it was the kind of scar that’s impossible to replicate
no fakers and no worshipers will ever get that tattooed right on their faces
He’s got a lot of followers, admirers around the prison grounds
they look up to him as to a guru of sorts
yet he’s got nothing to teach
nothing other than pain
self inflicted
On his first night here he wrestled another inmate for an iron nail that was supposed to be used as weapon or part of a weapon
only, he didn’t want to use it to hurt anybody
but himself
Only… he didn’t hurt himself with it
No, he really just placed the damn thing on his left thigh and hammered it in with a fist all the way to the bone
and then smiled as the rest of the prisoners watched
Yeah, it was the overwhelming sense of fulfillment this man felt with his deed that brought the others on their knees and convinced them to worship him
It’s been months since the incident and the wound still hasn’t infected
not a damn thing happened. Like he’s no real human being as the rest of us
I guess it’s this transcendence of humanity that determines us all to watch him as a saint
We bring him all the metal we can find or steal and watch him insert it into his body and hold it there and not get infected
he is truly… not of this world
He’s a saint
the other day I brought him the rusty handle of a spoon and he did look upon me with his limpid, dispassionate eyes as he drove it into his armpit
Tomorrow then
I will do better than all my friends and bring him a real actual true knife
It’s gonna be my day
I’m going to make it
Then the whole yard will know that I am in this man’s favor
Prying the knife off the guard’s hands shall be no challenge
I've never seen a bathroom so perfectly empty before
literally just the toilet a sink and a shower-head. No tub or cabin. Nothing
And a dark brown irregular circle captured the eye from the very core of the room, on the blue tiles
"That's where I burn her things," he said
"What things?"
"You wanna see?"
"Nah, I'd rather just listen to you talk about it."
"I burn her things, man. Been doing so ever since she left for the final time. Every night I sit right there on the toilet and drink and drink and place a dress or some stockings or shoes, panties, whatever's left in her wardrobe over there on the ground and set it on fire. And watch it burn. And drink. The window's open. Smoke goes out along with all my thoughts of her. When things refuse to catch fire I pour some of her perfume on them. It feels good to smell it burning."
"Who was she really?" I asked. "Wife? Girlfriend?"
"Muse," he said. "When she was around I could do my work. But now... all I do is drink all day and burn her things and watch them in the flames. The rest of the time I just sleep."
I found out later that he was talking about his daughter
She was alive and fine
living somewhere with a boyfriend
She even visited from time to time but he could no longer see her as a muse. Only as a distant friend
Also the clothes he burned weren't even hers
he bought them himself to feed the delusion
and the delusion grew too large and eventually ate him
I wash my hands into the sink and don’t move them much
just let the water flow over them
suddenly I start laughing in silence
wheezing
“Are you kidding me?” he asks from behind the mirror. “Laughing? At a time like this, in a place like this?”
“What’s wrong with laughing?” I ask
“Laughing is a social phenomenon,” he says. “It is only acceptable when performed in a social environment along with other people! You have no excuse for doing it alone.”
I dry my hands and nod to myself
then we both start laughing
and the others join in from all sides. The seen and the unseen
Honestly, what a blessing it is to know that I’m never alone
“D’you remember?” he said. “That time when we returned from work. We were working in the same place back then. And it was dark outside and we walked along the street when suddenly there’s this big watermelon that pops in our way. We walked up to it and gave it a few light kicks and convinced ourselves that it must’ve been dropped by some delivery truck or forgotten by some merchant. And then you had this brilliant idea. You said that we should take it to my place and share it. I picked it up and to my place we went and we shared the sweetest watermelon I’ve ever tasted in my life. Love was obviously the secret spice there. We were so poor back then we were crazy enough to pick some random watermelon from the streets. Well… not much changed today. I’m still poor and you’re still my imaginary girlfriend. We’ll be together forever, you and I.”
His eyes went big into the darkness and he looked around and saw that the time was 04:17 in the morning and he was still hunched over his improvised desk with that cheap, second-hand laptop before him in standby
So nothing new he’d fallen asleep again while battling the keys, fighting to come up with the immortal story he’d promised
‘Shit!’ he thought. ‘To whom did I even promise it?’
But the answer was all too obvious. ‘Myself… I’ve to get out of this closet apartment one day.’
He looked to his right where his six-year-old daughter was sleeping in the old sleeping bag. She appeared to be having another one of those fever dreams that would make her cry all day because of the ‘scissor spiders that sawed fingers and legs together’
Hell, but they were still a bit better than the dreams of mother who won’t be around by the time she woke up
He breathed deep and slow and the pain in his side calmed some
He was also terribly hungry and it felt like it affected his vision. Made it blurry
There was only one cure for all of this
He resumed his battle with the keys
Hoping to all the gods that the damned laptop won’t break again
“Just a few more chapters,” he whispered as he swallowed bitter saliva
He awakened at 07:30 in the morning and took a few seconds to stare at the ceiling and decide why this day too began without a so called morning wood
Fuck the meaning of life and whether or not we're alone in this vast world He wanted to know why his dick wouldn't stand up in the morning like it used to
Perhaps because it had nothing to reach for There was nothing to life anymore No wife No girlfriend
...not that they ever existed in the first place but at least there was the hope that one day maybe...
Now in the late twenties he felt like a fish outside the water in a mud that was slowly hardening around him
This was life
Working night shifts in a cold warehouse and coming home in the morning to sleep a few hours
Waking up and listening to another video detailing the importance of sleep
You should sleep eight hours a night every night Every single night No exception! Else you will suffer from severe chemical imbalances in the brain and body and will end up horribly depressed and weak, anemic, with heart problems that will eventually lead to a premature death
But he needed the job
He wasn't qualified for much else
But hey, cops and nurses and firefighters worked night shifts
Well, maybe But their work carried so much more meaning
He sighed as he whipped the thought away and stood and got a cigarette put it in the corner of his mouth and lit it
He came before the window
“Look,” she said. “Maybe it’s time to just leave everything behind and come join me.” She grinned at him from inside the dirty glass of the window
“I don’t know,” he said. “I can still feel it. The spark. You never know when it’s gonna burst into a flame and that flame might become–”
“Bullshit!” she said. “You humans are so pathetic when it comes to this. Listen to yourself! Sparks and hope and sunshine, rainbows. Stop deluding yourself. You’re twenty-eight already and you can’t even get it up thanks to your chronic depression. Look at your lame self. You’re so lame you came to kinda love it even.”
He exhaled smoke. “Well...”
“Well shit,” she snapped. “Listen, boy, I’m offering you salvation here. Look at me when I’m talking to you! Look at my dark face, at my hard tits, look how long this tongue is. See? I can fish inside your guts with it. All you gotta do is join me. Step into my side of the world and we can be together. Look, I’m about to piss. Come here. Closer. Stand with your face up and let me shower you with this small blessing. Give you a taste of what’s to be gained by joining me here. C’mon. And don’t keep that mouth closed, dammit! Stick your tongue out.”
He finished his cigarette and tossed the butt into the moldy earth of a flowerpot
and all they had under the overcast sky was a small boat they shared
The old man would drink from afternoon till morning and sleep all day He wasn’t good for much. Had cancer of the liver and enough kidney stones to add about a newborn’s weight in his core
“So I’m drinking,” he said. “Cuz I wanna bring it earlier. My end.”
“Well,” said the girl. “You’re drinking my money. I work hard for that shit, you know?”
“Shut up,” said the old man. “You’ll have all the money in the world after I’m gone. You can sell the boat and maybe borrow some money and get yourself a small, cozy apartment somewhere.”
“You’re delusional,” said the girl. “With the money this boat’s worth I’ll be lucky to get me a doormat. Used.”
“Don’t be disrespectful now,” said the old man. “I love this here boat like my wife.”
“You never had a wife.”
“Well shit! I love her as if she were my wife, okay? And she’s worth something. She’s worth a lot, I tell you. If you think she won’t be enough to get you started nicely in life, well, you should’ve gotten yourself a husband.”
“I don’t need a fucking husband. I’ll get one after I get out of poverty, not before.”
The old man watched the gray clouds above. It might as well have been grass to his eyes. “Oh, I sure hope to see that day from the other world. You think I’ll have to look up to see it? Or down?”
The girl didn’t answer
“Anyway,” said the old man. “I’m sure it’ll happen one day, my dear. Until then... Keep writing, okay? You’ll come out with the hit eventually. I know I haven’t been of much use to you in this life. But hey, maybe in the next. Maybe, as God reaches with his hand to take me above, I’ll bite off his little finger and spit it on the boat to you. Use it as a pen. See if you’ll write with it a story no eye could ever ignore. I want this for you, my dear. Even if I’ll trade my heaven for it.”
“Oh, you crazy old man.”
“I’m a serious crazy old man. Crazy enough to see heaven in you making it with your writings, dear. Thus, no matter how bad or evil I’ve been I know I’ll be going to heaven. I believe in you.”
She said nothing. Handed him a can of beer and went back to her writing
Daydreaming as a profession 