Joined: 28 Jun 2009
So this is a story about a girl, who falls for a guy, but not in love as you might think,
as she already knows that it’s the twenty-first century, and love died along with the
Dodos. So let’s give her a name, something no self respecting parent would ever name
their child, not if they gave half a shit about what their child’s future social life
would be like. And let’s name the guy something offhand as well, something you would be
more likely to find in an obituary notice than in, let’s say, your tenth grade homeroom.
Why don’t we make them different? From each other, and from the rest of the world. She
can have a confused psyche, and he a confusing life. They will meet, not as a chance, or
as a twist of fate, but as destiny’s path.
And just as a stroke of twisted morbid sadism, why don’t we make them both dead?
. . .
I looked at her as I would to a stocky man wielding a chainsaw, but as if I wasn’t
sure if she was going to start threatening to cut off various appendages yet. For some
strange, unexplained reason, I was under the impression that if I just stared long enough,
the mocha coloured pupils would surrender her secrets; that if I dove deep enough, I could
make some sense of her. She stared calmly back. The kind of calm derived from a psychotic
serial killer the moment before she decides to puncture your lung with a toothpick.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, someone told me to go to sleep, but I ignored the
command. I was fascinated. She posed as such a mystery, everything she decided to do
seemed unorthodox, like if she chooses her actions based on how surprised the people
around her were, rather than using logic. She looked surprised that I had thought of that
revelation, her eyes went wide, and her pupils dilated. I blinked; she copied my actions,
her short eyelashes temporarily closing my line of vision.
Go to sleep! The voice started up again, this time sounding a bit more like my
mother. The voice materialized outside my door, sounding irritable. The muttering
continued: and stop looking at that goddamned mirror! I closed my compact, and exhaled a
breath that I didn’t know I’ve been holding. I flopped on my bed, utterly exhausted,
and fell into a sleep not unlike the living dead.
Before I had the conscious decision to wake up, I could already feel a sort of
simmering argument coming from downstairs. Before I realized it was an argument between
two humans, and not some sort of mammalian rodents, I knew it was about me. The square of
every conversation under the roof of this house, confrontational or not, seemed to be
about be being Here, and not Somewhere Else. Dear step-mummy was too worried about the
kind of influence I would have on her spawn. The spawn of the devilish woman who sucked
out the soul of my father through his “happy gland” and kept it somewhere along the
area of her cervix, and in the process got herself knocked up. I wasn’t too fond of
being Here either, so I just stretched, and waited.
The argument didn’t last long, it simmered, came to a boil, and then evaporated,
just like most conversations involving something two sane adults and something they wanted
to ignore. After five, ten minutes of silence, it dawned on me that they were waiting,
waiting for me to go downstairs. I smiled; it seems as if they decided on some kind of
agreement. I deemed it appropriate to haul myself out of bed, and brush my teeth as if I
just woke up and was slightly irritable with having to get up.
I clomped down the stairs and into the kitchen, looking everything like a fifteen
year old in need of her morning sugar fix. They were there already, my dad and my late
mother, and looking slightly apprehensive, much to my delight. While toasting my Eggo
waffle, I snuck glances at the mismatched couple behind me. Stepmother looked more
worried, her makeup smeared, as if she applied both mascara and eyeliner without sticking
out her tongue in that artistic manner we all know so well. My father looked more stoic,
passive. A plate of eggs lay before him, but he never touched, looked at or ate them. I
remembered with a pang of something like sadness−but not quite sadness, because if I
opened that dam it would never stop flowing−of how life was like before. When me and my
dad would have petty play arguments about pointless things, like whether we should have
ham or turkey for thanksgiving dinner, and if we had ham, whether we should call it
“ham” or “jambon”. Because even though we lived in an Anglophone section of
Canada, jambon sounded so much more appetizing.