#kadad

“I’ll do the report on my own.”

Her first words to me.

I’m a boy. A bit of a baller. A “man whore,” as a favorite of mine calls me. But one that knows his words. Knows how to win them over. The things that blush and hide and shake and move and roll in the circles of their godly construction. Those things that send a rush though my core and up into my chest and remind my head that this existence is lucid and free. Fun. I own those things. Those things about life. I win. And it’s fun.

“You’re nothing but trouble. Don’t talk to me.”

And little does she know the mark she’s placed upon her forehead. From her very first few sentences, I know. She’s next.

I quickly find my curiosity enamoured by her childish pens and devilish prada. Her derisory diction. I sit next to her. Every day. And I begin from the start. I watch her move. I watch her talk. I make note of every wavelength, measure every heel to the inch. She has pens. These ridiculous sharp silver pens in the safe boxes of every supply store. And I take shots at her,

a boy,

hunting for his newest feast and piece of game. And she fights back.

Barks, and growls, and scratches back at the gun in my hands.

Hunts become battles. Battles become war. And I feel it. The sensation in every conversation. In her words. The feeling.

It’s fun.

Every motion I make, she counters with her own sick idea of conquest. In the existence of her sheltered world she believes every breath she delivers to be worthy of the submission of her subordinate population. She’s a child. In the cute symbols of ghosts on her pens to the color organization of every book, her utter obsession with cleanliness, neatness, a perfect nonexistent world proves the ignorance in the way she holds herself in this existence. This girl, a naive and juvenile impossibility. Is.

I steal her pens. I catch her tongues. I take, and I break her every line. Her every thought. It’s fun. And it’s fun.

She hits me.

And it’s fun.

And with the taste of blood on my tongue, I think of her.

As other things take my hips and bite my tongue, I can still taste the rage in her hands and eyes.

My blood. And her scowl. Become the same.

An addictive tinge.

Of delicious pain.

Pain.

A thing I only knew in fists and nails and bruises and thorns on the inside of a woman’s virginity. But now. I know everything.

Two words. One word. A sentence. And silence. Silence. Not even words of rage in the sight of her arrogantly abominable gaze. And in her silence I felt a withdrawal I had never experienced before. My latest addiction. Pulled from under me. And what was this new thing. This pain. This hurt in my chest. This is why I never felt for relationships. She wasn’t even a relationship. But I felt it.

Vulnerable.

A thing I had dreaded from the moment of my conceivance.

For days. Weeks. Months. I ignored it. I ignored it. I bit tongues, just to taste their blood on my lips instead of my own. I reached for hips. Grips. The round comfort of their presence. I don’t care. I don’t need this. I don’t care.

But then.

She smiles.

“Checkmate, Zinti.”

And with those two words a cage on my soul crumbles, falls to the ground as I feel a liberation from my agony. Another puff of her drug. I’m addicted. But I know now. The existence of this thing. Called pain.

And pain…

“Stop it. Shut up..!!”

She hurls her desk at me, as I quickly drop to the floor to avoid the bruises she has yet to leave on my image. But what the hell? What the hell is with this girl?

“SHUT UP!! IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!!”

She screams. She hits me. She… hits me? But this is something else. Something else entirely.

And she gasps. And runs. And I’m left alone with these desks to think. To think. But of what?

I reset the desks. I hear a sink down the hall. Turn off. And then on. Again.

I.

She.

Is something else.

I’ve memorized every facet of her existence at this point. Her hair. Her shoes. The way she walks. The way she speaks. Honors Econ. AP Lit. AP Physics. AP Calc. Her four pens. Her habit to tap. The length of her glare. The colors in each of her notebooks, as childish as they were. I knew everything. I knew it all. Except.

I never knew you had the ability to feel pain.

The next day I wait for her in the hall. “…Excuse me?” She stares, apparently dumbfounded at my ability to share in her ignorance. And I know. I know. But there is nothing I can do. I’ve become addicted to these days. Her words. I’ve already attempted to cut them from my life once, let them exist separate from the world I have become so proud of creating and living and existing in. But all that left me with was a sharp and brutal knife in the context of my soul. My. Something. And I can’t. She can’t. We can’t.

I. She. We.

And as she takes her pedestal. Her crown. As she stands in front of a lectern and a sea of pathetic peers and simpleton subordinates, we know. I know.

This is only the beginning.

.

In college I’m a mess.

“You’re a mess, Rashaad.”

Her voice is mixed with the smell of coffee and the intruding beat of a hangover. Every day, I take more. More of the girls. More of the liquor. More of her bitterly satisfying words. And it’s fun. It’s great. I laugh at every new insult she flings. Every new glare that I wasn’t aware existed the day before. Her gaze. She’s amazing. I steal her pens. I steal her furniture. Because, no matter where I go, no matter where I am, I can’t help but think. Damn. But the look on her face when she sees this is going to be so worth it.

Your face will be so worth it.

And every night. I press myself into another woman. And every morning.

“Positively pathetic.”

And the beating.

The beating.

Her fists come flying into view as I wrestle with tiny bones and delicate hands. A table. A chair.

“Yamete!!”

A thrill of a battle enters through my veins, and exists through the touch of her palms pressed into mine. She’s cold.

“Yamete!!!”

In her tongue, there are words that I could never begin to comprehend as language. Her riddles. Her crypts that can only reach the homes of the dead. But I know.

She shouts,

in a fit of rage,

and fear,

and desperation,

and confusion,

and she screams.

But I know.

Pain.

On her tongue.

.

Her tongue.

.

This pain is something I can withstand.

But.

“... You mean it.”

The curves of a woman are so imprudently intoxicating. Hips. And breasts. Lips. And nipples. Every circle, cyclic and forever. Every arch, a representation of an orbit around the existence of a man’s pleasure and passion.  Lust, the ever important fruit of knowledge which reminds us all that happiness is the sole pursuit of all human endeavors. And happiness. And you.

You.

All that I have ever wanted I have taken. I own the things that blush and moan and reach for the fruit of knowledge I provide.

There is nothing in this world that exists like the thorns on the inside of your small and childish mouth.

I allow smoke to escape from my lungs when my chest is incapable of escaping from the pain of absence in your words. I try. To break from the weakness you’ve placed upon my back and my arms. To break out, and escape from the possibility of madness. But your grip on me. Your grip on my hands. And my throat. Your small, cold fingers. Your tongue draws me back, every time, as I am incapable of suffering the withdrawal from your drugs. What are they. Tell me. There are words for them, aren’t there. Shouldn’t you know them. You know every word. So what is it. Besides fear. And pain. Tell me.

I want them.

I want you.

And everything I have ever wanted...

My hands press against yours. Your hands press against the wall behind you.

You’re warm.

And as I touch your skin. And take your tongue.

Finally. I take your tongue.

And as I finally take your tongue.

You moan.

And you blush.

Oh, God.

Exciting, and engulfing, and with every mewling moan of your delicate and desperate body, an electrifying cord pulls from my chest to my groin. And I tug. I tug at your hips. And your skirts. And with the fever of your shudders, I feel it. This pounding. This beating.

Are you looking at me. Is my hair sexy enough. My hands. Are my hands soft enough for you to feel. Are you listening. Do you know. Do you know? Lust. Here? Is this it?

I take it. I take it all. Your sweater. Your blouse. Your skirt. Your bra. Your shoes. Your socks. Your pantyhose. Your lace. Your breasts. Your cunt. Your moans. And your virginity. The thorns on the inside of your virginity. I don’t care. God, the way a body feels. But yours. Yours. You moan my name, and you’re more than a woman. You’re mine. You’re mine.

Me. You. Yours. Mine.

And you’re mine.

Again.

And again.

Your face is so worth it.

.

But things

are different now.

This beating. This incessant beating. In my head. And my chest.

The taste of smoke still escapes my lungs in every hearty laugh I give without her.

The women. And the liquor. Everything tastes of drugs. Lust. I feel it. In every suck of another woman’s tongue, I imagine if it were hers. Her tongue. On my body. Beneath my foreskin and between my teeth. Sweat. Like a fever. And cries. Slightly empty without the depth of her soul.

Her soul.

My blood still tastes like her fists and her claws.

And in her touch on my back, the pain of insertion, like the needle of a narcotic. But delicate glass.

“Itai, itai, itai, itai!!”

I scowl, and I bleed, as I pick her up and allow her to kick and flail as she reaches for the spirit of death behind me.

“Dekinai… Dekinai…”

And as her limbs give in, and she slumps, slowly, on my shoulder. And I hold her. Mine. A child. A girl. This girl. What is a girl?

And again. She is mine.

And again. She succumbs.

To death. And then to me. And then to death. Again.

And as I stare at her form, on the ground, again, without strength. She is pathetic. Continuously caving into this pain of her persistent existence, finding her only peace in concession to her fate as one with the dreadful dead.

But yet.

Am I any better?

I reset the desks. I bring her to her bed. Still bleeding from a fresher orifice than the night before. Is the blood on her carpet mine or hers? And as the sink turns on. And off. And on. Again. I am left by myself to think. But of what?

Who am I?

What am I doing?

I live in constant fear of the very soul which brings me life. Vulnerable. I feel vulnerable. And I never wanted this. I never wanted any of this. I don’t want this. But I want her. I want my life back. But I want her. Who is she? What is she? Who is she. But as I stand in the doorway. And stare. I know that I know. The one thing I do know. Is who she is. But I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I don’t know what to do. Or what to say. I don’t know the name of her drugs. But I do know.

The way she places her hand on me.

The way she looks at me. Different from before.

The furrow of her brow. The silence of her gaze.

And I see it.

No.

No.

I can’t.

She can’t.

We can’t.

Itai.

The beating.

“Rashaad.”

This beating.

I don’t.

Know.

Because.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

I’ll smile tomorrow.

When she’s here.

I’ll be here.

Here.

She snorts.

“Oh my god.”

Here.

.

Here.

I’m here.

I’m here.

You don’t eat. You don’t sleep.

The sound of your record player skipping at the end of its course of cyclic repetition still leaves a ringing in my ears with the absence of your sound. Your breath, there, still, silent against the sound of white noise. And I stare, at the ceiling, your hair in my hand, as you rest here. And a beat. A silent beat.

Again, you find yourself in my chest. You’re cold. But I’m warm. And though your knees still shake from the things that I’ve taken, you press in. For some reason. Into my chest.

And when you say it.

My name.

And when you have nothing else left to say.

A thorn from my past mistakes prods at the newly found heart in my chest. My heart. That thing. The mistakes of my past haunt me in every touch, every whisper, every bit of silence. She haunts me. In every kiss I swallow yet another one of her painful, beating thorns. And she haunts me. Like a ghost.

It still hurts. It was meant to. But I can’t fight it anymore. I’ve tried. Whatever this is. At the end. I always give in. A beat. In every mention of my name.

“Rashaad.”

And I’ve lost. Again. Yet again.

But I’m here.

She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t sleep. She waits to die. And I bring her a fridge. She rests, bruised and exhausted by her demons or myself. And I wait. I try to leave. I try to move. But I can’t. She’s sleeping on my arm.

She’s in my chest, her arms around mine, and I hold her.

She sleeps, there, on the floor in my blood. And I stay. Here. With the sound of her absence.

She asks, quietly, for my lips. And I can’t refuse. I can’t say I don’t want to.

Smoke escapes from my lungs like a canary. And I’m jealous.

She touches my chest. She takes my hair from it’s place. And I’m beating. Beating.

Tomorrow.

But more than tomorrow.

I

almost begin to enjoy this.

Pain.

Until.

“Junichi and I are getting married in December.”

.

.

.

What.

I.

We.

No.

No.

She says. Nothing. And I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to feel. I don’t. Know. And the beating stops.

The rhythm of my heart in her pulse stops. And I just.

What.

The hell.

Rei.

You can’t

do this to me.

Why are you doing this to me? My words spill out in a hot mess of anger and fear. My tongue. Still rushing. As it tries to think. To think. But of what? This is it. This is the end. Do you think I wanted this? I never wanted this. I never wanted. Anything. But everything. You had. Your gaze. Your pens. The desks. The sinks. Sinking. Somewhere. And somewhere. Besides tomorrow. Is sinking. I’m screaming. Itais. And yametes. And all the things on the tip of your tongue that should belong to the man who took your eyes and your virginity and the frozen touches you never gave to anyone else. You said. You said never talked to anyone else. So why. Why are you giving this away. Us. You’re waiting. To die. Why. Why are you doing this to me?

Why are you doing this to me? Seriously, I need to fucking go. This is way too fuckin heavy for me. I mean, I've taken some pretty heavy shit for you? But this takes the cake. How the hell am I supposed to do this anymore??  But, you know, I hate to admit it, but at this point I'm just doing this for you now. I'm doing this for you, and I sure as hell hope you're having the time of your life knowing you've ruined mine. You can't tell me you didn't want this. And you need me. Jesus Christ, Rei. I'm not. Shit, you think I wanted this either? I didn't want this. I never wanted this! This is literally the exact opposite if everything I ever fucking wanted!! Listen to us! Who the hell are we?? God, Rei. This sucks. This sucks and I don't know what to do. Don't tell me you're just gonna let yourself think about me when you fuck him. I'm not gonna be your fucking ghost. Jesus Christ.  Is this just how it is now? You're just going to grow a kid and think about me in front of him and just live your totally expected life, and you're just gonna keep me as your personal fucking pet because you need me to keep your goddamn sanity. I don't know what the hell I want anymore. I don't know! You think I have all the fucking answers?? How about we just live our lives doing what we want and fucking pray that we die happy?? You!! Jesus FUCKING Christ, Rei, this is why I HATE goddamn relationships!! God knows that's what I've been trying to do, but you just have to fuck everything up don't you! You need this and I want that, and you're not gonna give me shit and I'm just gonna give you everything because neither of us know how to get it up anymore. I don't know, Rei. I don't know! I don't fucking know.

I don’t fucking know.

I don’t know.

I don’t.

Fucking.

Know.

Anymore.

And as hot tears touch my face for the first time in millennia. I want to say I don’t care. But I do.

And it hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

.

Your eyes.

They’re blue, aren’t they.

Blue.

Like the packet in front of me.

Of you.

I’ve known all of these years about the conditions of your parole. The things they say to you. The way they exist. And they do exist. Gramps. Your family. The wicked ways in which they wrap their will around your wits and drive you to the edge of a reality you dare to call life. Life. You’re hardly alive. You constantly feel on the verge of frostbite until I touch your hips and force a fever which perspirates your palms and flushes your face into a rich red reading of the things in your throat. Thorns. There. Far from me, now. And as I reach for you.

I take cold showers.

I eat less from my fridge.

And I wonder. What voice would you choose for me in your world. My laugh? My shouts? My foreplay? Or the silence.

What do they sound like to you.

What will life be without.

You.

Drugs.

In my hand. A heap of hallucinogens. Blue. Like you.

Is this it?

Is this it?

.

I hear you.

I taste them.

In my eyes the scent of something stronger than your cunt. A push. Like yours. But back.

No. Forward. No. Black.

In the circles of your godly construction I can feel the whispers of the Gods. A God. Or the Devil. Demons. Black. No. White. No. These shapes. Taste. Like something. Family.

あなたは私たちが失敗しました。

あなたが失ってしまいました。

あなたが負けた。

寒いです。

Like you.

..

.

…

I wake.

In her arms.

.

Malika.

.

I hit her.

“What the hell are you doing here!!”

“Saving your life!”

“I’m dead! I’m already dead!”

“Rashaad!!”

I kiss her.

I fuck her.

Fuck.

Fuck.

.

Fuck.

“Her name is Miyuki.”

Why am I not surprised.

“... Tomorrow?”

Sure.

And for what turned into days. Weeks. Months. Years. Seasons go by as I shelter the scars left on my heart from the wars we waged on the hunting grounds.

Occasionally I forget. Sometimes. But I regret it.

I stop paying for warm water.

In each new woman that places their head on my chest. I feel a pang of withdrawal from the tongue I’d known so well. I brush hair from their faces, and none of them are white like yours. None of them feel right, wrapped around my finger. But as I live. And fuck. And play. I forget. Just a little. Only a little.

But I never let my phone leave my bedside.

And I was right.

“Rashaad.”

There she is. That voice. I know. And still, somehow, even now, a beat.

The drugs help. The drugs become fun.

And Malika. Often standing in the living room of my apartment. Her hijab in her hands. Her red hair draped almost to the floor. I haven’t seen this much red since you cut in me. Was that my blood or yours? But she becomes fun.

“Definitely hers.”

I can’t fucking believe this.

Our kids are stuck in the same mistakes we couldn’t stop from making ourselves all those years ago. By some twisted hand of fate. Some humor God has. You laugh.

Your husband calls.

I hang up.

I don’t need to know more.

I know your address.

And as I walk through the halls and wait for the old familiar hurricane, in the eye of the storm lies your daughter’s bedroom. Her things. Things you never had. Notebooks, colored with childish care. Memories. With familiar drawings still left hiding between the pages of every carefully taken note. Furniture. Of her own. And. Pens. Five pens. One misshapen, as if lost and then found by a loving owner.

And I know better now. She didn’t make your mistakes. We did.

We.

Rei.

I don’t know what to say.

But here.

Now.

I can hear your laughter. And it’s the first time in years that I’ve been able to hear it clearly.

You take my hair from it’s place. And I can still feel it. Beating.

You gave it a name before, didn’t you? One of those words from your webs of wicked wizardry or some shit? Gan? Or something. It doesn’t actually matter.

You’re here.

I’m here.

I told you I would, didn’t I?

And with your tongue. I am happy.

Rei.