deep cuts and jagged longhand look rushed and impulsive, so on what premise is inquisition appropriate. None, I resolve, as I run my fingers across the dried blood on my skin. No?
A good amount of time has passed, and I have done nothing but admire the sin on my arm. My bedroom door is four feet from the bathroom door. A thick steam of fog rolls into my room. I hear water running; I hear the scream coming from the bathroom again. Without rush, I stand and move toward the sound. I step into the hallway, a plot of land spanning two feet narrow from bathroom from bedroom, then the screaming stops. It echos and compresses and dithers, then, it stops. The vapors hold steady. I see the empty spot in front of the mirror as it was before. I am frightened of what it may make visible. Reluctantly, I face the mirror. “DON’T LOOK SO SURPRISED,” it reads. I shiver. I tremble. I exhibit every mannerism that a person witnessing a bathroom mirror communicate with them would exhibit. The sky is turning brighter. I couldn’t be more awake.
I fumble through the myriad of documents and mementos that I earlier poured out of kitchen cabinets and start arranging them in an obsessive fashion. I am making good time. I have sorted the contents into three piles. They surround me one to my left, one to my right, one to the front. They are sorted as garbage, paperwork, and trinkets. Everything from taxes to broken-hearted poetry reside in “paperwork”. Rubik’s cube, Yo-Yo, channel changer, and the like sit in “trinkets” pile. Trash, well that sits in the “garbage” pile- the one to my left, if such detail helps describe the setting, or if that’s my intention.
The saturation of dawn forces dark red hues back into my curtains. I do not think they are trendy anymore. I notice the arrival of morning out the corner of my eye. Birds are singing; it must be five a.m. or right around that hour. The relentless chirps of black birds and robins harmonize as well as something that harmonizes poorly. I notice a faded piece of paper noted in shaky longhand to my left. There are a couple drops of blood on it, but that does not lower its legibility:
“Eyes don’t lie, so when theirs meet mine
It pains me so much that I took what is pretty
Cast unto it hate like lamps in dark cities”
This is quite a compelling piece of prose, if I may be so vain. I place my left thumb on the top right corner of the paper and turn it around. I assumed the back-page would contain more jots of misguided wisdom, however this particular composition is inked in blood. The penmanship is notable and it reads deeper than my own:
“I do reprimand, all that he’s become
Furious storms are so unpredictable
He is I and he hurts like hell- just as well”
Who wrote such sorrow? Most certainly not I, since I would remember writing the preceding. Where would I acquire enough blood to handwrite that? I notice that I am bleeding all over the floor- in fact, I am sitting cross-legged surrounded by a fair amount of my own blood. It is coming from my wrists. The wounds don’t look fatal, but they don’t look healthy. I must go to the bathroom if I am to retrieve medical supplies to repair my skin. Screams are echoing down the hall. The piercing cries hit my ears with robustness and clarity. They are coming from the bathroom again.
I breathe heavy and feel light-headed. I am staring at my forearms. They are dripping fresh-drawn blood. Glossy reds find their way between protruding veins; blood slides elegantly along varicose lines. I am both exhilarated and appalled. Only out of necessity, do I raise my stance.
With an irritable expression, I stare hard down the hall. I look unflinchingly at the bathroom door, which I must breach. The screams get so loud that I start bleeding faster. I watch as my hands begin shaking uncontrollably. Then, screams become less frequent. They slowly quiet to a whisper. They do not sound as hostile as they did before. Then, the whispers get louder. They no no boundary. They speak fast. They surround me.
Technically the Fourth Chapter (Note: If you have skipped chapters one through three and are just now joining us, you may need to amend your reading habits.)
I breathe heavy and feel light-headed. I am staring at my forearms. They are dripping freshly drawn blood. Glossy reds find their way between protruding veins; blood slides elegantly along varicose lines. I am both exhilarated and appalled. Only out of necessity, do I raise my stance.
With an irritable expression, I stare hard down the hall. I look unflinchingly at the bathroom door as if I were a cat expecting a blink. The screams get so loud that I start bleeding faster. I watch as my hands begin shaking uncontrollably. Then screams become less frequent. They slowly quiet to a whisper. They do not sound as hostile as they did before. Then, the whispers get louder. They know no boundary. They speak fast and surround me.
From all directions rushed conversations. They speak in a foreign language at speeds too rapid for me to understand. My face feels flushed. I throw my right foot behind me sluggishly; It helps balance my wavering posture.
I have repaired my skin, and I’ve given all attention to the whispers. I’ve been at it for sometime. I strain my ears then between unknown tongues I hear a few English words. So far, I have heard the word “the” and “small”. This is no breakthrough in figuring out what the hell is going on in this house, but it is worth mention.
Words echo as if I were throwing a tea party for tyrants in a chamber made of stone. My wall just said “wall”, and a phrase that I may have heard wrong, but one that sounded like a racist joke. I start pacing. As I move around, I notice that the conversations change as I move about. I find it quite compelling that I can selectively choose the whispers I would prefer to hear. Of course, I would really prefer to be left alone. I know I need sleep, but I am not the least bit tired. I am too enthralled to rest.
I step into the living room, which is in perfect order as it should be. I hear the word “crazy”. I feel like someone’s watching me. Then, I step into the kitchen, which is in perfect order as it should be. I hear the word “little”. I feel like someone’s right next to me breathing on my neck.
I move into the bathroom and the house falls silent. I have heard the phrase “spine chilling”; it will not suffice. It does not suffice as a deep, wavering voice puts pieces together. “The beige walls in the little room are crazy,” I am informed. The voice hushes like a student speaking under one's breath. I try to discern. Still, I distinguish nothing further than that which has been disclosed. I think to myself, you heard the boy. Some certainties arise. That wall's neutral status will soon be replaced. An anonymous source has brought forth evidence suggesting that the walls in said room may have something to hide. When I toured this home prior to purchase, the walls in the little beige room were just walls. Now, I learn that they lack sanity. I walk to my room and grab the box-spring which rests atop my mattress. I drag it across my spotless berber carpet and move it into the beige room. I push it against the east wall. I grab the mattress and push it against the south wall. “Fuck you,” say’s the wall. I think to myself, is that a threat? The wall heard my thoughts; it answers my question, “Baby, that’s a promise.”
I am quite shaken by this incident, and I cannot bear to be alone with my thoughts any longer. I hit the power button on the television remote. I watch nothing, since I resolved to punish the television earlier today. "Rather, tomorrow. Yes, that's right." I smash buttons on the remote and make motions that, an evening ago, would have widened acoustics. Of course, it fails to drown out hysterical voices that are incredibly obvious, yet incomprehensible. Whispers rehearse languages I cannot identify. Much hostility can still be detected, even between phrases of unknown vocabulary.
My heavy eyes shutter, as my lazy lashes purse together. A quick spastic movement throws eyes wide, then an argument pursues. I think aloud, bouncing quickly from opinion to opinion. "Since I have much to accomplish, rest seems an inconvenience." I discourage irrational thought; I exhale heavily. "Sweet slumber, hello. There is nothing to learn today that can't be learned tomorrow." I interject, "That was a foolish thought made more foolish by verbal declaration." I concur. Without
hesitation statements are made, contradicted, and debated. "While shallow in some respects, it is perfectly understandable to require sleep. Animals need sleep. Do you think you're an exception to nature's laws?" Of course, I do. "Then, we have resolved this issue." So, I shall not sleep. "Perhaps, you would fancy a subject of change?" You mean a change of subject. "Exactly. After all, we've much time. Acute mental alertness such as this cannot be reproduced. Furthermore, a string of out-loud thought might detract from the whispers and the fact that your walls are crazy." I believe these are all strong points.
As I've mentioned before, and as I will again, my home is impeccably kept. In fact, a few minor organizational tasks are the only chores available to me. For now, I decide not to approach any busy work. I am empty of purpose for as much as an hour. I pace through the kitchen with my glance fixed on the door that leads to a room with walls that are crazy.
My facial features are dulled and darkened. They agree with my health, but moreover, with the feeling of distance and displeasure that I have conjured against a little room- a room that has cursed and threatened. It’s a room with a door that stands no chance. I lean my right shoulder toward the door and
Storms Much Stronger and Other Woes Page 3
