insect repellent ·
2 September 04

It’s evening, we’re all sat in a room. Don’t remember who’s. Lots of familiar faces, some friends, some acquaintances, many that do nothing for me. Don’t want to be here, just want to go, but I bare it, unsociable as I am.

They talk for hours, I smoke for hours. I take a cigarette out of the red and white magic box of death, place the sandy coloured end in my mouth, pick up the clipper that’s bright yellow in colour (perhaps it could be used to guide planes in to land), roll my thumb down on to the ridged round wheel and flick it, watching as the initial blue flame turns yellow, glowing, watching.

The flame communicates a destiny, a will, a need to be used. The white end of the cigarette hisses, and screams, my ears pick up the crackling sound of the burning, tobacco, paper and God knows how many chemicals being incinerated by this small flame.

I sit back, in the reclining chair, close my eyes and inhale. Once more my ears pick up the sound of the crackling of the burn. Although others are talking in the room, for me there is no other sound. My eyes closed, I drift for a moment, to a world much further away.

On the beach, near the water, on a wooden chair, in the middle of nowhere. The sea is dark, washing the sand with every sweep, the foam building and then disappearing into nothingness. Does it want me? Does it want the chair? Does it want my smoke? A mouth forms, as best it can, “Pass the lighter man, I need to light my smoke”.

“Wake up Jin! Pass the lighter please” he says to me as I wake up. The dream and reality merging, reality disappointingly bringing me back from my dream. The cigarette is half smoked, with the remnant of ash hanging off the cherry, like a snake ridding itself of old skin. I throw the lighter over to him, he quickly sparks his smoke, taking no pleasure out of the process.

I have no addiction like he does. He takes the whole process as a habit, he doesn’t realise it, and will never admit it. He looks older now, older than before. Underneath, I imagine all his veins are giving up, his skin cells dying, replacing his shedded skin with patches. It doesn’t happen though, it’s all in my head you see. They’re talking about something, I’m only a foot away, in the reclining chair, with head back staring at the dull yellow ceiling. What is it with yellow? Is it significant here? What does it actually mean? Perhaps there’s no purpose to it, as coincidence does happen.

The arm starts to pulse under the thick, warm jumper I’m wearing. I grip my arm, they don’t notice, nor does it bother me that they don’t notice. It’s an observation that I make, but it has no significance to my life. I can feel something thumping, as if trapped in my arm, using Morse code to send a send a signal, request SOS or trying to find a hollow part that it, whatever it may be, can tear through.

I expect my heart to give in at any moment, and I don’t know why, though it could be because it’s slightly accelerated. I want to take the half smoked cigarette and burn it through my jumper, and then it would reach my arm. The burning of the jumper would create a hot, sticky liquid that would fuse with the flesh and cause further damage and infection. I want to do this, but I feel the others aren’t ready for such a Christmas present. At least not this year.

I feel absent and isolated from the whole experience. It’s not a place I really want to be. The imagination starts to work, as I watch them, they shrink and I grow. They’re in a box, which contains sand. They’re sat on the same couch, on the sand and they’re talking away. I pick up an object, any object, which in this case is an ashtray and let go of it in the box. The ashtray falls, the shadow envelopes the entire box, as they talk, they look up.

The ashtray falls too fast for them to move. It’s as big as the box, so where would they go? Instinct takes over. Some clamber of the others to protect them, the majority try to duck and hide, or struggle with others to get underneath them. It’s amusement, of a moderate fashion. They’re unaware the density of the object will crush them all, regardless of how many corpses they hide under. They all die, I think, at least I can’t see anyone alive.

“Would you get married?” one of them speaks, leering her fucking bug eyes at me. What the hell is she looking at? I expect her tongue to lash out and catch the fly that’s buzzing around the room. Perhaps she’s a chameleon, her eyes are so big because she needs the room to move them in a 360 degree direction. Still, I don’t like this freak looking at me in a way that possesses me as the dinner of the day. I don’t have fucking wings, I don’t buzz unless I smoke weed, so what the fucking hell is she looking at?

You’re a freak with a paper mache head aren’t you? You make other freaks look like bishops. Bug eye, your parents forgot to kill you, so they asked me to do instead.

As it is, I don’t answer back. I have nothing to say to bug eyes. Bug eyes, quiets down and sits back in her seat, closer to the others than I am. Fucking bug eyes asking me a shitty question like that. Are we married? Would I fucking tell her? Will I bollocks. Fucking bug eyes and her stare. Perhaps if I take the yellow clipper and dry out her eyes, I can then pop them with my finger, and little bugs will run out of the popped eyes. I could then split her head open, like a paper mache head and fill it with sweets.

Bug eyes should be killed. I think I saw anti-bug spray in the kitchen, perhaps I would sneak out with out her noticing. She may be telepathic though, so she already senses what I’m going to do and will stop me. Better not take the risk, in case I become dinner. Think nice thoughts. Bug eye, you’re a fucking freak. A real fucking freak with bug eyes and a weird head. Bug eyes, you’re going to kill someone with those eyes, you’ll end up stealing people’s souls, and that’s not fair to people. By people I mean not freaks like you. Bug eyes, you’re a scary piece of shit that should be shot.

Are you getting any of this? Can you hear me? I’m going to pop your eyes and open up your head, you’re probably in to that shit anyway. You’re a freak with a paper mache head aren’t you? You make other freaks look like bishops. Bug eye, your parents forgot to kill you, so they asked me to do instead. Ok I was kidding, don’t eat me. Your breath fucking stinks you see. Plus you have bug eyes. I don’t want to be eaten by a freak such as yourself, nothing personal of course, it’s just you’re a mistake. Normal person to bug eye, please acknowledge my insults.

The other girl turns to me, she repeats the question. Did you ask it before, or was it bug eyes? Fuck! Why has bug eyes got claws? Was she typing to much? Did she wank her boyfriend off to much and got her hand locked? Bug eyes, you have claws. This isn’t normal. Stop changing, it’s wrong. You have bug eyes and claw, I don’t know what to call you anymore, maybe bug eyes with wank claws?

If you can read my thoughts, you know I’m not scared, but disappointed in what a freak you are. Dammit bug eyes, stop jerking people off, and stop typing, didn’t your mother tell you? No wait, she abandoned you because of your big fucking eyeballs. Eyeballs that make beach balls look like rat droppings. Your eyes are fucking huge. If I took one out, I think I could fly the world in 80 days.

Stop repeating the fucking question, I heard you the first time. No, I won’t get married. Will you? Well, I don’t particularly care if you will or not, so please don’t tell me. Am I fucking invisible? I don’t want to fucking know. Dear God woman, shut the fuck up. She’s ranting about wanting to get married at some point in her life, first she wants to make something of her life, and all that sentimental bullshit. He doesn’t care, he’ll tell her he wants babies with her if she’ll sleep with him. Still, he promises nothing, and they only hear what they want. As much a freak as bug eyes aren’t you, you stupid cow.

Why? I don’t fucking know. I couldn’t trust her I guess. I trust no one. Pretty simple. I would make her stop trusting me, then she would cheat on me, lie to me, and betray me. I would kill her, and then I would kill myself. It’s romantic, if you look at if from a nihilistic viewpoint. Sick? You think so? Isn’t it love though? Till death do us part? In sickness and in health?

Death is part of that, induced, or natural. I might love her, I wouldn’t feel jealous, just I wouldn’t trust her. I trust no one right? I particularly dont trust women, as they lie. They lie far, far, far too much. Look at bug eyes, she’s a freak, but she says she’s a girl. She’s a freak with big monster eyes. Bad example. Women, say one thing, do another. Women, think one thing, say another. Women never tell you when things go wrong, never when they go right. Pessimist? No. Realists base then ideas on experience, that’s what I am. I always had trust, I betrayed them. Imposing prejudice and fears? When it comes to the crunch they buckle.

I look at him, he looks at me. It’s different, we’re different, we’ve changed, we’ve grown up. He looks older, and I’m still the child. I’m drifting back. Nothing makes sense. I smoke the rest of the cigarette, and the room darkens. Who were they? What did they teach me? Nothing.

They wasted my time. I don’t want to see them again. I hear the sound of the crackling one last time. I throw the cigarette in the darkness, it lands, flat on something. A surface, it’s the only location of light I have now. Everything else is dark. It flickers, it burns the remainder of the cigarette, slowly. I sit down, and watch it burn, I can’t hear it anymore, I’m too far away. It’s getting darker though, the cigarette burns out. It’s morning again.