The only sound I can hear is my own shaky breath. In… out… in… out… i-i-i-in… o-out…
How did I end up here? Where am I? Furthermore, who am I? I can remember. Me, texting a stranger. Walking to this place on my own legs. Sitting on this couch, watching the curtains, the same couch and the same curtains, just in a completely different context.
In… out… in… out…
So now how could I end up lying here, with the whole world upside down, with an alien force in my brain? Is this the Trickster again? Is this just another illusion he casted on me to lure me into his web of shady intentions? No. I know how I got here, I just don’t understand why.
The thing is touching me; my skin is crawling and sparkling under its power. This is heavy-duty magic in action. Focus! Breathe.
In, out, in, out, in again… now out.
I can’t think straight. My brain is crashing, my thoughts collapse under the pressure. The world is falling apart. The physical sensation itself is too much to bear; so intense it makes me sick in my stomach. My head is hanging dead from the couch, bent backwards in an angle that is not natural. The rest of my blood is trying to decide whether to co-operate with the alien force commanding it down to the lower parts of my body or stay here with me, supporting my dying consciousness.
I can’t see. The world is blood red, blurry and filled with black sparks. There is a hand on my throat. I try to grab it with one hand, for a minute I see clear and know exactly what I should do. The next moment my fingers close in on the wrist and I’m giving it all the strength I have left, supporting it in choking me, strangling the rest of life out of me. I want to stay here forever. I want to stay with this golden god, this forever warm touch deep inside me, here, outside the universe, where the rest of the world had already melted away.
Breathe.
In… out… in… … out… … in… … …
* * *
I met him online. I know how it sounds but I think in the 21st century people should already get over the fact that people actually do meet on the internet. Part of our isolated life. Sympathy for the wallflowers!
So there I was. We were supposed to meet. I had butterflies in my stomach from the moment I left home with the slight feeling that I was doing something bad. Something I knew exactly wouldn’t end well and I was absolutely not supposed to do, but I didn’t even consider backing out for a moment. I wanted to see him, I wanted to talk, to have fun, to live. I wanted the excitement of the forbidden fruit and the relieving freedom of an unknown human being. To whom I mean nothing and they mean nothing to me either. Only then I realized how lonely I really was.
I was smoking. Sitting alone, rolling a cigarette out of the last crumbs of my tobacco bag, waiting for the inevitable. And there he was. Nice smile, nice eyes and an overwhelming scent which seemed somehow out of place for a second, but the moment he hugged me welcome, I realized that it was a natural part of him and I found it pleasuring and beautiful. He had a cute accent.
We drank beer after beer. Nice brands, not the carefully cooled horse-piss I usually have, one at a time, always paid from pocket-change. The foam was thick and rich, the taste was deep and delicious. I always appreciated a decent brew. We were talking about silly little things and I grew nervous realizing how strong an affection I felt towards him and how my auto-defence mechanism was kicking in, not letting me stop talking although all I wanted to do was listening while he told me all the stories he carried here to share.
He decided for coffee. Even though I clearly had a say in the matter, I refused the right. I usually don’t do house calls, but this one just got under my skin and I was openly curious about the place this man calls home. So I played along, pushing the alarms in my mind back into oblivion. I needed the intimacy of a cosy living room, a talk without restraints or the risk of other people stealing the hidden secrets we wanted to share. Because he wanted to share too, I was absolutely sure about that.
It was a nice neighbourhood. Just at the edge of the ugly industrial quarter, a set of old-fashioned four-story buildings formed neat little streets, calm, civilised, functional place without redundant decoration or kitschy ornaments. Here, in the older parts of the city, all the houses have the same style and measures and even on the inside, the generic structure of the flats is the same; no big surprises on either side.
His apartment lay high over the street. The living room had a big window to the front side and through that I could see little patches of other living rooms in the buildings across the narrow street. I made myself comfortable on the cosy couch and started to study the room while he poured us some coffee in the kitchen. The whole apartment had a nice touch of comfort and style with its bare white walls and rough, raw wooden floor and doors. It smelled like home. The only hint of colour was provided by the curtains that hung low to the floor and covered half the window at the moment. They had a simple pattern of hand-drawn leaves, but they were beautiful with their strong, vivid colours that ranged from turquoise to fresh green, khaki to royal blue.
The coffee was nice. The conversation turned into mutual sharing of experience and philosophical discussion about wrong decisions and human nature. Hours went by like minutes. Suddenly it was late, time to end a polite conversation and leave, catch the last train and get home in time. And how I didn’t want to go… The cosy couch, the comfortably warm room, the light flickering in his eyes – everything that was there tempted me to stay. It was so good, so timeless in that little room, far away from everything that ever bothered me, far away from the endless struggle of my life, there was peace there, safety, comfort and I felt like I never wanted to leave that place again. I wanted to cuddle to him who sat in polite distance the whole evening, at the far corner of the sofa, watching me but never reaching out for physical touch; I wanted him to hold me and keep me there, in the safety I imagined his hands would provide. I was getting ready to go, ready to rip myself out of this magical moment. The voice in my head shouted: just one little sentence, c’mon, just tell me not to go… He never said a word. Probably had no idea how beautiful he was, sitting there with that little smile in the corner of his mouth. No idea how I wanted him that moment. We were talking softly then, but I was far away and even now, thinking back, I cannot recall any of that conversation.
I didn’t move. He sat very very still. What are you thinking?, he asked, and I couldn’t tell. I had no idea what I wanted, what I was doing; I was frozen in a moment too long to be comfortable and too pleasant to be broken. I felt tension building up in me as I sensed something building up in the air, a great force materializing, coming for me to take me where I didn’t belong.
And then he touched my leg. That was it. Not more than a single hand slowly stroking around my ankle, working its way up to knee-height. The hand stopped. He was looking at me with questioning eyes and he must have seen the despair in mine because I otherwise couldn’t answer the unasked question. Tell him to take you, tell him never to let you go, the little voice said.
I remained silent.
Whisper-Journal 