Inspired by Italo Calvino and If On a Winters Night A Traveller, a book of many starts and few ends, I have some small fragments of writing that will never go anywhere- so I wanted to put them here. Thanks Italo for all the continued inspiration…
Sliding Skin
You can look into someone’s eyes to judge the depths of their soul. It’s like a window. I’ve always believed you can open and close your eyes, shut out the world, escape your fate, your destiny.
That’s how it was for me and Pete. At school, we’d give each other a sign. Close our eyes. I could close my eyes, and escape the mountain of words piling onto me.
But soon Pete’s eyes turned towards the teacher. He just stopped noticing any signs. He sucked up their words, but I was helpless.
That seems so long ago now, when I compare that to now. What happened next was going to change everything, was going to see us blurred, burned, set on fire and ripped apart.
There never seems to be an exact time in England. We’ll see it 8.30am, a Saturday in June, 2002. I’d been out, my head was banging. I could hear children on the street.
I turned, rolled into my wet dribble. My own wet record of the night before and it set me off, swearing. I saw myself in the long mirror. Like a pile of human ash.
At points like this, it’s hard to know if you’re male or female. Your eyes seem surprised and feminine. Your chin, hair shape- all male. I spat into the empty mug and rolled my eyes to the ceiling.
I felt gutted. It was Saturday and I was this tired. I knew it was going to be a struggle all day. To put my clothes on, to talk to my mum, moving downstairs. I kind of wished I was in the army all of a sudden. That thought made me smile, made me mentally wind my neck right back in. Right, I was up.
Dark Heart
It’s two fights now in 24 hours – first for clothes, now for work. Nothing standing in my way but other people. I can hear their voices, rising at the end, whining at me about money. Dress for work- but I need work to pay for clothes. So I steal clothes and that works. Stealing work seems implausible- just go straight to stealing money.
Silent blood drops soak into my shirt. I didn’t stop to choose the one I wanted, did I? My heart is hot in my hands now, it seems to breathe in every direction, like it’s doing the work of my lungs as well. Panting would be a better way of describing it.
I stare disgusted at the pool of goo I’ve made. There’s blood, plasma, running in a river blending light and dark. I catch flashes of street lights going out. Dawn is stretching a hand over this part of the city. For the first time since leaving The Road, I think of food.
Now some people think of food as something to be savoured, a route to satisfaction. For me, food is always a little out of focus, something I forget to do and rush to make up. No-one I ever knew trusted me to cook for them.
I see the guy on the bike before he sees me. His bike circles slowly, getting smaller, and starting again. He sees me now; thin, weak looking, easy target. He flashes a gold tooth. I see the wrapping from a burger in his hand, and even from this distance, the smell lures me in.
‘So what you saying, guy?’
He is speaking, ‘You on your way to work?’
‘I’m hungry,’ I reply, ‘I’m looking for some food.’
‘No shit,’ he smiles. ‘You picked a shitty place to find food. You got money?’
I smile, ‘I don’t need money.’
He laughs at this. ‘So give it to me then, I’ll take care of it. No seriously, guy. Give me your money.’
I reach out and grasp his handlebars, note the surprise on his face. He grasps me in return, we stand locked. I wanted his burger, now I feel like embracing him. It’s a bitter, hateful love, something I want to pour over him and smother him with.
I see myself explode on his tooth. A gold mirror to a tiny supernova. His body stiffens as my heart pounds and pounds. I notice everything about him in an instant- how slippery his skin is, how his shaved head smells of hairspray. The dots of gold in his ear. I stand over him, eating. I feel nothing, looking at his awkward shape. It looks as though the bike and him have been spun together in a blender- all spokes and limbs. The brick walls around me close in, reproachfully.
You can see right to the end of the street- transparent, like a shop window. You step into a scene from Blade Runner, a woman in a raincoat runs from you, and you start shooting. Except she’s not here and it’s not a film. You’ve been strung out for days and been laughing to yourself. One stupid film set.
