen any sunlight. Like a vampire, pale and thin. Under her small, perky breasts you can see her ribcage. Her fingernails are painted black, her toenails are black. The shadow underneath her eyes, black. Black hair on her head, none anywhere else. The rest is just pale. Not white, more a washed-out gray, like ash. Like the bedsheets. Right in the middle of her mouth is a tiny silver ring pierced through her lower lip. From the ring, a loose chain is just hanging down.
Her name is Mona. Mandy. Something with M.
Her answer simply is, "From myself."
How this girl stranded in my motel-room was, last night, I ended up in a small joint called Sally's Beer-Bar. A stench of sweat and smoke pushed its way up my nose as I first entered the room. The light was dim, the few tables full of local folk, farmers and such. The barkeeper, Sally, stood behind his counter, wiping a dirty glass with a dirty piece of cloth, then putting it with the other, well, cleaned glasses.
So I made it behind the state line. So I took the first step into my new life. Standing in this small bar, I took a deep breath of smoke and sweat, a full nose of sweet freedom. Sweat stinking freedom.
Everything went as planned. From the point on, I shot Jenn, I mean.
I can't quite remember all the details, everything happened so fast. I took the money right out from Jenn's hand. Looking into her eyes, wide open and filled with fear, I said, sorry. When I turned around, I saw old Patty with her annoying fat child standing in the snack aisle. Old Patty Harrison. She is the local fat bitch of a walking and talking gossip machine. She sucks the life out of her hard working husband. She'd suck the life out of everybody if she could. Her demon of son is loud. Annoying, careless and fat. He must have begged for more potato chips. His mom must have tried to take the bag out of his hands. He must have fought for it. They wrestled the vacuum-packed bag until it cracked, it ripped. Until it popped open. Popped with a loud freaking bang. It was then, that I pulled the trigger.
Then, I was here. First I checked into the motel. Next, sitting at the bar, I ordered a beer. Then another. And another.
Sally cleaned another dirty glass with the dirty cloth and said, "Haven't seen you here before. Just passing through or here to stay?"
I'm not a farmer, I said, just on my way through. Checked into the motel, I told him, but I'll be heading out soon. You know, see the country, cruise around, enjoy the sunsets and such. Enjoy some quiet peace and me-time.
I carried the gun in my belt, hidden under my jacket, still loaded.
Turning the dirty beer glass around and around, I tried to think. I was about to actively realize, what I've done, as this girl suddenly sat next to me.
She leaned over to grab the bowl of peanuts besides me, and her pale breasts showed themselves under her thin, black and worn-out dress. Just presenting herself right under my nose, her face was just a drunken breath away from mine. I was hypnotized by the dangling chain on her lip and her naked skin under her dress, as her big eyes glared at me and she smiled, "Hi, my name's ..." well, something with M.
Now, in the one-room motel-box, I'm standing in front of the window and it's still dark outside. With my back to her naked skeleton of body, I ask, what she means, she is running from herself?
You see, the deal with a girl like this is, she grew up in a middle class environment, with middle class parents, middle class school. Middle class friends. She had an older brother, successful, the perfect son. Of course, everybody would expect the same from her. It's not that she was bad in school or stupid or anything. She just couldn't see herself in this kind of life. Making everybody proud and happy and all. So she rebelled for the sake of rebelling. Hung out with the losers in school; drugs, heavy metal music, casual sex with whoever comes along. Blond hair dyed black. Worn-out boots, worn-out dresses, strong makeup and pale skin. Anything to make her parents not proud. Anything to proof there is no future for her in this suburban middle class lifestyle, no career in big companies downtown. She wants to become a writer. You know, travel the world, learn the culture, write it all down, let what's in her heart out.
"One day," Miss-M tells me, "I just took the next bus out. Been on the road ever since. Just me and my diary."
Behind me I hear the scratching of a lighting match. A smell-cocktail of sulfur and marijuana spreads in the room. I turn around and see her with a joint in her mouth, still naked.
"I'm running from the life, they wanted from me. From my false future. I'm running from the perfect daughter, I don't want to be."
Must be hell to have caring parents, I say.
"Swell," she says and disappears into the bathroom, still sucking on the reefer.
Next to the bed on the floor is her backpack, full with all her belongings. It's open and her diary sticks out. Looks like leather binding, and pretty thick, expensive paper. Next to the bag is our used condom. Just withering there is my semen, all nicely wrapped up in a rubber bag. I pick up the condom, hold it just with the tips of my thumb and finger, and look at the milky soup inside. This is my legacy, right here, packed up and ready to go into the trash.
My life, my legacy, a waste.
Through the bathroom door, Something-M starts talking again. Yelling over the running shower, she says, "Being successful doesn't teach you anything."
I place myself into the dent of her skinny ass on the bed and turn the knob on the TV.
"Its the things we do wrong, that teach us. That make us grow." I'm turning the knob, flip through the channels to look for something half-ass interesting to watch.
"Even if you do something right, even after everybody pats your back and congratulates you, you will think about the little mistakes you've made. The things, you could've done better, you know?"
Here we go; good old cartoons. Good old distraction.
"Looking back at anything, you are always smarter, when you can't change it anymore. When it's too late."
Jenn comes to mind.
From the bathroom, I can hear the water running over her body. The rattle of the old plumbing, the hissing of the old shower head, the water pearling on her skin, and her voice yelling through all of that, I turn up the TV. Just blend her out, distract her away.
Louder than before, the stupid bird, always being chased by the same old cat, says, "I fink I faw a puffy cat." I can feel my heartbeat in my forehead.
Right here, in this animated retro-experience of childhood, I'm home.
Right here, when one moment brings you back to somewhere completely else, reality could mean anything.
Next to me, the partition wall to the next motel-box starts to shake in the same beat as my upcoming headache. I turn the volume-knob all the way to the right, all the way up, but still, I can't get the upcoming grunting from next door out of my head. The moaning and banging. The prayers from my childhood. The reality of memory.
Oh God. Twelve years later.
Oh my God. The banging is like a hypnotic drum of chaos.
Oh my fucking God! I'm not here, I'm not existing. I'm waste, I'm nothing.
I'm a little child with his cartoons. A never ending spiral of self-distraction.
Right here, inside the only real care I've ever known, the cat turns to me. Its voice is that of the Girl-with-M, and it says, "Once you start running from your life, there is no going-back."
Then, the grunting stops. The walls stop shaking, the pounding in my head, however, remains. The TV is off. M-Something stands before me, all covered in tiny pearls of water running down the lines of her body. She turned off the cartoons, turned off my nightmare of childhood.
She grabs her thong with her toes from the floor and says, "Buddhists believe that we are in this life to learn, to correct flaws. We have to make mistakes, we have to learn from them and grow, and eventually rid ourselves from whatever it is, we have to clear our karma from."
I've heard this crap before. Spiritual cleansing one-o-one for the everyday life.
"With every reincarnation of our spirits," she says, "we go through this process until we are enlightened."
She sounds like my mother.
"So," she says, after she put on her string of underwear and is now lying next to me, "I set out to do as many mistakes as possible. To learn from them. To grow and speed up the process of enlightenment."
With her voice fading as she slowly falls asleep, she says, "You don't learn anything from being perfect for others."
I lie down next to her and stare at the ceiling. I'm a mistake.
The feeling of failure stays with you forever.
"You can't change the future by upsetting the past," she says. Lying next to me, still wet, still with water running down her breast, and the dark hair spread all over the pillow, soaking it all wet, she looks like a drowned angel.
Next morning, she will be gone. When I'll wake up, only the headache remains.
"Life," she whispers, "life is tragedy waiting to happen."
I ask, what she is running away from?
The girl sitting on my bed, the old, used motel bed, she has black hair. It curls around her white face, around her big round eyes. She is completely naked, her knees are touching, her arms bend through at her elbow joints. Her entire body is pale, like she's never seen any sunlight. Like a vampire, pale and thin. Under her small, perky breasts you can see her ribcage. Her fingernails are painted black, her toenails are black. The shadow underneath her eyes, black. Black hair on her head, none anywhere else. The rest is just pale. Not white, more a washed-out gray, like ash. Like the bedsheets. Right in the middle of her mouth is a tiny silver ring pierced through her lower lip. From the ring, a loose chain is just hanging down.
Her name is Mona. Mandy. Something with M.
Her answer simply is, "From myself."
How this girl stranded in my motel-room was, last night, I ended up in a small joint called Sally's Beer-Bar. A stench of sweat and smoke pushed its way up my nose as I first entered the room. The light was dim, the few tables full of local folk, farmers and such. The barkeeper, Sally, stood behind his counter, wiping a dirty glass with a dirty piece of cloth, then putting it with the other, well, cleaned glasses.
So I made it behind the state line. So I took the first step into my new life. Standing in this small bar, I took a deep breath of smoke and sweat, a full nose of sweet freedom. Sweat stinking freedom.
Everything went as planned. From the point on, I shot Jenn, I mean.
I can't quite remember all the details, everything happened so fast. I took the money right out from Jenn's hand. Looking into her eyes, wide open and filled with fear, I said, sorry. When I turned around, I saw old Patty with her annoying fat child standing in the snack aisle. Old Patty Harrison. She is the local fat bitch of a walking and talking gossip machine. She sucks the life out of her hard working husband. She'd suck the life out of everybody if she could. Her demon of son is loud. Annoying, careless and fat. He must have begged for more potato chips. His mom must have tried to take the bag out of his hands. He must have fought for it. They wrestled the vacuum-packed bag until it cracked, it ripped. Until it popped open. Popped with a loud freaking bang. It was then, that I pulled the trigger.
Then, I was here. First I checked into the motel. Next, sitting at the bar, I ordered a beer. Then another. And another.
Sally cleaned another dirty glass with the dirty cloth and said, "Haven't seen you here before. Just passing through or here to stay?"
I'm not a farmer, I said, just on my way through. Checked into the motel, I told him, but I'll be heading out soon. You know, see the country, cruise around, enjoy the sunsets and such. Enjoy some quiet peace and me-time.
I carried the gun in my belt, hidden under my jacket, still loaded.
Turning the dirty beer glass around and around, I tried to think. I was about to actively realize, what I've done, as this girl suddenly sat next to me.
She leaned over to grab the bowl of peanuts besides me, and her pale breasts showed themselves under her thin, black and worn-out dress. Just presenting herself right under my nose, her face was just a drunken breath away from mine. I was hypnotized by the dangling chain on her lip and her naked skin under her dress, as her big eyes glared at me and she smiled, "Hi, my name's ..." well, something with M.
Now, in the one-room motel-box, I'm standing in front of the window and it's still dark outside. With my back to her naked skeleton of body, I ask, what she means, she is running from herself?
You see, the deal with a girl like this is, she grew up in a middle class environment, with middle class parents, middle class school. Middle class friends. She had an older brother, successful, the perfect son. Of course, everybody would expect the same from her. It's not that she was bad in school or stupid or anything. She just couldn't see herself in this kind of life. Making everybody proud and happy and all. So she rebelled for the sake of rebelling. Hung out with the losers in school; drugs, heavy metal music, casual sex with whoever comes along. Blond hair dyed black. Worn-out boots, worn-out dresses, strong makeup and pale skin. Anything to make her parents not proud. Anything to proof there is no future for her in this suburban middle class lifestyle, no career in big companies downtown. She wants to become a writer. You know, travel the world, learn the culture, write it all down, let what's in her heart out.
"One day," Miss-M tells me, "I just took the next bus out. Been on the road ever since. Just me and my diary."
Behind me I hear the scratching of a lighting match. A smell-cocktail of sulfur and marijuana spreads in the room. I turn around and see her with a joint in her mouth, still naked.
"I'm running from the life, they wanted from me. From my false future. I'm running from the perfect daughter, I don't want to be."
Must be hell to have caring parents, I say.
"Swell," she says and disappears into the bathroom, still sucking on the reefer.
Next to the bed on the floor is her backpack, full with all her belongings. It's open and her diary sticks out. Looks like leather binding, and pretty thick, expensive paper. Next to the bag is our used condom. Just withering there is my semen, all nicely wrapped up in a rubber bag. I pick up the condom, hold it just with the tips of my thumb and finger, and look at the milky soup inside. This is my legacy, right here, packed up and ready to go into the trash.
My life, my legacy, a waste.
Through the bathroom door, Something-M starts talking again. Yelling over the running shower, she says, "Being successful doesn't teach you anything."
I place myself into the dent of her skinny ass on the bed and turn the knob on the TV.
"Its the things we do wrong, that teach us. That make us grow." I'm turning the knob, flip through the channels to look for something half-ass interesting to watch.
"Even if you do something right, even after everybody pats your back and congratulates you, you will think about the little mistakes you've made. The things, you could've done better, you know?"
Here we go; good old cartoons. Good old distraction.
"Looking back at anything, you are always smarter, when you can't change it anymore. When it's too late."
Jenn comes to mind.
From the bathroom, I can hear the water running over her body. The rattle of the old plumbing, the hissing of the old shower head, the water pearling on her skin, and her voice yelling through all of that, I turn up the TV. Just blend her out, distract her away.
Louder than before, the stupid bird, always being chased by the same old cat, says, "I fink I faw a puffy cat." I can feel my heartbeat in my forehead.
Right here, in this animated retro-experience of childhood, I'm home.
Right here, when one moment brings you back to somewhere completely else, reality could mean anything.
Next to me, the partition wall to the next motel-box starts to shake in the same beat as my upcoming headache. I turn the volume-knob all the way to the right, all the way up, but still, I can't get the upcoming grunting from next door out of my head. The moaning and banging. The prayers from my childhood. The reality of memory.
Oh God. Twelve years later.
Oh my God. The banging is like a hypnotic drum of chaos.
Oh my fucking God! I'm not here, I'm not existing. I'm waste, I'm nothing.
I'm a little child with his cartoons. A never ending spiral of self-distraction.
Right here, inside the only real care I've ever known, the cat turns to me. Its voice is that of the Girl-with-M, and it says, "Once you start running from your life, there is no going-back."
Then, the grunting stops. The walls stop shaking, the pounding in my head, however, remains. The TV is off. M-Something stands before me, all covered in tiny pearls of water running down the lines of her body. She turned off the cartoons, turned off my nightmare of childhood.
She grabs her thong with her toes from the floor and says, "Buddhists believe that we are in this life to learn, to correct flaws. We have to make mistakes, we have to learn from them and grow, and eventually rid ourselves from whatever it is, we have to clear our karma from."
I've heard this crap before. Spiritual cleansing one-o-one for the everyday life.
"With every reincarnation of our spirits," she says, "we go through this process until we are enlightened."
She sounds like my mother.
"So," she says, after she put on her string of underwear and is now lying next to me, "I set out to do as many mistakes as possible. To learn from them. To grow and speed up the process of enlightenment."
With her voice fading as she slowly falls asleep, she says, "You don't learn anything from being perfect for others."
I lie down next to her and stare at the ceiling. I'm a mistake.
The feeling of failure stays with you forever.
"You can't change the future by upsetting the past," she says. Lying next to me, still wet, still with water running down her breast, and the dark hair spread all over the pillow, soaking it all wet, she looks like a drowned angel.
Next morning, she will be gone. When I'll wake up, only the headache remains.
"Life," she whispers, "life is tragedy waiting to happen."
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