When you see someone for long enough you get used to them and then you start noticing patterns in their behavior
he was their teacher in creative writing
weird guy in his late thirties going bald bespectacled pedo mustache scrawny body always wearing dark suits, a bit oversized
He sat at his desk and watched the students and the students watched him
Why does he always do that? they eventually asked. Why does he always tap his foot when talking to some girl but never when he talks to boys?
He would appoint a female student to present her homework or some project or something and stand her up and while she spoke he would stare at her and tap his foot and the tapping would begin light and would grow in intensity
strange guy
tap-tap-tap ta-rap-tap-tap went his foot as the girls talked
"I heard he's divorced," said one of the students.
"Yep," said another. "He is. Has a kid as well."
"Damn."
"I heard he's also got a brother in prison for rape or some shit."
and a few weeks later they were talking about books related to prison life and someone said, "You know how prisoners jack off in full view of guards and the female prison nurses without getting caught?"
nobody asked how but he went to say it anyway and he said "They wrap a string around their penis and tie the other end to the big toe of one foot. All beneath the pants. Nothing shown. And when the female is close they stare and move that foot and the string does the job..."
In the morning she jerked him off and had him cum in the cups of her bra and then he watched as she put it on and went about the rest of her day like that
She worked as an elementary school teacher
believed in the horoscope
and witchcraft
and aliens
and demons
and told the students in her class that her dead husband reincarnated into her dog and every morning she took his seed to hold in her bosom for good luck
It definitely worked because she got a raise in the next few weeks
or being laughed at for spending her days alone in her small cottage facing the dark corner of the room and talking to her dead daughter
encouraging her to eat up and grow up and complimenting her on the good looks she’d gained
“Oh, I bet the boys are all dropping dead in your wake, hehe. Look at those legs. So slim and long and deadly. You’re a beauty among beauties, my dear. Here, have another one. Eat up to grow up. You’re gonna have hundreds of strong, beautiful children, hehe.”
The neighbors and the world could keep calling her crazy, she knew she was just very happy
She grabbed another grasshopper from a jar and ripped its hind legs and placed it on the spider’s web
“Here’s another one, dear. Eat up and grow up, hehe.”
There was a time when he’d fear nothing more than the bluntness of the empty bottle
his torment his nightmare, his hell
The bottle would be all right as long as it stayed full It was like Lucifer before the fall
Oh, but once it emptied then it would change completely Then he’d see father’s grip reverse on its neck and turn it into a blunt weapon that delivered its fair share of bruises and scabs on the scalp
It never broke like in the movies but it surely hit harder than wood
But in the end after all those years of standing in its greenish shadow he found himself thanking the bottle
It’s simple What you don’t pick up you don’t end up holding
He never touched a beer in his life
and certainly didn’t use the bottle as a blunt weapon against anybody
there are many reasons a woman can say her final goodbye to you
and somehow they all feel different
He supposed the worst of all had to be when her final goodbye is influenced by another man
made sense
but that wasn't his case Also he was too drunk to think straight now. And in too much pain
“It's the final goodbye,” she had said. “You chose the bottle over me, now live with the bottle. Goodbye.”
Goddammit, this really hurt His dick was only getting harder and more blue stuck in the mouth of the bottle
Yet still, through all the pain and the dizziness he reached for the phone and called her. He said, “Hey, I just want you to know that… It was you I had in mind when I did it. I did it while thinking of you, love.”
Usually it was after the second pack of smokes that inspiration came into his soul but today it came after the second cigarette
And when inspiration hit he'd grab the paper and pen and write letters old style
He was a romantic
My love, he wrote, this is the 272nd letter I write you, and its subject will be the idea of impossibility. I think impossibility is highly subjective, my love. I for one can climb Mount Everest in my shorts if I want to, but one thing I'll never ever do is get over you. I dream you every night. Every. Damn. Night. And I wake up and grab the dress you left behind and I wrap its strap around my penis like one of those rubber rings meant to make you last super long. I've been doing it for… a long time, love. Believe me. A long time. So long and so tight did I wrap the strap that I managed to damage the veins in my penis. It's bad… I can no longer get it hard now. At 29… The other day I came home with another girl. I was trying to replace you. D' you think I succeeded? It just won't get up. And even when it did, it didn't stay up. The girl thought it's because I smoke two packs a day, but that's bullshit. Everybody knows smoking doesn't actually affect that thing. That thing is only affected by the love men can't get past. And in my case it's you. You. You. YOU. And I'm not even mad. If I can't do it with you, then what's the point of doing it at all? There is no point! My love, you still haven't replied to any of my letters. That doesn't mean I'll stop writing and sending them. I just want you to know that the red dress you left behind… Well, it's faded now. I painted it with unimaginable loads of white. And how could I wash it when it still smells like you? Well, I guess now there'll be no more of that… But I still sleep with it on my pillow and hold a part of it in my mouth. I still love you, my love. And nothing will ever change that. P.S. The way I'll die will be with your dress wrapped around my head and the straps squeezing my neck. Now all the means of self pleasure stand in that. I love you.
He sealed the letter into an envelope and lit another cigarette
what else to do when the rain falls so heavy against the window outside?
Get melancholic get poetic have a drink have another
close and then lock the door to your room and don't listen to the voices coming from outside They want to distract you They don't want you to be successful and make it in life
They're all haters
He covered his ears and squinted his eyes at the computer screen doing his best to block out the negativity that came from beyond the door
“I can't get up!” the voice croaked. “Come help me. I can't get up.” And then with a cry, “Please!”
“Shut the fuck up, grandma! I'm trying to write in here. Jesus Christ, I'm trying to make it big, don't you understand? For fuck's sake now.”
He had also sent a manuscript to a potential publisher and was waiting for a reply. It's been two days already
The house doesn't feel like home, mother. Not since you left for the other world after father left for another house from outside town
Now there's just me here. And my older brother who is younger than me mentally and will remain so for the rest of his life He still hears whispers coming from every dark corner of the house and because of this our electric bill is enormous
I can no longer take this
I'm not strong enough
I'm not willing enough
This cross is too damn heavy. It's breaking my back, breaking my soul
I want to get a better job and eventually a car and a wife and start a family
I can't do that while taking care of my troubled brother
I quit.
Tonight I will make his nightmares come true The electricity will go out and suddenly the whispers that come from the dark will become voices and then screams and they'll get him
A rabbit can die if it gets too scared. I believe this is also valid for my troubled brother. I'll only make sure to leave a few sharp objects near him
I know he'll do it
And I'm sorry that he'll do it but there's no other way to break this shackle
One day I'll debate the issue with you, mother But for now you can't argue with me
Daydreaming as a profession 