I don’t do anything important at night. Read some fanfics, drink some water, feel thirstier afterwards, think about Ricky, move along. I’ve stopped thinking about him lately, it’s not as bad as it used to be. I guess I’m over that hormonal bump of lustful wishes and rampant desires, and undying regret and sorrow. I’m over it, for the time being.
I think its James McAvoy. James McAvoy cured me of Ricky Meyer. Both are good names. Heh.
I’m crazy, because I when I think back to all of it now, I sort of miss him, or just having a body next to me. He needs to wash those sheets. He does, or, I’m not going to forgive myself. And I have to take my stuff and burn a disk for Miles before he leaves.
James McAvoy: My Anti-Drug
James McAvoy is really hot. James McaAvoy needs his own category. James, James, James….ah, it’s such a wonderful name…
James McAvoy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, at least I’m normal, now, or not.
Life was never a book I wanted to read. None of the chapters are good, some of them are boring. The characters are detestable, drab, boring, cliché, just like any other book and there is no end in sight. The author relishes in mundane detail and cursory observations. Too much drama, there’s no connection with the reader despite the obvious effort. I could care less about what happens next, every page, every word, every letter is exactly the same. Sometimes I wish I’d just flip to a blank page and it would be the end, or write, starting on that blank, the singular question that remains unanswered despite my struggle, Why am I reading?
Teenage angst, I tell you, hurts like a mother. Not only is most of it completely irrational, but it’s painfully irrational.
Summer of ’69 makes sort of sad.
If you listen to rock music, it makes you feel like you’re the shit, like you own the whole fucking world. Long enough that is…
Bicycle Boy
He had always imagined that he would die in the rain, die to a screeching guitar solo (he’s thinking Bon Jovi, Shot Through the Heart), lying in the arms of his lover with a bullet in his heart, gun in his hand, his last words ready to roll off his lips, but they would never materialize. The streetlight above them would flicker as he draws his last gasp, hand reaching for the tear streaked face of his lover one last time before falling limp. And then, as he had always imagined it, she would cry, weep uncontrollably as the guitar solo thumps out his eulogy, her screams of anguish drowned out by the crescendo of rain, as the camera lifts up from the scene and pans across the cityscape at night.
So, where the hell does that leave him now?
He’s staring down the barrel of a gun, trying to focus on the silver barrel of the weapon makes him cross-eyed. He cannot see who is holding the gun, but feels every bit of their presence, an overwhelming sense of death, of decay and of rotting flesh.
He closes his eyes, where have you been lately? I’ve been right here all along. He feels the street slip from underneath him, feels gravity pulling him and hears the shot being fired.
He wakes, abruptly, from his dream to a malignant knock at his door. A hasty glance at his nightstand clock, a blaring 0:11 it reads, he pulls on a pair of pants and navigates, in the dark, to the source of the noise. The harsh rapping continues until he twists the lock and wrenches the door open.
“Delivery for James Finley,” he raises an eyebrow at the delivery man, dressed in a familiar yellow and red uniform. The man smiles a very plastic, very fake, his mind adds, smile and hands him the clipboard.
James feels uncomfortable in his presence, but takes the clipboard and plastic ballpoint anyway, “Do you guys,” he gesticulates with the blue pen, “usually deliver this late?” The question stifles a yawn as he scribbles, in a lucid and flowing handwriting, his signature on the line and dots his ‘i’ with a responding tap on the board.
He is handed a small cardboard box. “We deliver twenty-four seven, sir, every single day of the year. Thank you and have a pleasant day, sir,” another plastic smile in his direction, with a tip of the red and yellow cap.
“Thank–”, when he looks back up, after examining briefly the package, the delivery man is gone. He tells his pasty, dimly light, graffiti scrawled hallway, “—you.” And slams the door shit.
He retreats into his dark cavern, the safety of his cocoon like inhabitance, weighing the package in his hands, shaking it as he flicks on his desk lamp and sits down.
In wide strokes, he clears his table of clutter, brushing loose change, crumpled napkins, yesterday’s Chinese take-out to one side and pens, unopened letters, house keys and a can of empty Pepsi to the other. He places the carton before him gently. He yawns, wondering what to do with the box.
The knife cuts through the tape easily. He slices open the package with the tipped blade of an exact-o knife he finds in a drawer somewhere. He, almost unconsciously, decides to open it. Bending back the cardboard tab, he shakes the contents of the relatively empty package out onto the table. A slick, defiantly thin, black cellphone slips out in front of him and clacks onto his much, much to his surprise.
Empty Hallways
James Finley moved out of his second floor studio
James, as she remembers him, had the bluest eyes of anyone she’s ever seen. Such a vivid shade of blue they were that first summer evening, such a vivid shade of blue they would remain for the next dozen summer evenings that James Finley lived across the way. The great gaping asphalt abyss of Maple Lane separating her, in her knee-length summer dresses, and him, in his
His eyes were such a remarkable shade of blue, as she remembered them, the bluest eyes of anyone she had ever seen. A blue so vivid, as if hot, liquid flames licked the veneer of his irises and threw shadows on the inner caverns of his gaze. A blue so vivid that she found it unbearable to looks away, even for a moment, for she fancied herself drowning in the ocean of his furtive glances, an ocean of soft, calm blue, the blue spikes and spears lapping at her welcoming shore.
Life hurts right now, in a really bad way, in a I can’t get my AP grades, I can’t see Ricky Meyer, I can’t get into an Ivy League college way. Maybe not life, then, maybe it’s reality that hurts, that bites, that stings, that realization next morning that I’m not going to make it through all of this alright and that it’s going nibble and nip and bite and pry at me for the next couple of decades.
I hate how everyone is caught up in their own bullshit, so they can’t pay attention to mine. I hate how small I feel at the center of everything. I hate how useless I am in the end of everything. I hate how I’m just so ordinary and pathetic in the very worst ways. I hate my own existence because I can’t fix it.
I don’t need to hear about it anymore, I know. I have a sinking feeling of dread, doom, the occasional sense of unrest, unease, sickness, a sickness that rests in my stomach, in my chest, that sinks like dirt, to the bottom of my arteries, to the pit of my stomach and sits and sits and sits, unmoving, immutable pain, that every once in a while, is stirred by a pesky disturbance, an annoyance, a trespasser in my feigned veneer of peace.
I feel like crying and crying and crying so that one day, I don’t have to cry anymore.
I’m shaking, the fan makes me cold. I have the most unnerving predications of the future and a blinding, overwhelming white heat, like a poker, sticking through my gut, piercing my heart, all of this as I wait, as the minutes tick by and the world lapses.
Okay, let’s be honest. We didn’t do so good, did we? No, no, we did not. So, what’s the best that we’re expecting? Certainly not fives, certainly not. Can we settle for a three? Sure, maybe. Alright. So, it’s a three and any lower I will die.
Demeanor
I used to write the first letters of the first words of the first sentences of individual paragraphs of my speech before rounds, on napkins. It was mind-numbingly repetitive, never had a memory lapse. I only did it once, at States and the judge looked me funny because I scribbling through other people’s speeches.
James Finley was turning twenty-six and he was alone. Sometimes he resented the way his footsteps echoed in his single room apartment, how the floor creaked from his weight, but for now, he remained seated, perched before his television with a plastic fork in one hand and a microwave dinner in the other.
Pathetic is a word that ran numerous times across his mind, but he preferred not to think about it. Friends was on and his dinner, as he looked down at the lump of meat before him, decorated by green peas and orange carrots and a watery, brown gravy, was waiting. He preferred not to think about it. The blunt tip of the fork dug into a pea and broke the green, dimpled skin. Joey was saying something to Monica.
Sometimes, he was just glad he had a couch, because he’s spent so many nights on the raggedy piece of furniture, the same one that he picked up senior year, he wouldn’t know what to do without it. He was half asleep by ten, microwave dinner conquered and tossed down the garbage compactor down the hall, the credits were rolling for Friends and he was barely able to read the fine, white text through the slits of his eyelids. He gave a slight yawn as the commercials cut in, stretched, rolled over on his couch and buried himself in a corner of the couch, digging his nose into the flower patterned fabric that smiled, as best he could describe it, like home. The floor beneath him shuddered, passing train, he slept. He left the TV on, “call today for your free trial package.”
The television colors danced along his back, across the pattern of his checkered button down, the individual strands of his uncombed hair, the curve of his neck, the shifting creases and folds of his jeans as he fidgeted, the rubber plateaus of his sneakers, dangling over the other end of the couch.
Finley dreamt lightly. He was chase by a murky obscurity that eventually wrapped its black, slimy ribbons around his waist, binding his arms to his sides. The realization that it was indeed a dream ruined the experience for him and he flitted through the remainder of his nightmare as a wraith, neither scared nor stimulated by the best that his imagination could muster.
James Finley was turning twenty-six and he was alone.
“There is a rumor of the most unsettling nature circling the Mist these days,” The man begins. Intertwining his long, pale fingers accentuated by three, knobby joints, he leans in, lowering he head closer to the candle flame, and whispers slowly, with reluctance, “She’s back.” A sudden gust of wind invades the tavern, banging open doors and windows, catching the patrons off guard. The candle flame bends, as if being pulled to its death by invisible fingers, as if being teased by its own demise, before snapping back to place.
The creature sitting across the table jerks violently at the words, in the sudden chill it shudders, bony shoulder shaking under leathery, pasty, amphibian skin. The candle flame dances, throwing grotesque shadows on the tavern wall behind it. The creature’s eyes—huge, bulbous, luminescent orbs, pale, gray, fear-stricken—dart back and forth, from one corner of the noisy tavern to the other before settling back on the source of this information. Its pupils elongate vertically, like a cat’s, into a thin streak of black dividing liquid pools of mercury, it speaks, stuttering, “Who, who, how, how do you know for sure that,” it catches its breath, and trudges on slowly, “sh-she’s back?”
The man notices a bead of cold sweat dripping down the creature’s voluminous forehead. He reaches for his glass of wine and notices that his own hand is shaking, beneath his tailored shirt and suit an overwhelming fear bubbles. Clenching the goblet with difficulty, he downs the rest of his drink with muted satisfaction and slams the vessel down against the antique wooden table. He looks to his friend, the fish-like creature before him, “The River never lies.”
Somewhere between a shriek and a gasp, the creature settles further into its unwelcoming wooden chair, face devoid of color. Its scaly, webbed fingers reach out for its goblet, taking a sip of its drink, barely able to swallow. “Has she made preparations?”
His companion shakes his head solemnly, stalks of hay colored hair swing back and forth, the human sighs, “She’s taking her time.” A barmaid, juggling a large, brass pitcher of wine, refills his goblet generously, her beige dress sweeping the floor. He eyes the way the dress adorns her hips from above the lip of his goblet as she walks away. The sound of the fish’s voice draws the man back to the table.
“This is the end, isn’t it?” The creature laments, a small wail escapes his plump, blubbery lips as he bows his head in contemplation.
“Don’t be so pessimistic.” The man tries to grin, but the edges of his mouth weigh heavy and the hastily raised veil of levity drops. He sighs, “Come of it, Lobe. It’s just one immortal who woke up from a four millennia nap.”
Lobe looks up alarmed and hisses vehemently, “Quite, fool! Not so loud, not so loud!” Looking around suspiciously, a new paranoia creeping up on the creature, Lobe whispers, “Unhappy immortals are of the worst sort. I’m telling you, anybody with one of these bloody Imperial Seals,” he shakes the golden amulet in the hilt of his sword, “anybody in the Imperial Army, anybody that has anything to do with the current ruling crown is going to get it when the next decade rolls around, and if she’s in a rush, tomorrow.”
“You think there’s going to be a war?” Liopold asks, dubiously.
After thoughtful consideration, Lobe gulps and pinches his pale face into a grimace. Eyes squeezing shut, lips pursing, he exhales deeply, gills flapping like the exhaustion pipe of a car, “Yes. And we’re all screwed.”
—
Shadows, as James Finley’s grandfather used to tell him, dwell in the Mist. The abode of the Immortals, shadows are mankind’s sins and follies, their irreverent protectors and guardians, in the murky fog of eternity they reside. Past the river brimming with ice, across the bridge built of memories, lies the Mist, the city of the dead, of miscreants, vagabonds and creatures forgotten by the day.
His grandfather’s voice never left him. On restless nights, when the dull ache of loneliness grinds away at the edges of his mind, he finds solace in the warmth of childhood memories. The way his grandfather’s apartment used to smell, of newspaper, coffee and decades of his grandmother’s handiwork and housekeeping, a woman he never knew. The way the apartment silently echoed each passing sound from the city three floors below, a passing ambulance, a crying child, noisy teenagers, and on quiet Sundays and the sound of leaves rustling.
James Finley never heard the end of that story, falling asleep way too early in his grandfather’s arms, head buried in his sweater. Sometimes, he wasn’t sure how he felt about all of it, sad, remorseful, regretful, words that never quite filled the gap where his grandfather should’ve been.
James Finley is turning twenty-six and he is every bit alone.
