Posted in Secondary Sundays, Short Stories of a Sort

SS: Gone

So I guess this is it, right?

I mean… I’m sorry. I don’t really know how to do this. This is not my forte you see. I’m more for the spoken word than the written verse— or no. That’s not how you call it.

Fuck.

Shit.

Sorry.

I just. It’s hard to talk to someone like this. I don’t know how they manage it. At least when I’m speaking, recording videos and then maybe uploading them to a secure network… at least I know who’s listening, and who might not. In here you just write and hope for the best.

And trust me, they did not know how to hope for the best… or even the worst.
Is it possible to completely forget how to hope? I think so.

Well, if you’re reading this you must be really fucking confused right now, because whaaaaat?

I mean, they never swore… at least I don’t think so. My communication with them was mostly based on short texts shared through secure lines, papers exchanged in the randomest of ways or even the careful placing of objects somewhere they should have never been carefully placed. You know?

Well, no. You obviously don’t know because you’re reading this and you still don’t know.

Are you still reading this? Did you come back from home?

Was it really home? Can it be home?
I don’t know.

It was all… fuzzy, when I came back from reconditioning. It was tiring, and horrible and everything tasted like spoiled lemon juice. Or maybe it was like being covered in a coat of plastic.

Trader has been trying to help me through this.

Oh, but you don’t know Trader. It is best if you don’t know Trader.

I was never a Screw, in case you’re wondering. I mean, you haven’t ever been a Screw either. You’d— not remember but you don’t recover from it.There are scars, and phantom illnesses and pain.

It’s like… I once went to an art exposition in Laravous, lovely place, Laravous. So, I went there and like, there were lots and lots of really fucked up pictures. Not fucked up as in, pictures of when they sliced our heads open and then tried to see what stimuli worked and what didn’t. I mean the picture itself was fucked up… the composition of it. The way it was made.

So I asked, you know? I went up to the lady on the desk, she had lovely bright pink nails and a long, thin scar down the side of her head. I didn’t smile at her, because you’re not supposed to smile at people in art expositions, and I asked “What’s with those pictures?”

She took a while to respond. She had to lift her head and focus her eyes on the thick long scar running down the side of my head. She didn’t smile, but she did reply with “It’s the camera Pouline,” that’s the name of the artist. “used to make them. It leaks light into it and it distorts the pictures.”

So being an ex-Screw is a bit like that.
Your whole life is the picture, the life you had before and the one you have now. The memories from when you used to be a screw are the light that leaks into the camera. They fuck everything up.

And like, I can’t blame people who are Screws for doing what they do, and for stopping doing what they do.

I don’t blame Trader, or…. Well, you know, Them.

We all do whatever we can with the pile of artificially manufactured horse shit we are eventually handed in life.

Like, I totally admire you for, like going to work and school, and like not having had a bigger psychotic breakdown because I totally did.

Oh, man you have no idea.

I had a screaming, throwing shit around, kicking walls, and scratching people, kind of meltdown.

It took eight people to drag me away from my room and into a rehabilitation facility. From there it took Trader and her group like two days to fake my death and smuggle me out.

It was still two days with machines and people and fingers and…………….

You know details cease to be important after a while.

We cease to be important after a while.

And like I’m only doing this because they asked. Because they are gone.

It’s not your fault though. People often go missing from time to time, screws and all that shitstick are always being moved and replaced and sent to reconditioning.

So don’t feel too bad.

I know you must be like, “what the fuck?” right now. If you’re still reading this. And I mean, why wouldn’t you? Right?

But if you could read what they had to say. If you could understand the vaguest of truths and hints in their writing, then maybe you’ll understand why I’m here and they’re not. Even though I’m not supposed to be here.

I guess… you must be losing time right now. Are you?

If you are, then you should record things, a voice note, a video, a piece of writing. Just save that shit for posterity, oh and make your Screw’s life way easier by not having to observe you all the time. I mean, if I was still in that dingy apartment back on Mulligan Lane and I was recording my videos, then I’m sure my Screw would’ve watched the shit out of them.

They wouldn’t have been interesting, not many things in our lives are. But they would’ve had little insights that no one else would’ve seen or heard or read.

I didn’t know blue was my favorite color until I was covered in it.

I don’t mean bruises, I mean clothes.
I did have bruises but they hardly ever turned blue.

And I don’t like deep blue, or navy blue, or cyan blue, I like blue.

Also, I can hold my breath for a reeeeeeeeallly long time. Like fake your death in front of a doctor with a huge ass knife in their hand kinda long time.

So… I mean… What I was supposed to tell you was: They have been busy with bureaucracy and life and that’s why they haven’t talked to you in a while. In all honesty, they never thought you were actually reading. So hearing that you noticed their absence was kind of nice.

And by nice I mean a fucking punch to the gut.

Do you remember the kind of punch I’m talking about? The one that precedes gripping hands and dragging feet, often followed by the heavy drugs and knives to the body.

That kind of punch.

So, yeah. They might be back, they may not. It might take a while…. I guess I’ll ask someone else to join in on these if you’re like weirded out by me. I think you shouldn’t because I’m like you, right? My fucked up brain is your fucked up brain, my rambling thoughts are your rambling thoughts.

Except not… because I’ve been told you’re like super cool and like sad and shit. And sorry about that, we’re all sad, right? But we make do. Some of us are angry as well. And like, I know this chick-I think she’s a chick-shit I didn’t ask. But like I know this person that’s like a fucking human rollercoaster. They’re all over the fucking place all the time. Once time they sucked punched me, hugged me, and then cried all in like a minute.

They’re a riot, I swear.

Maybe I’ll ask them to talk to you later.
I don’t think they like writing. But then again not many of us like anything anymore.

So, yeah, laters. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Eat the good shit. Drink water. Take care of your fucking Menace.

Cool name for a cat, by the way.

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Author:

23-year-old writer from Chile. Currently reading, writing, and trying not to lose my mind.

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