Blood and Guts @whoshotthealbatross - Tumblr Blog

I pressed the edges of the fabric against my ears, my head sandwiched between the billowed contours of the pillow.

The pulse in my neck thudded, mimicking the patter of rain ricocheting off the window pane.

Thud.

When I was even younger, I counted the creaks in the floorboards, anticipating his stumbling arrival into his bedroom across the hall. The noise proved too much, the sound of his limbs hitting the floor always reminded me of lightning striking a tree, cracking the branches like weak bones.

Now, I preferred to watch, witnessing the events unfold like the remnants of a silent horror movie.

I'd close my bedroom door just enough to see the outline of his shadow, darkened orbs floating under the rectangular lip of the wood.

Most children are terrified of shadows, imagined monsters that mutate and morph into hideous shapes in the night.

Not me.

The shadow was comfort, a soothing reminder. He made it home. There wasn't going to be another bottle opened, more ice cubes clinking against the glass. No more guttural sobs emanating from my mother's coarse throat.

Once I saw his shadow cast across the dimly lit hall, I knew I was safe for one more day.

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Crease

I traced my index finger along the lines of his palm, affectionately surveilling the way in which his eyes fluttered sporadically.

Memories are a lot like the creases embedded in flesh --a senseless zigzagging of linear moments and experiences that all somehow overlap and intersect like an invisible highway.

Our recollections are often imperfect and dusty, like picture frames on a sun-kissed shelf that had the vibrancy of colour leeched from them slowly over time.

I remember collecting nightcrawlers with my mom. The grass chilled in the night air so much so that each blade gave the illusion of being damp to the touch.

I grasped the plastic container, perhaps a discarded ice cream bucket, and cast my flashlight across the ground like the familiar beam of a lighthouse. I would stick my plump fingers into the earth, letting the scent of dirt and peat moss fill my nostrils.

I could hear my brother exclaiming each time he placed the cylindrical being into his own receptacle. He was always better at finding them than me, one step ahead.

Until.

Until the light illuminated the soil, the same colour as the night sky, and I saw my very own wriggling fleshy mass. I let it slide along my fingers, it's skin illuminating with incandescence.

"Bait for fishing," my mom would say when she saw the way I was handling it with careful and loving ease.

I once learned that a person could cut a worm in half and it could become two distinct worms. I always imagined a sea of squirming masses tunnelling to the other side of the planet as I stood on the freshly mowed terrace.

I thought of this moment as I felt new life twisting inside of me for the first time. I told him it felt like worms.

Nightcrawlers to be exact. Other-worldly beings that can regenerate themselves when hurt--beings that gleam in the night. Magic.

That's how it feels. Magic.

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Ceramic

I shifted my weight to my right leg, unsure what to do with my hands. I clasped onto the curved edges of my mug, inhaling the bitter traces of cold coffee that had settled there for at least two hours.

I darted my eyes around the room, searching for an anchor to steady my gaze.

I caught a glimpse of your eyes, the color of the Arctic ocean. I held on to your eyes, gasping for air, wishing you'd look away. But you didn't.

We stood there, cushioned by the silence. I pictured a million invisible strings exploding out from my ribcage, pulling my centre of gravity out of orbit.

My chest heaved up and down, an ebb and flow of invisible tidal waves. I stumbled forward slightly, knocking the edge of my cup against the edge of the counter. The echo of the ceramic twinge caused us both to laugh.

We reached for our jackets at the same time, leaving in opposite directions, with the metallic taste of electricity still on my lips.

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Silence

He spoke in shades of charcoal, each word billowing out of the curled edges of his lips like wildfire. His stories always remind me of gravel, each phrase resembling the powdery sound of millions of pieces rubbing together.

I want to tell him this as he rests the crook of his elbow against my side. I can feel the rough texture of his skin, calloused from working. I adjust my body to fit with his, momentarily dizzy from the unspoken moment of tenderness.

I want to speak to him about how I have dreamt about flowers the same shade as his eyes two nights in a row; hundreds of blossoms gathered together like an explosion of fireworks. I want to tell him that I have traced the splatter of his freckles that span his forehead a hundred times over, each time gleaning a new constellation that I silently name.

I wish I could tell you why I stopped writing. Perhaps living in a blissful state of inertia for the first time in my life has me nervous--what if it all disappears? What if these moments of happiness dry up, as they have done so many times before?

I know it will change, life cannot stay still. I cannot un-write him from my own history, it is too late to rip out all the volumes of memories I have already formed in my mind. Silence cannot protect what we have.

I have decided I must start writing again, despite my fears.

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Brick

Sometimes in life you'll meet someone who can take one look at you and instantly peel all off every single layer of armor that you've carefully constructed over the years. The raw exposure of truly being seen by someone can open yourself up to the possibility of growth--the chance to stretch your lungs and breathe for the first time.

Or.

Or that person can blindside you; they will force you to stare into the sun after years of darkness without warning while they stand firmly by your side wearing Prada sunglasses.

Unfortunately, she's the second type of person. Her hair twists into perfect DNA spirals as she turns her focus to my fingers tapping the keyboard. The bottom half of her face is the antithesis of the remainder of her features. You see, her lips slope upwards in a gentle grin while the corners of her eyes droop from the weight of the daggers slicing fiercely from her eyes.

I watched the edges of her nose twitch as her insults popped out of her mouth, wrapped in a thick layer of honey. I've always wondered how people were able to package up their negativity with the pristine facade of a perfectly wrapped holiday gift.

Her eyes flicked to my chest for a moment--was my shirt too low? I quickly glanced down to check to no avail--but when I looked up I caught a split-second sneer that melted into a soft smile. She could smell my insecurities from a mile away. She could sense my discomfort in my clothes like a shark can taste blood.

Each day we dance an invisible dance around each other--each day she sticks her foot out to see if I'll trip.

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Memories

Fall

I listened to the leaves crumble beneath my feet, it reminds me of the sound of a spoon cracking the surface of creme brulee. There's something comforting about the foreign scent of fall, the bittersweet earthiness surrounds my senses like a warm embrace.

I always thought fall was the most beautiful season. Even decay and death can be so vibrant.

I'd like to think that if people could see all the ties I've severed with people in my past, those broken bonds would float with the same grace as leaves being shed from the limbs of a tree.

Every once in a while, I miss them. Those people who I once called when I had a bad day--whose numbers I still have memorized. Sometimes, just sometimes, my fingers itch with the desire to call them or show up at their doorstep with buttery pastries I bought from the bakery around the corner.

I miss the familiarity of being with someone who witnessed me try on mascara for the first time and foolishly cut my own hair. It would be nice to crawl back into my own dark history and rest there for a while, letting myself cuddle up to the person I once was and no longer am.

Many of my friends have become mere memories, faded photographs that are haphazardly spread across my condo, contained by dusty rectangular frames.

I just have to remind myself--everything at some point must die, even if I'm not ready to let go and watch them quietly drift away.

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Buzz

I watched its wings flicker like a dim lightbulb. At first, I could hear your voice in the distance, buzzing indistinctly between my ears.

I had almost forgotten what the wings looked like up close--an intricate web that resembled the shattered surface of freshly cracked creme brulee.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see you tapping your fingers against the steering wheel. You tend to mimick the rhythm of the beat when you're thinking about something important. I couldn't hear the song anymore, though. I could only feel the swishing of blood pounding against my ears, the sound of unease.

If you've ever fainted you know that there's an ominous ringing in your ears right before you collapse. The sound, as I remember it, was eerily soothing. A reverse alarm clock--one that puts you sleep rather than waking you up.

I admit it. I should have told you that I felt myself slipping in that moment when you were drumming your calloused fingers over the edge of the wheel. I should have turned my head so that you could have witnessed all the blood drained from my face before I drifted out of consciousness.

But I didn't. I kept staring at the fly. It rubbed its thread-like arms together like one warms their hands by a fire. Geometric eyes the size of orbs scanned the edges of the window for an escape.

Then, darkness.

I really need to learn how to ask for help.

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Storm

There's a moment that exists before a storm, a split second before the sky begins to open up like a bag of rice splitting at the seams. In this brief moment, there is a metallic tinge to the air, like the feeling you used to get when you'd rub a balloon against your hair to create static electricity. People look up to the sky and place their palms face-up as if to catch any invisible drops before they hit the warm pavement. This is one of the few moments that people trust their sense of intuition over their ability to see something unfold before their eyes. This is my favorite moment. Everything slows down for a brief moment--people become present, humbled even, by the sheer strength of nature. This is how I feel about love. It's that limbo before and after a storm; it's the feeling of something so beautiful and dangerous surrounding you in a way that either makes you want to dance beneath it or to seek shelter.

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There’s something so personal about broken plans, promises that are shrouded in a layer of dust waiting to be blown away at the nearest gust of wind.

I never used to wait for anything. I would sweat independence–an army of fervent beads–down the small of my back and I would never look at the time.

Here I am, curled into a comma on the couch, scanning the shadowed buildings in between sips of wine. Pathetic, really. I used to love being alone, to re-charge in my Friday solitude. Is this what it feels like to depend on someone? Is this what all the hype is about?

When did time become so forgiving, like a pair of baggy sweatpants that you wear when you begin to feel sorry for yourself? When did his promises become wet paper, curdling to the touch?

I can feel it all bubbling inside of me, rising to the surface and tickling the inside of my nose. I can feel my old self pressing at the seams, stretching against my bones like a tired cat.

Waiting isn’t a game I was born to do.

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Tea

I pressed my fingertips against the lip of my mug and let the steam curve along the edges of my thumbs like a slow fog.

I could still smell the sickly sweet scent of chemicals woven into the fabric of my sweater. Hours earlier, I was fighting the gnawing sensation of anxiety creeping up my spine by scrubbing every inch of the tiled floor feverishly.

I haven’t been sleeping well, there’s too much to think about when the daylight never seems to fade, a lightbulb that won’t burn out. I’ve never been one for change, you see. Consistency and routine was the only sense of control I could muster in an otherwise chaotic childhood.

But here I stand--on the brink. Teetering between the edge of what I’ve always known and the life that I’ve always deemed possible. I’ve always been afraid of heights, but the view is worth it.

I can see why my father sought to be numb, life is so much easier when you’re wearing invisible armour.

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Crane

I watched the raindrops paint a galaxy onto the shoulders of your suit jacket. Puddles on the street formed hundreds of glistening mirrors that shone red from the sea of brake lights.

Women held their jackets above their heads like shields, extending their thin arms like cranes to signal a taxi.

I could still hear the orchestra playing, the vibration of the violin pricking my skin. I turned to you and the blue of your eyes flickered in the dim light. I felt it–the same feeling as the sun kissing my cheeks.

A perfect moment.

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Kite

I watched the door open like the mouth of a person yawning.

She stood in the doorway, her perfectly manicured fingernails tapping against the frame of the door. It reminded me of the sound a beetle makes when they walk across the cement. I tried to reel in my imagination–a kite being lowered from the sky.

Her hair was pulled back so tightly that an irritated ring of skin highlighted her temples. She looked down at my hands and spotted my chewed nails immediately; she flashed a prescripted grin so quickly it made my eyelids blink like the shutter of a camera.

She asked me the same kind of questions that are always asked in interviews. Words bubbled out of my mouth, phrases that were layered like the petals of the carnation I inhaled minutes before leaving.

In these moments I feel detached from myself, a snake shedding its skin. We don’t realize how carefully we groom ourselves to become who we wish to be, not who we truly are. I feel myself smiling, my posture straight and elegant.

Each time this happens I feel more transparent. Faded. Does every adult shed their skin until there’s nothing left?

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I told her that I believed trees must somehow be human because of how much their rings reminded me of fingerprints. Her laughter reverberated against the chain-link fence, feeling like millions of bees crawling along my spine.

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Magic lasts only for the blink of an eye. It encompasses you, coats your flesh like a thick syrup. Like rain, it always seems to evaporate.

I left the condo early, my keys rattling like an agitated serpent in my hands. I drove in the opposite direction, hoping to waste time as my fingertips grasped eagerly on the steering wheel.

I missed you wholly, the feeling so raw that I could almost smell the metallic surge of blood emitting from my pours.

I’ve never been good at letting people in, you see. I keep them in my periphery–far enough away that I can still run if I need to. But you. You are woven into my fibres, tangled like a ball of yarn that has been unraveled and re-assembled.

I parked at the airport, listening to the sound of luggage synchronize to the sound of my beating heart. I saw your face in my rear-view window, worn with exhaustion.

I thought you’d be more happy to see me, I guess. I pictured your face glowing with excitement, tracing the line of my jaw with your calloused fingers.

Today you slept all day, and I felt myself shrinking from your presence. I know I’m over-sensitive, I always have been.

“Can you turn that down?”

Yes, I can.

Now, I sit in the dark, wondering if this is the beginning of the end.

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Cooler

The landscape sprawled in front of us, the road bent before our gaze like an elongated snake. The two-toned cooler created a partition between us in the back seat.

I remember shooting him a wild look every time his eyes crossed the invisible boundary between us. I recall my brother’s almond hair, sticking up at gravity-defying angles from his endless napping to pass the time.

Every hour my father’s arm would reach to the back seat, feeling for the blue button that would click so loudly that it sounded like the cocking of a gun.

His hands were always shaky, almost as if he was constantly being electrocuted by an unseen jolt of lightning. My brother and I would take turns passing him can after can–our fingers still ripe with baby fat–counting down the hours (minutes?) before the situation would cloud over like a sudden storm.

We would both turn to watch the empty container ricochet off the pavement through the rear windshield, cheering each time a pot-hole was hit, a target worth aiming for.

I remember the car beginning to drift sideways, kissing the painted edges of the highway hungrily; the lingering odor of stale beer stung our noses. I remember my mother’s hand on his shoulder, not to be confused with an act of affection, but rather an attempt to maintain his softening focus on the road. Even though my mom couldn’t drive, she held on to the steering wheel from time-to-time, gripping the rubber as an uneasy captain of a sinking vessel.

Sometimes I wonder how we made it out alive. I also wonder how my mother did it, how she carried the weight of it all without crushing under the pressure of unhappiness.

I still dream of the sea of headlights softly floating before my eyes

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Parkade

I turned the key to the left, painting an invisible rainbow against the shadowy backdrop of my car’s ignition. The familiar click signaled the hum of the engine to cease.

I crumpled forward, my head resting on the lower lip of the steering wheel–a human question mark. My hair formed a translucent curtain over my face, softening the hard line of my clenched jaw. My eyes were squeezed so tightly shut that my eyelashes looked like an untidy bundle of charcoal straw.

When you miss someone, each inhale and exhale feels like sandpaper slowly chewing its way through the invisible highways of your stomach. Each gulp of air stings like salt upon an open wound.

When I raised my head, I could see the dust of the parkade settling on the hood of the car, freckling the cherry-red paint.

I slowly gathered myself, like a basket of laundry strewn across the room. I thought of you then, a memory caught on repeat. Your smile as you walked away, your fingers carefully adjusting the brim of your hat. Eyes that could see right through the fact that my hands were fidgeting inside my pockets. I fanned my fingers out along the firm edges of the box of leftovers I was carrying, hoping you’d no longer notice. Then you were gone. Just like that.

Whoever doesn’t believe in ghosts, has never lost a friend.

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