the TV was blaring political crap again somewhere in the background
always the same fear inducing story
but she didn't need the political turmoil in the country and the world at large to make her feel afraid
She looked at Leonardo, her turtle through the glass of the tank
"Soon enough we'll be evicted. I've seen homeless people with dogs and cats and even birds, but never a turtle. What the hell am I gonna do with you, Leo?"
Perched on top of its wet rock, the turtle looked at her and not at her at the same time
There was no fear, no anxiety, no trouble in its eyes
it simply existed
was alive
It just was
"You're just too dumb to get it," she said
got up and went in the other room to turn off the TV
"You're just too dumb to get it," she said to her own reflection in the black mirror of the TV screen
Right
now back to playing the electric guitar in her empty room
lying in bed
drinking the cheapest whiskey
attempting to play with herself and failing because of depression
giving up
drinking some more
eventually falling asleep
One time Leonardo showed up into her dream as a guitar with a turtle's carapace and it said to her, "Too dumb to get it? Hah! Says she who can't even live in the now and constantly tries to be someone else somewhere else in another time. Dumbest shit anyone can do, really."
"I was raised in a strict Christian home," he said as he poured another glass of whiskey. "That's why I turned atheist right after I left to be on my own."
"At 18?" I asked
"Nope. At 24."
I liked the guy. He was somewhere in his late fifties looking forward to pensioning
worked as janitor in an office building
and the reason they all called him crazy was that he swore he saw someone in the women's bathroom right after closing time as he went to clean
A female figure standing by the mirror
she must've been real, he said, because her presence activated the sensor lights in the room
It was a story I've heard dozens of times
And I don't care how real it is
I believe him because I want to
I want the story to be real
Had he not had a story like that to share we wouldn't have been friends today
"Wanna hear my advice?" I asked him. And without him saying anything I went on. "Don't quit. This job... is perfect. Trust me."
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
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
Daydreaming as a profession 