"i was in love with you," gatlin murmurs. "i was always stuck on the idea that you could love me back."
avery coughs, a reflection shifting behind the glass wall between them, and taps his finger at the center of gatlin's palm. gatlin can see avery's eyes-- blue,(more) that awful, steel sharp blue that deflects everything around it --and it takes a breath's moment for the older man to pull his palm up to meet gatlin's.
"remember that," avery points with the other hand, finger quivering just the slightest (gatlin can't tell, never could tell when the act ended and began), downward towards the thick layer of bandages around gatlin's abdomen: poppies blooming red in a field of gauze. "remember me every time you breathe and it absolutely aches."
a pause; general, large, and open ended. it simmers beneath the skin, and gatlin leans forward enough to lean his forehead where avery's should be. the glass is cool against the sweat built from standing too long. he feels woozy.
"i was in /love/ with you."
the silence aches. a ripple of pain tears through gatlin's stomach; a mirror's reflection of stitches gained from running too long during childhood, only this time it feels like fire, hot and licking against the seems of his flesh where he's sewn and stapled, haphazard and frankenstein.
a gasp hiccups from his throat, and gatlin opens his eyes.
Hyun tilted her head upward and gazed aimlessly at the powder blue sky. She slowly formed a defiant smile and whispered, "So, this is the first day of my death of social seclusion, I threw away the cigarettes, broke the TV, and now there is only static on the radio."(more)
She wondered how life looked turned upside down, if God would conveniently grant her a transcendent looking glass and some valuable Andy Warhol sketches... With quiet precision, Hyun picked up a small flat rock and skipped it across the indigo waves, while staring intently at the bewildering, open expanse. It had felt smooth between her fingers. The rock appeared to be made of granite with a thin gray circle in it's grainy center. Quite light in weight, it skipped gracefully, reminiscent of Shirley Temple in the golden age. The waves seemed to be in perfect harmony. 'Perfect harmony'...such a deceptive, elusive enigma. On that note, she turned around, took a breath of fresh air, and started revving the engine on her resilient motorcycle. The gravel underneath her tired 88' Kawasaki rumbled like an old man without his teeth trying to insult his wife.
While passing the crumpling infrastructure of the Madison bridge, she began to think of an odd dialogue she had eavesdropped on a couple days prior. 'He was the kind of man with a very soft heart and an even softer mind. His wife told me he sung just like Edith Piaf. His gorgeous sopranista voice and perfectly accented French tongue could charm the best of em'. Like a confident robin, instinctively confessing his love through a refined mating call...'
In staid reflection, Hyun wanted nothing more than to be this mysterious, charming old man. To shimmer on a revolving pedestal, soft of heart and mind. (less)
there are solid moments in gatlin's life in which everything vibrates with a certain amount of technicolor clarity. it is then, he believes, that he is truly a god.
he refuses to eat-- a lengthy endeavor, time consuming and a test to his stubbornness, but it makes his(more) bones ache, lights a fire up the back of his spinal cord, faster and hotter than whiplash and deadlier too. he'll cry and scream and his vision will blur until he can no longer distinguish tears from sweat and the little things like fingers and toes will go completely numb.
He plucked the last straw, and the old hat was no more. With it left the spirit of the wearer, the bearer of hatred's curse.
He was no more, and with him left the torment and pain from the old house, with him left the fatigue from old joe's(more) bones, the one cursed with so undying companionship for almost sixty years. He was alone.
He hated it.(less)
The man's face flushed a shade of bright crimson, hot with anger, "Do you want me to call security on ya? You goddamn little punk!"
Emily gasped, her startled expression haunted her face for a couple of seconds.
In a frightened tone(more), she whispered in Donnie's right ear "Leave it alone, my dad bought an NES recently. Please go to my house with me and forget about that ass hat."
"What am I supposed to be afraid of the commanding heights of Starbucks? Oh no...don't throw the day old panini's and crusty coffee flavored wafers in my direction for offending your beloved tar sucklers! I beg of you to spare my soul, barista man!"
Taking one last drag from his cigarette, Donnie raised his left hand towards his mouth, clumsily grabbed the cigarette, and tossed the smoldering Seneca butt on the filthy city sidewalk. With that lazy gesture at its end, the trio began to follow Emily in a haze to her father's house.
From this vantage point, they look unfettered by the responsibilities of normal high school students. They were more interested in buying another pack of cigarettes from the next lonely pushover they could manipulate. These kids were doomed from conception. It would have been a blessing in disguise if their mothers had instead chose to abort them from the misery they would surely become. Too late now to call the doctor at Planned Parenthood...
As they lifelessly marched on, Jeff began to gawk at the hole in Emily's purple fishnets exposing a small section of her smooth alabaster thigh. He imagined her naked sprawled out on his bed underneath his cheap, tie-dyed Led Zeppelin poster. He could hear her timid, innocent voice pleading, 'Take me Jeff...'
There'd been a food fight in the cafeteria and the vice principal meant to round up the guilty parties. Loose corn and green peas lay scattered on the floor. As he walked across the damp linoleum, scanning the landscape of skittish eyes, his heel fell across the stem(more) of a dropped spoon, crushing it into the tile.
"Which one you is to blame for this?" He asked, with a glare that hardened his face. Every eye that met his glance fell away until he found himself looking into the face of a boy, small, and dark haired, who was sitting in the middle of a group.
"Well young man? How do you explain all of this?"
At first, the boy said nothing, and the man, finding resistance, pressed harder. "Surely you saw something?"
"I did, and I'm the one you want." The boy spoke in a loud flat way and with an immediacy that caught the man by surprise. "So, then..." The vice principal turned and faced the staring crowd. "We have one honorable one here. Who else, then?"
There was a disturbance and voices rose over his shoulder. Then, with a loud thwack, a single green pea flung from across several rows of tables, landed flat and wet into the corner of the vice principal's eye. Stunned, he bent over and raked his face with his hands. Then, stumbling backward, he stepped again onto the errant spoon. His ankle spun awkwardly and he tottered backward onto the tile. A roar rose from the crowd that turned to laughter. The damp from the floor began to seep into his pants. With the laughter flowing over him like wind, all he could do was sit and catch his breath. The floor was remarkably cold.
What if doing what is right is no longer right for you? What if honoring a "til death do us part commitment" equates to the death of you? What if continuting to live "as is" is really relegating yourself to the land of the living dead?
There's more inside of me, burning and being wasted away, than you'll see in the whole of your life. I am an inferno. I will eat the world in both its ugliest and most beautious forms. I will crush the lot of it into a singularity of abstract flesh(more) and thought. When you arrive, nothing will be left. There will be no room for you in the world. I will have swallowed everything.
You will not feel joy without knowing that I've been through that fabric of the universe. You will not feel shame without me there to support you and protect you from yourself. In short, I'll be everything you never wanted.
The universe. Atomic energy. Nuclear weapons. Mushroom clouds. Cancer. Masculinity. Tumors metastasizing in the female body. There are motifs there. I could paint them prettily for you. But instead I'll just throw them in front of you like food for a foul beast and let you put the metaphor together for yourself.
When I am angry, I'm not pretty. It's within my capacity, but I feel no need to be. Fire doesn't worry whether or not it is pretty. Storm does not worry whether or not it is pretty. it just devours. That is what it was meant to do.
I'll be there when there is nothing left. You still won't love me, and I'll choose not to love you. We'll both be right, and that is where the world will end.(less)
Masayoshi was too far away for him to get to - he had other things to do, to worry about - but Masayoshi was too far away and it struck him like a physical thing, a shard of ice lodged in his chest. Focus on getting the civilians away,(more) keeping them back - he yelled into the crowd, trying to accomplish just that, same as his fellow officers when there was a loud rush and roar and some people around him screamed.
Gotou half-turned, saw the thing go down and Masayoshi along with it, tumbling underneath the girth of the monster, a flash of red armor and white scarf and then nothing. It all happened so quickly Gotou couldn't process it - but he turned completely around, moving toward the monster despite himself, yelling Masayoshi's name.
He didn't know what it was, didn't really matter. It towered above him, some mishmash chimera of a creature - Gotou had his pistol in hand, his only defense - and then the monster yowled, and exploded.
The resulting smoke was noxious, but Gotou didn't flinch, he saw Masayoshi standing on the other side, helmet cracked half off his head, armor dented, weapons in hand and the relief poured over him instantly. Masayoshi was alive.
Masayoshi cast aside his destroyed helmet, ignoring the cheers of the gathered crowd as he bounded through the cloud of gas, all that remained of the monster who had threatened the crowded mall. He caught up Gotou's hand in his, eyes bright even through the grime and blood on his face. "I'm sorry to make you worry, Gotou-san!" he said.
The tension eased on his face, and the worry melted from him. "Don't scare me like that," he chided, and Masayoshi grinned sheepishly.
Masayoshi made the best noises when Gotou took him to pieces. It was hard to decide which noise was his favorite - the short little cut-off whines, the heavy breaths panted through an open mouth, the low groan when Gotou slid his hand up the outside of Masayoshi's thigh(more) and cupped his ass - ultimately, they were all equally wonderful.
But then there was Gotou's own name, broken apart into barely intelligible syllables, spilling from Masayoshi's lips in soft sobs as he tilted his head back, hips bucking under the press of Gotou's weight. He was pinned to the floor with little more than Gotou's mouth and one hand, but he still squirmed and twisted, gasping at each broad lick of Gotou's tongue.
Gotou couldn't watch him, with his face buried between Masayoshi's legs but he was listening carefully. Masayoshi's hand rested on his head - it had shot out the second he realized what Gotou was doing, where he was headed - and his long fingers were tangled tightly. "Gotou-san," he managed on a breath, the intake sharp and quick, his leg trembling, hooked over Gotou's shoulder.
Gotou ignored him and swallowed Masayoshi down again, overwhelmed by the smell and the taste. He knew Masayoshi was close, he had no intentions of slowing down or making this last. He gave Masayoshi's thigh and encouraging pat, without lifting his head, mouth working carefully around Masayoshi's length.
Masayoshi's moan broke for a moment, a stutter - and then he was surging, pushing his hips up despite Gotou holding him down, gasping and strung tight as a guitar string. Gotou knew better than to move now, and let Masayoshi fuck himself out into Gotou's throat, his hot seed filling Gotou's mouth as Masayoshi withdrew, flopping back to the ground spent.(less)
Then there's Dennis. Dennis is about forty, but looks sixty; He's always red-faced and bears an uncanny resemblance to Robinson Crusoe. You can hear him coming up the block from a mile away, lolling his head left to and fro in blissful alcoholic reverie, loose change jingling against the(more) walls of a blackened coffee cup. Immediately after panhandling the necessary eight dollars for a bottle of Pale Dry port wine, he rolls down the street with fervent vigor like a man chasing a mirage in the desert. Dennis throws his change into my hand. His fingernails are like eagle talons, he drops nickels everywhere. An hour later and he's silent against the city recycling bin, not even drunk, just steady. With glossy eyes, he dreams against the assured glances of yuppies, businessmen, and young people. The sadness is palpable, and from it there is no escape.(less)