Adam’s seats (Bolted, part 3)

 

 

Explain this to me. What the fuck happened?’

It’s 03:32am and we’re doing sixty down a forty. The roads are mostly empty, but I know this means we’ll be hearing police sirens any second now, and I don’t know how shady it’ll look when they open the door of a blacked out A3 to see two brown twenty-somethings with blood on the passenger seat. But I don’t tell Adam about the last part, because I want him to make it to the hospital alive without flipping the car.

I wouldn’t normally see a doctor for a cut, but I haven’t been able to move my hand for a while without fear of painting his seats red. I can’t feel my arm anymore and I think my fingers are about to fall off.

‘I don’t know, man,’ I sigh, too exhausted to even try to think about what happened. These days I just give myself a migraine trying to fill in the gaps; I can’t remember something I wasn’t there for. But I saw the marks on her neck, and what I do know is I did it again. I don’t know what else happened; we made up and fell asleep, we had sex, I think. She fell asleep again. I stayed up. Everything was fine. Then there was blood.

The lights outside are a blur.

Adam quickly looks down at the blood-soaked cloth I’m holding against my left palm, and his eyes keep darting to his seats, occasionally checking that I haven’t spilled any. I have.

‘Why the fuck…’ he mutters under his breath as he pushes his foot down on the accelerator, the engine growling. Read more

The Voices (Bolted, part 2)

 

Earlier. Around 8pm.

 

‘Please, just fucking let me go,’ she said slowly, trembling, and making sure I heard every single word.

‘No.’

I didn’t want her to go and she knew it wasn’t me, I just wanted to calm her down. I – whoever that was – probably hurt her, but that wasn’t me. It was not me.

Still, she could’ve screamed. She could have shouted, banged on the walls so people heard her; she knew how thin these walls were. She could have had someone running to rescue the damsel in distress, but she didn’t want to be saved. Because she enjoyed this. She would always come back to me because she loves me. I barricaded the door and that was the last thing I remembered when I was there.

‘Please,’ I heard her whimpering. I blinked and I was no longer by the front door; I looked down and saw myself holding her against the wall by the bathroom, my hand wrapped around her throat. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face looked slightly swollen. Her body was stiff and unmoving, the way it is when you’ve given up fighting and you’re bracing yourself for the worst. It took me four seconds to register what my hands were doing and I immediately removed them from her neck, allowing her to scurry to the corner of the bed.

‘Fuck,’ I whispered, looking down at my hands.

‘Tell me what just happened, what did I do to you?’

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Bolted (part 1)

Now. 03:04am

They keep telling me that if I fall asleep, she’ll wake up in the middle of the night and leave me.

I’ve already noticed how she keeps her shoes and bag strategically by the door so she can run out as fast as possible and leave me here all on my own, which is why I always move them back by the foot of the bed. The table against the far wall is scattered with… things. Rolling papers, lighters, her phone, my wallet. I tap her phone to wake it up; a photo of us, smiling, lights up the screen. I laugh to myself as I remember how she begrudgingly replaced the picture of her favourite band. No notifications. That’s what I like to see. I swipe and enter the passcode anyway and open up messages to see the most recent ones.

 

Baby <3
Give me ten minutes. Make sure nobody sees you, and cover yourself.

Clara
LOOOOL slut. I’m gna tell them where u really are xx

Dad
Ok.

 

Weariness starts to sting my eyes, so I lock her phone and walk into the bathroom to wash my face; the light is bright and harsh, so I push the door closed slightly so as to not disturb her.  The lock is broken from where I kicked it in last week; she was crying and wouldn’t let me in. I run the tap and look up into the mirror, leaning on the counter with both hands.

I study my face. I had everybody after me. I had women dropping everything for me at the click of a finger, I had them whenever and wherever I wanted. Anybody I wanted would be mine, anything I wanted would be mine. I had money, I had looks, I had charm. I have had women fighting over me; I have had them betray their own friends for me. Women wanted me; men wanted me and wanted to be me. I run my finger across the scar on my left cheek; even my brothers were jealous of me. But she didn’t want me. She had no desire to know me, and I didn’t turn her head… so I had to have her. Nobody could say no to me, and I had to know why she was immune to my presence.

But I didn’t think I’d fall in love.

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Summer nights in the garden.

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The air is balmy, musky, and heavy

with you.

You are the smoke floating into the air from between my fingers, enveloping my hands as I wistfully write about a love for which I desperately yearn. You are the droplets of water protesting the heat on the side of my half-empty glass, creeping down and leaving a print on my page, making the words bleed into one another. Maybe becomes yes. Soon becomes now. Want becomes need;

you becomes I.

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Four things I’ve learnt this decade

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Every time you try to forget who I am, I’ll be right there to remind you again

 

I know. And yes I did mean this decade. And yes I am here again, a mere week after my last post. It’s pissing down outside, which makes it a fine day to rant.

We’re only halfway through February, we’ve barely grazed the new decade, and I feel like I’ve been hit in the face with a million lessons and gained another five years of life experience. I’m just hoping it doesn’t show on my face, so I’m frantically blurting it out onto a new post in the hope that it doesn’t settle into my fine lines.

Lesson number one, typing on a MacBook with long ass nails does not a good idea make.

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PSA: Social media is fucking you up

Out of touch with reality hoes

“Every form of addiction is bad , no matter whether the narcotic be alcohol or morphine, or idealism.”

 – Carl Gustav Jung

 

Imagine you sign a contract with a ghost, in which that ghost fucks you in the ass very violently all day every day for years in return for some meaningless validity. You forget about it until one day you just feel a gaping void down there and you urgently need to fill it with some toxic ghost dick even though it’s ruining your life now that you are aware you need it in order to feel normal and validated. That ghost dick, my friend, is social media.

Fuckin’ you in the ass as you read this.

I think I wrote something about social media a long time ago, both pros and cons. Of course, I’m a lot older and inevitably bitter now, which means my sentiments towards social media have become… hostile. I’m frequently talking a lot of shit on Twitter and posting pictures nobody wants to see on Instagram. I’m not old enough for Facebook yet because I don’t have friends with babies (step on it girls, yeah?) But the past few months I’ve been disgusted with social media despite being very active on it and I’m just.. sick of it. I’m sick of it all and I want to disappear off the internet.

In the grand scheme of things, social media is great, considering how far we’ve come in the world.

One of the best things is how easy it is to find information that mainstream news outlets won’t tell you – not in a timely manner, anyway. You can find out exactly whats going on in most parts of the world. Had we only the BBC and the Sun to give us information, we’d be perfectly ignorant, brainwashed individuals fitting for an Orwell novel. Probably racist too. But we have Twitter to spread videos of racist police officers, we have viral pictures of mutilated babies and children as a result of angry men in high places, we have pictures and videos of destroyed buildings in the Middle East, we have posts about developed and beautiful places in Africa and Asia where our old racist school teachers had us believe it was all barren and everyone was starving to death. We have pictures of missing children with contact details, and a simple click of a button from a few hundred people has helped find them. We know more about what’s going on in other parts of the world because we hear from people in other parts of the world; gaining information is easier, and it’s harder to excuse racism and xenophobia. Information is fed to us, we don’t need to dig deep for it anymore.

Social media allows people to go viral, it allows small businesses free advertisement and that’s beautiful. I’ve seen people successfully share their art, their photography, their writing, their messages. We have instagram, which helps keep us momentarily happy because of fire memes. The little things, you know? It helps you meet like minded people, might meet the love of your life, it helps keep friendships alive and hanging by a thread, but thats about where the positives come to an end. Now I can complain.

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