Underground is...

The girl I knew died. She was lost in psychosis. She saw her own life end, she moved across, she fell for hours. She comes back to reality with fear in her eyes and mumbled words. “It’s not a gift, it’s a curse.” she insists. She slips between death and life. Psychosis and reality. I watch her come back to life, come back to me. I feel her die. She can never come back as she was.

I care for her, I miss her. 

We passed her car on the motorway, waving festivals tickets out of the window at her and her passengers. We parked next to her, awkwardly unloading rucksacks and crates of alcohol in the limited space we were granted. While waiting to enter campsites her friends left her, and I beckoned to her to join our company. Separated in the queue, reunited as we began to trek our things across the fields. Again she was abandoned by her friends and left to stand awkwardly awaiting their return. I gave her my card and said I hoped she had a good weekend, expecting no response.

I quickly found my camp and prepared to switch off my phone only to find a message. “Nice card, very smooth.” I read with a sensation of déjà vu. “The name is M***.” I offered drinks later that evening, considering the possibility of conflict between her and a regular hook up I was sharing camp with. Admitting to myself that the idea of a rise from my J would excite me, and the similarities between the two girls was intriguing. 

I teased J through the afternoon, bragging my seduction of the stranger before the revelry had even begun. She called me out for exaggeration. Wearing a pout, dared me to pursue M. Later on both girls and I drank from the same bottle as cards folded into games, M wore my jacket to keep warm, J steered the evening into tales and dares. Not wishing to waste an opportunity, I challenged J to lock lips and perhaps even tongues with our guest and my wish was granted. As an added bonus, J returned the favour and my lips met with M. 

I saw her from the back seats of the bus where I was slouched using my shades to block any wandering eye contact. The traffic had us crawling through the closest thing to bohemia in this city, she was wandering through the crowds on the pavement. Recognising her I sat bolt upright and took my glasses off, must have looked quite the startled fool. My mouth agape I wanted to shout, to call out, the leap off the bus and chase her. She was within arms reach of me, separated by the sheet of bus window. I was transfixed by her, cursing my prior engagements.

Hovering at the stalls of fresh fruit and vegetables I couldn’t help but feel a wave of sentiment toward my familiar stranger. She was the same as when I had last seen her over 2 years ago. The same and totally different to when we had lost each other. The bus was pulling away, she was walking in the opposite direction. I stewed in my adrenalin and conflict. 

There is a knock at my cubicle door, and for a moment I panic. Supporting myself between the thin walls as I throw whatever my stomach has to give. Anger and frustration has forced my own fingers down my throat.

I’m panicked that the girl on the other side of that door knows. That she knows I’m trying to destroy myself. I recover as quickly as I can and open the door, the girls offers me a glass of water saying “you sounded like you needed this”. It dawns on me that she thinks I’m drunk. That I’m destroying myself in a more socially acceptable manner.

I grin a thanks and lock the door behind me, as once again I pursue the food that I did not consume. 

In my dreams I travel. Luscious fields, deserted parks, raucous apartments. It seems that every time I, or the mental projection of myself, would blink I would travel. 

The people I meet are exotic, flirtatious, familiar.

The scenes, buildings and textures seem like puzzles. Pieces of memories and imaginations. A cocktail of  déjà vu. 

I am finally far away. I am finally home. 

There are revelations you wish it was possible to just ignore. Especially when you are half way going down on a girl.

1. She is a virgin
2. You don’t know the meaning of ‘taking it slow’

My first experience of a long distance relationship was forced upon me when my girlfriend of the time decided she didn’t know enough about Photography, upped and left for University. A two and a half hour drive separated us which didn’t seem like a lot, but was a problem considering that I could not drive. 

The height of my concerns lay with housing. She was to be situated in student halls, a stuffy little flat amongst strangers. The flat directly below her just happened to be where her ex boyfriend was going to be living with his bitter broken heart. I imagined him to be holed up in his kitchen, endlessly preparing budgeted pasta, plotting his revenge in the demise of my relationship. I was uneasy for a few weeks after the move, at one point being driven to brief tears.

However, aside from this brief anxiety I found I had a much bigger problem. The girl I loved was hours away from me at all times, but I just didn’t miss her. Not from lack of commitment to her, but rather I found that distance just didn’t bother me as much as I thought. I knew she’d be back every now and then, even if it was only once a month that suited me perfectly. I began to dread turning on my phone or computer to receive her voice telling me how she longed for my presence. I didn’t reciprocate, but I did lie. So began a cycle of bankrupting myself to visit her. The trains rides to my love were agonising as I considered how long they could continue through my unemployment. 

Eventually I was saved by her lack of commitment. She dropped the course and moved back home, while my wallet and conscience sighed relief. 

She had followed me outside where she found me slowly exhaling a lungful.

“I thought you didn’t smoke…” she tried her best to sound as if she were disappointed.

“I gave up whiskey for a month, I need to have at least two vices at a time.”

She has an awful habit of turning her head when inclined by intrigue, she appears before me as an animal. A flightless bird stranded from any nest. A pigeon searching for scraps. “If smoking is one, do tell me the second so I may be prepared?”

“Women.” I make no effort to hide how pleased I am with myself. 

Blood is sticky. Your biology works quickly to mend the harm you have somehow inflicted upon yourself. By the time you have woken to find yourself in a pool of sticky, warm, clammy browning mess, your wounds have covered themselves to guard against infection. 

It seemed like such a pity to me at the time that my body would do so much to preserve itself while my mind was searching desperately and frantically in the opposite direction. Though, perhaps that was a little dramatic. I hadn’t meant to have done it, after all. It was just another episode brought on by over sensitivity, a cocktail of varying substances I was too young to handle and reaction to a blunt criticism from a dear comrade. I would never do something like this while in a clear mind.

The distortion in my brain. The monster that is ally and enemy at any given moment. The psychotic vampire that thirsts for control and immortality, pursuing self destruction and sociopathic relations to quench a lasting desire. I become immoral, indecisive, inefficient, incurable. It brings me gifts of power. It brings me nightmares of long white coats. In my clouded vision I see myself and I create something new.

Blood is sticky. You wake with a substance induced headache and search your body for warning signs. Your clammy hands find no damage to heal, no wounds to guard. You lie flat on your back, searching your own mind. You find the monster, curled and purring gently with shreds of long white material hanging from it’s jaws. 

Her hands had a delightfully light touch and lingered at the base of my spine, the small of my back. Her tongue was demanding and dominant. Her kiss was empowering, entrapping, bliss. One of her hands found itself on my chest. She moaned into my mouth as she felt my pierced nipple harden under her touch. My hands made their way from her back to her hips as I pressed her firmly against the wall. Instinct and desire drove her legs apart. I took the opportunity and lifted her, wrapping her legs around my waist. 

The night was only just begun. 

The bathroom was far bigger and more luxurious than I was used to, but there was no time to enjoy myself or relax. The schedule was tight and the boys were impatient. Soon we’d be back on the road to our next destination. I stepped out of the shower and wrapped my towel, warm from the heated rails, around myself. Beyond the door I could hear the guys getting ready, yelling to one another, climbing and descending stairs. I picked up my wash bag and unlocked the door to leave. 

As I opened the door I was met by a man who made it his main priority to make some kind of sexually inappropriate remark to me every hour as a joke. He seemed as shocked as I was when I opened the door and his fist, ready to knock on afore mentioned door, hovered in the air as he took in the sight of my towel clad body and dripping hair. My face could not turn red only because my shower had been hot, leaving my cheeks flushed. Still I held my ground as his face contorted into a smirk. 

“I just came up to ask if you wanted any sausage,” he paused with obvious glee “for breakfast?”

I have returned home from my travels for a while. This is due to round two of illness taking it’s form in a bad batch of pneumonia. I fully intend to be recovered and back on the road is before the month is out, I suppose that until then I can lightly catch up with writing and posting. 

My phone vibrates. I read the message. It contains the words:

“You know how I feel about you…xx” 

I return the phone to my pocket and sigh.