Inserting suppositories

I noticed that it is really good for your skin if you do afternoon naps. I do it every now and then – usually when reading a boring book. Though, the moment I close my eyes I know I’m risking having a nightmare again. Strange things happen when I have naps during the day. That’s when my subconscious seems to be most active and does terrible things when I’m not looking. I don’t even want to go into detail here, but winter has just put me into this empty glass which I am about to break from the inside with the loudest scream my lungs can endure. If it doesn’t work, I shall use my head and elbows until I notice blood is flowing.

I’ve come to this point where I just don’t care about what they think of me anymore. Having settled in finally, after two months, means I have had my time to assess everyone and I feel no threat. And if I do, what the heck, what do I care. What’s the worst that can happen? People disliking me for the wrong reasons? Probably, but it won’t matter. All I am interested in is he. I’m just not sure if I can have him or if he wants me. It’s always the same painful process. Not once will this work. Every time I build an automaton that looks like me I end up embarrassing myself. I shall just be myself. See how that works.

I’m really excited about handing out my short story. I noticed that all the boys tend to write from a boy’s perspective and the girls tend to write from the “I” perspective – the female “I” of course. They are all so autobiographical as well – in a very conspicuous way, too. I would never present a piece of life writing in class and let people judge it as a “piece of writing”. There is so much to criticize about which I am sure makes the person feel uncomfortable. Life Writing is mere blog material for me – nothing to share with in class. If I was to present a piece of Life Writing, I think there will be more stories about my paediatrician inserting suppositories into my anus and how SHE, that damn bitch of a whore, first told my dad that I might have mental health issues. I’m glad my tutor didn’t point out my misogynistic views when I read out my short piece; I don’t think that would have been a pleasant discussion. If you want more life stories about suppositories and masturbation, wait another 10 years and I will tell you everything – if I haven’t mentioned anything in my previous blog entries, yet. I’m sure I have though.

Well, coming back to my story: I spent 4 days and 5 nights writing it and an entire month to redraft and rewrite it. There are 3 drafts and I’m sure after the workshop, I will have to get ready to redraft it for a 4th time. It’s going to be a pain in the arse. It’s strange how I came up with the story in first place. Originally I wanted to write a story about a psycho titled “The observer”. Graham was supposed to be a passive guy watching bad things happen around him (like Clay) and towards the end; he’ll lose it and start a massacre! Only the moment Shannon entered his life, I realized that he was no such person. So Shannon kind of ruined the idea of my story, but I didn’t want t kill her off, either, because I realized Graham liked her.

I don’t talk funny. I talk reality, my way.

Devil's Throat

I spend a lot of time loathing. Too rarely do I ever feel proud of myself – no matter what I do and no matter what others say. And still I love them – it’s like a hug I needed. And I am grateful.

Today I just don’t care and don’t want to talk. Exhaustion, head ache and Cheerios. Where am I really and where do I want to be? All I know is what I’m doing and what needs to be done: buy more Cheerios and dry my socks.
The terrible noises of fire alarms and the sirens of ambulance cars are slicing my brain in two; the engine of proud motorcyclists and girl-like cries outside almost every evening.

Mahler and Gade are playing in the background – this is for some peace of mind and to dry the tears in the corner of my mind. Lacey’s singing voice when I’m in bed, but actually thinking about someone else. I keep falling for those I can’t easily assess. I don’t even know if that’s the right word in English.

Courage and confidence can only come together – but I didn’t feel that both were evident last night. When one is confident, the courage is ultimately there.

It’s the first time I prepared myself some ginger tea since I’m here, to disinfect my body cos of all the crap (as in snacks) that I’ve been eating. Nonetheless, my breakfast, lunch and dinner are still pretty much based on healthy diets; it’s just all the inbetweeners. The night before the reading, I couldn’t sleep. I got out of bed at about half twelve in the morning and started eating Cheerios, which was a huge mistake. I remained awake till about half two in the morning and got up at around six. Ok, sometimes I do not know what I’m doing – or I just cannot control myself, which happens a lot. Do I need a paracetamol? I thought I was stronger than that. I shall just go to bed now.

Insecure about where I am, but actually I do know where I want to be right now. No, not in Toronto.

Humbert, Take 2

I love that book. Nabokov knew. I didn’t know kids have sex, not until I first arrived in England in 2002. The twelve or thirteen year old school kids would have sex in the restrooms. The girls would use tons of make-up before they even turn 14. I was shocked, but not in a conservative way. It was just because, in Germany, the kids don’t usually get their first kiss until they’re 15 or 16. Usually that is. That was the moment I started to hate the British youth. Could have been envy in a way, I don’t exactly know. But also jealousy because back then my ex felt attracted to those kids, he must’ve had the same mentality as they did, I don’t know. Or it was a way for him to escape his actual mentality. And I still can’t believe I used to feel bad about myself, I felt like an old outsider, so I started dressing like a young mosher myself. For a while I even identified myself with moshers, but I never really fitted in there. My indifference came a lot later.

The German youth didn’t become like that, not until about 2005 or 2006, I guess, that was when first noticed twelve year olds starting to look like 15 year olds. I don’t know. Maybe the kids have always been that way and it used to be an underground movement and only now they’ve become brave enough to present themselves on the surface. And maybe I do sound conservative. Did I just call it a movement?

I think I’d been a child up till I was about 15. My teenage years began when I was 16 and ended when I was about 22. Spätentwickler is the German term. Still I wonder where my youth has gone. Burn, you youth from today, burn. I am just jealous that you’re young and in love. Took me a while to realize I couldn’t be the same as you. Masturbation mit 11, erster Kuss mit 16, Sex im Alter von 18 ½ und Marihuana mit 23. And you still call me impatient. But ok, Buk used to say that life is about waiting – nothing but waiting. At the age of 11, 12, 13, 14 I had only spent my precious time writing – fucking writing over twenty attempted novels! That was a period in my life. Oh, at least Johnny Rotten came along.

Nabokov knew. How much I hate what Humbert does, he actually defends himself appropriately. He is the victim nonetheless, so you have to feel sorry for him (a good way to avoid feeling sorry for yourself). I don’t know what to say about Lo. And before I start writing biased stuff, I’d rather not comment at all. (But shit, she reminds me of Ellen, except that Ellen has more heart.) Humbert didn’t do anything! Why would a pedophile even CARE about being a parent (even in a possessive way)?
The youth is evil.

I hope this is the last time I ever speak about the rotten youth.

Anxieties and Humbert

People just cannot see the indifference. Is this a job well done or is this just my nasty way of keeping things from people? I am, by all means, not under pressure regarding university work. I have been doing so much in advance – writing that is, that I have actually nothing to worry about. I, indeed, need more time to catch up with my readings, though. So, whenever I talk about pressure, it is the pressure I get from…people. I feel like an arsehole for saying that. The reason why I torment myself with that is unclear – I do not want to elaborate either, I simply want to blame my anxieties, even though coldness would fit best, but let’s call it anxieties for now. I’m too scared to go out meet people (false, but never mind).

I like to think that I do not care what others think about me, but in various cases, when I know they are good people and actually care about me, I treat them the way they deserve to be treated (you’ve heard that before, haven’t you?), but even though I don’t find myself caring enough, I’d still torment myself to go through it. Shit, I just exposed myself (true but who cares)!

Back to anxieties: It’s the fact of having to go outside where everyone in the streets appear to be a ruthless arse, trapped in his or her own world and when s/he speaks in public, it’s nothing but complaining, whining or doing other unpleasant rubbish, or talking loudly on the mobile phone about their useless private lives.
When traveling by train, everything is beyond loud; you can’t even listen to your music properly, let alone talk with your friend, because they’d just nod friendly, pretending they’ve heard what you’ve just said. This noise is sick and causes nothing but apathy and What-the-fuck-ever.

I don’t know who I can really make good friends with. Always close before people think I’m nice I would blurt out something very unpleasant which shocks them. For instance when I walked with someone and we encountered a mother telling her daughter off. My soon-to-be-friend said “I hate people talking to their children like that…” and I said “I would’ve beaten them up already.” I just can’t lie about things like that. Or when someone, who thinks I’m shy and delicate, asks me “Do you drink?” and I go “No, I’d rather do drugs, I just don’t get the chance to.” Is this too much truth? Do you still want to know me?

So I have 18 books which I would like to finish by end of December. I don’t know how I am going to manage that. And it’s doing me head in.

I’m reading Lolita, which I’ve always wanted to read, but never got around to. Then I found out Humbert is Ellis’ hero and I got even more interested. It’s a fascinating read – it is. And I feel so bad for having felt relief the moment Charlotte got run over by a car and I couldn’t help feeling happy for Humbert, either. What do I care about Lolita? It’s Humbert and the fact that I can comprehend with his evil ulterior motive. I know it’s perverse on my side. But as I said, I don’t care about this Lolita kid – it’s Humbert.

She is close

So winter has officially begun. I’m glad that I’ve managed to spend a few wonderful autumn days in the parks – lonely, but refreshing. Soul and heart are back from the laundry. I guess I am ready, but I doubt I will have fun waiting. I went to see the fireworks with my flat mates last night. Who the hell came up with the idea of inventing fireworks with 3D effects? It was terrifying, but that’s because I’ve never watched a movie in 3D at the cinema. Not sure if I am interested either. I guess I should at least try it out. However, I wouldn’t go watch a movie in 3D on a date, because I’m almost certain that I will puke on his lap. Overall I have no idea what the purpose of 3D is; they are just as bad as nightmares – I already have enough of those.

Reading the rat’s horoscope is gradually beginning to infuriate me. A few days ago I was warned about allergies and I thought it was ridiculous this time of the year, but today I just have no idea where the rashes came from. Today’s horoscope primarily focuses on positive aspects of my love life. Excuse me, what love life? Crushing and despairing – that’s my love life.

Why do I hate small talk with people? When I tell them some good news I see fake smiles indicating “Nice but whatever!” When I tell them something bad has occurred (here comes the worst) they would say “Ah I’m so sorry to hear that.” Shit you are. And people wonder why I’m quiet. I’d rather be laughed at. There is at least something more sincere in mischievousness than when people thoughtlessly use the word SORRY. Dammit, why do I keep finding things to get annoyed about? It can’t be that difficult to just accept little things the way they are. But on the other hand, I have been doing this all my life and I just can’t take it anymore. Regarding my lack of social skills, I guess I won’t ever be able to genuinely laugh with everyone at the same time about the same thing.

I still find laughter and conversations in crowds dreadful. It always feels like those voices, especially the high pitched laughter, are taking your brain apart. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes under your nostrils and on your clothes isn’t even the worst about socializing in the pub. It’s the disorientation. That’s what I get for not drinking. I wish I loved the taste of alcohol and I wish alcohol wouldn’t be that bad for my body. Unfortunately it’s not easy to get hold of drugs, because I wouldn’t mind drugs instead.
God, I sound like Bill Hicks.

I’m almost through with “Master and Margarita”. It is funny, no doubt, but that book changed my mind about using Satan’s appearance in my latest short story. If I have to elaborate, then I’d rather eradicate Satan completely. The last thing I want is to give people the impression that I am into fantasy and horror writing, which I am definitely not. Nonetheless I like version 1 of my story better without the answers. Now that I’ve mentioned Graham’s weak points, he has entirely lost the evil part of him. But that’s what the readers want apparently. For some reason, to me, it feels like a creative writer is not supposed to write like Pynchon or Kafka. We learn nothing about Tristero and we learn absolutely nothing about what crime K. has committed.

Something very cold inside my body always spreads out whenever I write. It’s this sense of detachment that I’ve been familiar with since I was a little girl. When I was young, I always felt like I had a lot of love to give away. And I expressed all my love in handwritten novels. Love, love, love. Up to this day no one had ever really sincerely accepted it or respected it, so it doesn’t feel that special anymore to me. Love, love, love. Alternatively, there have been people asking for it, good people who surely deserved it, but I don’t know how to deal with people with natural sincerity. There’s something so virginal about natural sincerity and I don’t want to taint it. Nonetheless I think I’m very much in need of someone to carefully watch over me so I won’t lose my mind, but I also want to watch over him and witness how he deals with conflicts. Too much to ask – as usual.

Why wouldn’t I want to write 30 novels a year like Philip? I was too shy to point that out last week. What is left for someone who lacks of social skills? It takes something like 2 years to get to know me; I don’t know if anyone’s even interested or have the patience…
I can’t even keep up with time nowadays. Five weeks have passed and I still haven’t taken the chance to talk properly to those people. Where is your charisma? Damn! Attract me! Attract me! Shit. Fuck my brains out. Yell at me! Yell at me for patronizing each of you. I think you have no idea what boredom really is. Why would I talk to a robin voluntarily? Why would I pretend that Thoreau was a secret rebel? Just why…

Lately I noticed that I tend to write stories in third person. I’m sick of all the “I”s in my blog entries. I guess that’s self-explanatory. But even as third person, I seem to be on a huge ego trip, sharing parts and bits, especially my interest in unusual, secretive blokes. I attempt to penetrate their heads in order to find out what they want or what bothers them. I’m not sure how well I did with beautiful protagonist Graham. I mean how many men would trust a girl right at their first conversation together? After all Graham is desperate. Good thing my mind is as dirty as a man’s.

I’m surprised my guest tutor likes the opening of my novel. Ironically she likes my style the best, even though I suck style. Maybe it’s a good thing that she is a woman, because I’m writing about a woman. Another thing that surprised me was that she didn’t pick up on the misogynistic views which my novel reflects. Well, probably because Ellen, my protagonist, is a woman herself. There are so much contradictions going on. My guest tutor says I need to highlight Ellen’s desires and goals and in order to focus on them, I need to become Ellen. Wait a second I’m not a mentally deranged doctor who take blood samples of people before I sleep with them! Oh God, it’s all too heavy.

How will I get this all done in a year? Someone hold me tonight and say no word, just keep my back warm.

The archer's crisis

“Why are you reading this?“ asked Jim, pointing at Graham’s William Tell by Friedrich Schiller. “Have you gone all German?”

Graham stared at him for a second, but ignored the question and carried on reading. He was at the café inside Student Union with Jim and Neil.

“It’s not even on the reading list!” Jim shook his head hopelessly.

Neil and Jim started talking about Shannon’s leaving do which was the night before. Graham was a strict non-drinker and therefore it was no surprise that he was a complete outsider at parties or any kind of social gatherings. The only advantage the guys drew from Graham’s presence at parties was him driving them home afterwards.

“Anyway”, Jim began, “I did try my luck on Shan last night, since she broke up with Furry Fred the other week…”

Neil chuckled. It was a common thing to laugh at Fred’s nickname. Nonetheless, he was one of the best cricket players on the whole Bristol campus. Girls like Shannon obviously liked confident athletes. Graham licked his finger to turn the page.

“The odd thing about her is that even when she’s drunk, she’s still sober” Jim said.

Neil raised an eyebrow “What do you mean?”

“Well, as soon as I tried it on with her, she knew what I was up to and threw me off the chair. Do you know any girl like that after five shots of tequila? And hell knows how much she’d already drunk before we came!”

“Well, obviously not over The Fur”, Neil presumed.

“Bernard would have nailed her straight away…”

Graham twitched after that comment.

“Well,” Jim continued, “after all she finished the relationship! And I just wanted a memorable goodbye-shag! Well, her loss, I guess.”

Graham closed the book and slammed it down on the table. The noise made the waitress spill the coffee whilst serving a student.

“Gee…” Neil muttered, recovering from the shock.

“Rubbish, I guess?” Jim grinned at Graham “How far did you get?”

“He’s about to hit the apple” Graham answered.

“That’s the only exciting part!”

“I’m saving the best part for later.”

On his way home, Graham stopped at Tesco Express to pick up some coffee, mints and paracetamol. In the queue was a couple arguing about whether crinkle fries or curly fries tasted better; on his right a little girl crying uncontrollably because her mother wouldn’t buy her any Hello Kitty chocolate biscuits. Crowded places hold nothing but nasty human scents, he thought, such as the sharp smelling breath of the person behind him and the awful rustling noises coming from crisp bags and shopping bags.

“Hi.” A voice came out of nowhere.

On his left he saw Shannon, smiling. “Graham, right? You were at my party yesterday.” She was holding a bottle of skimmed milk, a pack of cereal and a pregnancy test.

“Hello.”

She looked hung over; her dark curly hair was worn out and unwashed, the blue of her eyes pale with exhaustion.

“You didn’t have fun last night, did you?” she asked.

“Of course I did. What makes you think I didn’t?”

The queue was moving forward. Graham noticed that the person behind him looked disapproving of Shannon’s presence, as if she was about to jump the queue.

“Come on” she said “you were staring at my Francis Bacon posters for hours!”

“I like disfigured faces.”

She narrowed her eyes in slight disgust. “You’re weird” she said.

“Oh, and you’re not? They are your posters after all…”

Graham was next at the till and Shannon immediately handed him her shopping. “I’ll pay you back in a minute.” As she disappeared behind the magazine stand, he could smell the sharp breath of the person behind him even more than before. Graham felt nauseated. The man at the till scrutinized him before scanning the pregnancy test. Graham stared back.

“What are you staring at, young man?” the man asked.

“Your thumb.”

Graham quickly turned to leave just to spare himself witnessing the agony. But already before he reached the magazine stand, he heard the closing of the till, the crunching of bone and a shriek.
Graham was dragging Shannon out of the shop with such force that she had to push him away to release herself.

“What the hell got into you?”

He noticed that the blue in her iris had come back to life again.

“Nothing, just some precog…, oh never mind!”

The startling noise of the sirens on the main road almost sliced his brains in two like a butcher knife. He thought of his unfinished coursework on Kafka and started to walk away from Shannon.

“Precognition? I get that when a forgotten dream comes true.”

He stopped and turned back around. She was one of the few people who wouldn’t confuse precognition with déjà vu, he thought. The sound of the sirens was now far away.

“Do you want to come around my house?” he asked.

“I…I don’t know. I haven’t had breakfast, yet…”

“I have bowls and spoons…”

“I actually have something important to do…”

“I have a toilet as well.”

She looked slightly irritated and probably felt uncomfortable with his persistence but finally gave in.


He was watching her walk around in his apartment, which looked extraordinarily neat. The air held a fragrance that recalled the liveliest notes of a midsummer morning. Her previous insecurity about entering a student apartment had suddenly vanished. Down the corridor were two bedrooms, one on each side. One of the doors was open.

“Is that your room?” she pointed at the one with the open door.

“Find out”, he said whilst preparing her breakfast. The midsummer smell had fused with Shannon’s sweetly-scented water lily deodorant.

“Oh my God! I can’t believe you live with Jim.” She must have seen Jim’s party pictures on his pin wall; one showing him and Bernard dancing naked at the union, or she had simply smelt his terrible Jean Paul perfume. “You could have warned me that you live with this dirty guy!”

Suddenly he heard her opening the door to his room and spilled the milk. “Hey!” The moment he stormed into his room, he saw her standing there stiffly; staring at his myriad H. R. Giger posters showing biomechanoids, aliens, necronoms and Debbie Harry – all twisted works painted with dark acrylic colours in shades of metal. To Shannon, they probably looked like ominous eel-like creatures with heads resembling either men’s glans or women’s buttocks, and numerous naked female reptilian humanoids intertwined and penetrating each other. His room still smelt of the black coffee he had in the morning.

“Speaking of dirty…iew” she said.

It sounded like “eel”. He was still standing behind her stiff back, and then he watched her carefully tilt her head as though examining the Anima Mia poster in greater depth. The rigidity in her posture loosened up. She put both of her hands on her hips and they slowly moved towards her bum. Graham licked up the tasteless skimmed milk from his hand before it dripped onto the carpet.

“You lost weight since last term” he muttered after guessing that she was comparing her bum with the eel’s head. She turned around with a questioning face indicating perplexity and curiosity. She quickly looked to her left where the bed was; as if she had missed something and then she looked to her right. Her curls seemed revitalized; they were dangling like tinsel. She had had a shower after all.

“Are you religious?” She pointed at the cross above his bed.

“I guess. Why?”

She looked on her right again, scrutinizing his favourite piece of art by Giger Satan I which portrays Satan using Jesus as a bow. The background shows a vast wasteland of piled up, decayed human remains. Jesus’ pose is exactly like on the cross, except that on the picture there is no cross, just a string threaded through the wounds of his hands to form a bow. Satan’s hand is tightly clasped around Jesus’ lower body. His gaze and the gaze of his demons are fixed firmly at the viewer, but the most unnerving facet of that picture arises from the arrow, which is a nail, also aimed at the viewer. Every time Graham looked at it, he saw Satan in his comfortable stance, drawing the arrow back to the anchor point and…

“How do you sleep at night?”

“What?”

“How the hell do you sleep at night?” she repeated “Every time you sit up in bed, you have the devil playing William Tell with you! In fact, it doesn’t even matter where you are in the room.”

He could feel a grin developing at the corner of his mouth and hoped it was an innocent one. “Your breakfast is in the kitchen.”

“You’re weird.”

“I’m not having breakfast at 1pm!”


Awkward silence hung in the air while both were sitting on the sofa, staring at the empty TV screen. There was an ashtray on the table with a No Smoking symbol in the middle of it.

“So uhm, who do you think might have impregnated you?”

She almost choked on the milk and he saw that milk was coming out of her nose. After a round of coughing and wiping her lower face, she threw a fierce glance at him.

“That was beyond impertinence!”

“As far as I’m concerned, I paid for the pregnancy test…”

She shook her head numerous times and carried on eating her cereal. His leg started shaking.

“Since you’re so straightforward and direct, let me ask you something.”

“Anything.” His voice sounded nervously high all of a sudden, but she hadn’t noticed.

“I’m not convinced that you believe in God.”

His leg stood still again. She continued “You use Him as the apple on your head…”

He lowered his head and felt how everything around him was turning black. His head had started to ache.

“I didn’t put it up there. My mother did”, he said finally.

“So…you don’t believe in God?” she carefully put the empty bowl on the table.

“I do”, he muttered and swallowed a paracetamol. “It’s just – everything was so much easier when I didn’t…”

As she approached him, she said “But nobody’s telling you what to believe in?”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because of what I did.”


It was almost 5 o’ clock. Whilst walking around in the living room, he could hear her in the bathroom. She had told him that if the test was positive, she would not drop out of university and leave Bristol but would make Fred marry her after the final term.

They were both sitting on the sofa again, close to each other like a nervous couple, staring at the strip, which was in Jim’s glass – the one he used for mouth wash each morning.

“I can’t believe it took us two and a half years to become friends, Graham.”

He remained quiet.

She continued “That’s what you get when no one makes a move. Or it’s simply fate.”

“You made the first move today.”

“Yeah…that was because I had no money on me”, she smiled. “Other than that I always thought you were a weirdo.”

“And that says a girl who likes Francis Bacon.” He smiled a genuine smile for the first time in her presence.

“You’re weirder.”

A minute had passed and there were still no coloured bands visible.

“I told you, I never used to be like that”, he said. “It’s my new perception on life. I feel no guilt towards what I did. It’s only my mother who says I should. And yet, I pray to her God to go away.”

“Don’t make yourself paranoid. I don’t approve of what you did, but ultimately it was not your…”

Finally one color band appeared on the control region, but no band showed on the test region. She had completely lost her flow of mind and looked fairly mystified. Maybe she was double-checking that there was truly no band appearing on the test region. None appeared.

-

When Graham’s archery lesson began, he felt alone like never before. Even though he had numerous people around him carrying bows just like him, he couldn’t remember what fellowship felt like or what the significance of it was. Their instructor always spoke with a dull tone of voice, where people failed to listen carefully:

“Safety and responsibility always come first! Watch your companions and make sure you don’t endanger anyone! And don’t ever shoot bent or broken arrows – self-explanatory…”

Graham noticed some people getting impatient. One of the guys started fidgeting with his arrow.

“Stop it or you’ll poke yourself in the eye”, Graham said to him with a serious stare. The guy stopped fidgeting and simply stared back.

“Quiet!” the instructor said “Now, an archer, who intends to hit the bull’s eye, must not directly aim at it, but slightly to the side…”

Graham shuddered. There was no wind.

“…Ok, get ready then. First put on your finger and arm protection, then check your bow, the strings and your arrow!”

The blinding sun was decreasing Graham’s attention span. At least there were clouds approaching.

“So. Now get into your comfortable stance and don’t forget you draw the arrow back to the same anchor point on your cheeks!”

Every student had drawn his arrow and was aiming at his target intensely. Graham felt that his target was not 20 yards away, but a lot further. After closing his eyes for two seconds, he opened them again and recognised a man about 25 yards ahead of him with the target painted on his body. It looked like Bernard. There was an arrogant smile forming at the corner of the man’s mouth. Graham couldn’t see it, but he knew it. His hands started to shake and sweat was running down his head.
He bent his right knee a little, drew the arrow back tightly and shot it slantwise up into the sky. The arrow faded to a dot that became lost amongst the sea of white gathering overhead.

“Oh my God!” the instructor shouted.

Everyone was staring at the sky. Suddenly Graham felt his cheekbone lifting up to a smile which then evolved into laughter.

“We’ll evacuate this place right now!” the instructor shouted, but everyone was already running. He grabbed Graham tightly by the arm and dragged him off the lawn. It was getting windy.

“I won’t tolerate this! You are in trouble. What were you thinking?”

“William Tell”, Graham answered, still laughing.

As soon as they reached the sports hall, the instructor grabbed Graham by the collar and hissed “Stop fooling around, buddy! If anybody gets hurt, you’ll be responsible!”

“Sir, do you think I’d have done that if I had known somebody would get hurt?”

“You’re out of the team!” He finally let go of Graham, who was still grinning from ear to ear. “And listen to yourself when you speak. You’re absurd!” The instructor turned around and was about to walk into his office.

“Watch your foot…” Graham murmured.

“What are you mumbling?” As he turned his head back to Graham whilst still walking, he failed to notice the janitor coming along from his right with the cleaning trolley. A heavy groan followed, and Graham was out through the door. His grin had faded into indifference and he felt how a dark shadow was casting upon his entire face.
He headed back to the empty field even though a voice had just spoken through the loud speakers telling people to steer clear of the field or anywhere near it due to the danger of an arrow. The sun was behind the clouds now and it was still slightly windy. Further down the field was a small millpond where Bernard’s accident took place. Nobody had dared going near the old oak tree ever since. He remembered that it used to be a place where many used to sit and have their lunch.

The arrow had landed near the water, head first. As he tried to pull it out of the ground, he got startled by a grass snake which first, before he even noticed, had looked like a pile of deer dropping.

He fell on his behind. “Joe-fucking-Strummer…”

He watched the snake move back smoothly into its hole. For a second he had to think of Shannon and biomechanoids. Then the snake slithered back out and disappeared quietly into the water.

He remained sitting and simply stared at the still water. Ever since Shannon left the city, he had been feeling more detached from the world than before. Every now and then she would text him, but he hardly ever replied. She asked whether he had known that her heart would be in pain and she would also text him when she encountered people going through pain, because they reminded her of him. She wrote that if he had been there with her to foretell others’ painful moments, they’d both have lots of fun together. He looked at his phone and there was a new message: “You should come visit me in Devon! I kinda miss our conversations…”

He was trying to remember the last time he was at the millpond and it was indeed two summers ago.

-

Graham was taking care of the campfire whilst Jim, Neil and Bernard were drunk and stoned, laughing on the grass. If the fire went out, it would be utterly dark, since it was new moon.

“If I had a bow and an arrow now, I would shoot right up into the sky” Bernard muttered and the rest carried on laughing, except Graham. Then Bernard continued “William Tell never misses anything. He could even shoot God down.”

Graham smoked the rest of the joint without feeling anything, yet. Nonetheless he could still taste the remaining bitterness of the absinthe on his tongue. Bernard had brought some real Czech absinthe from Prague to test out the hallucinations myth. Graham was not a good drinker and was still sipping at his first glass whereas the others were already preparing their second.

“Come on, Gray, drink up!” Bernard shouted, and he did.

The flickering noise of the fire sounded like cracks in a brick wall and their laughter was just behind it. His head was spinning, his heart racing. He felt nauseated, every part of him started to work slowly as if he had just awoken from anaesthesia. Then his vision blurred and all he could hear was under-water-talk. Suddenly an uncanny feeling surrounded him when he noticed Bernard’s figure rising. Bernard was mumbling something to him, but all Graham heard now was the flicker of the fire or were those cracking noises? All he saw was a blurred, disfigured outline of Bernard’s body.

“Hey” Graham mumbled as Bernard walked away, “Wait…”

Through his blurry vision he could see that he stopped for a while to listen, but then he carried on walking towards the oak tree. He heard the cracking noises repeatedly in his head and tried intensively to concentrate on Bernard. Now he could also hear fractions of Neil’s and Jim’s laughter.

“Bern…!” He wasn’t sure whether he had said it or only imagined it. Through his hazy vision he saw Bernard’s leg disappear underneath the dark branches of the oak tree. That was when Graham began to vomit feverishly into the fire. Now the only clear cracking noises he heard were bones and neck – followed by a splash in the millpond. The laughter had died and the fire had gone out.

-

The water was still peaceful; the grass snake hadn’t come back, yet.

Graham remembered the day his mother started praying for him desperately, saying that he should never interfere with God’s will. Bernard’s death was God’s will. The guilt will go if you have trust in God, she had told him. Ever since then his mentality, not to mention his cognition, had been under surveillance by something he didn’t even believe in, and yet his mother thought her son was a prophet of pain and was destined to suffer torture twice – except she was wrong. He looked at his mobile phone, uncertain about whether to write to Shannon or not.

The area did not change much except that the oak tree was looking more fragile than it did two years ago. For some reason he felt he and the tree had something major in common.

“Hey, sorry I’m late” someone said behind his back.

He got up, turned around and saw Bernard who was wearing a t-shirt with a target on it. The bull’s eye was not red, but black. As they were walking along the field, the colour of the sky had changed to magenta, but neither of them were interested in the peculiarity of the sky.

“It’s been a while, huh? How have you been?” Bernard asked.

“Crap, what else?”

“So as usual then…what’s new?”

Bernard’s enthusiasm and sleaziness revealed something slightly unsettling, especially in association with his entire appearance in that uncanny atmosphere. But yet, it all seemed so ordinary at the same time.

“Nothing.”

“Any girls?”

“There is someone, but...” Graham stuttered.

“What? Are you being a coward again?” Bernard asked, sounding disappointed.

They walked past a beautiful female ballet dancer practicing in an alley of white spruces. Her curly hair dangled like tinsel. Then the disappointment on Bernard’s face had vanished and changed into something familiar and honest.

“You want this madness to stop, don’t you? You just want to accept the past.”

They were now walking past a tree feller felling an oak tree with an axe. Each hit on the tree equaled the sound of a thunder.

“Bernard, I tried…” Graham said, unable to finish.

“I know”, he interrupted.

“I could’ve prevented it.”

The magenta sky was darkening to burgundy and the trees which they were now approaching were losing more and more leaves. It was autumn.

“It’s ok”, he repeated and continued “It wasn’t your fault.”

That was the ultimate key phrase which had almost brought Graham to tears.

“But I still…”

“No” Bernard interrupted again and there was blood gushing out of the bull’s eye of his t-shirt, but he felt no pain and indicated no kind of alarm. All Bernard did then was smile and held Graham in his arms with the blood still flowing. Graham could feel his friend’s broken ribs pressing against his body.

“I’m sorry” Graham’s voice trembled.

“No, don’t be. Don’t carry around a burden that was never yours.”


As Graham woke up in the middle of the night, he saw the bright moonlight stalking his room like a madman. He grabbed for his mobile to write a text message to Shannon, saying

“How about next weekend?”

Then he sat up on his bed and looked straight ahead. He saw that the hand was gradually drawing back the arrow. William Tell never misses anything.

--
Paula Cheung, October/November 2010