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Underground > Creation >

Twin

  
 
Robot Man Reformed
17:18 / 16.01.02
Her voice blends rather well with the ambiguous sitcom. Is it Help or Rape? Such desperation. I light my 13th Marlboro.

The ad stupifies me, just a tad. Am I their target group or perhaps another miss?

I have been awake for a couple of hours, now. At least. And yet I refuse to leave the comfort of the bed. It must be noonish. If not later. Hard to know since my flat is perpetually dark, when was the last time I withdrew the curtains?

HHHH.

Irrelevant series now. I watch it anyway while my thoughts rest on other equally indifferent matters.

A car crash? At least there doesn't seem to be any loudmouthed survivors.

2 days since my last bath. I light my 16th. I probably should but I seldom reek of shit.

Police tending whatever was out there.

What time is it now? Although it hardly matters anymore.

I drift into oblivion, to me my nightmares.

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A slithering, inconclusive, bleak angels saying, float. Like bubblegum, pink and hard on, don't wear your mask open, what do you say? This bubblegum is making it hard on, on your wrists, bleak angels reside, masks of insanity, don't, why you stare, where's my, hard on bubbles within my entrails, don't, bite my face off, bleak devil. Skin peels off, don't, I'll eat myself before, inside my entrails bubbles come out, pink and hard, become incubus, and eat me before I can, I laugh at their insane stare. I'm disturbed.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

A woman proclaiming my end of the world yells outside, is she too earnest? Some gentle god gradually fades down her volume. I can't find any excuse for getting out of bed. I still have 3 packs to go. Light my 3rd. It's 3 o'clock. I think. Inconsistent. I try to glance through the music magazine, the one from last year, the latest that I have. Once these pages were glossy but now I know what the next page brings.

I'm hungry.

I took a bath last night, although I don't know why, I hardly reek. Each day is different, only the blind can't tell the subtleness apart from the now to the day before and the one to come. My telly seems to be down.

It must be around 8 now, I'm down to my last pack. Marlboro's but of course. Can I sleep again? So soon?

Someone knocks on the door. Knock Knock Knock. I kill the lights and stand still, waiting for the someone to go.

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She licks him on the face with her labia. Labianus. She has 7 anuses. I stick 7 fingers up her rear end. I feel movement inside her. Worms with faces. I know they are worms with faces. Panicking, I pull out my fingers, her wormtrails have bit themselves onto my fingertips. I try to scream but my throat contracts itself, disabling me. They have all the time in the world, I'm paralysed, eating their way up my arm.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

"How are you doing?"

"What. Do. You. Want."

"It's just that..." Her voice trails off. I know she is crying. Suppression resulting in enforcement. I know her so well. "S'ust that, I worry..." A giant sob, she is officially pained now, "worry about you..." I so don't need this.

"Bye mom."

I sit still for what feels like a couple of hours. Reality says 23 minutes.

Someone knocks on the door. Knock Knock Knock. I sit still 13 minutes longer.

I light up another one, my throat irritates me, the dry well. I run through imaginary scenarios of how I could have contracted it. I stop myself because of the implausibilities.

I wish I had a VCR.

TV dead.

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He tells Audrey to stay inanimate, trying to find that special place with a saw. Audrey cries but I continue anyway, must find the place, gushing deep red blood as I tear through her delicate flesh. Behind me, my head is hit and my sight blackens momentarily. "Audrey, Shut Up!" My eardrums implode. The twisted Audrey has a pained grin as she stares at me with those puppy eyes and they darken, redden. "Audrey," I try to say unable to hear myself, "your pointed teeth," I continue while my arms are firmly nailed to the concrete, "your sharp claws," my legs. Sometimes dreams are forever.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

I wake up as someone knocks on the door. Knock knock Knock Knock knock. What? This is someone new.

Decision making process commences...
 
 
Robot Man Reformed
18:10 / 16.01.02
Creaking door. Actually it doesn't but I dramatize it for my own effect. Opening it very slowly.

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What constitutes a decision? What searches out the new and potentially dangerous? What convinces itself when it's clear it shouldn't?

Why this aftertaste of sweetness?

This is just the denouement of the beginning, this repression of involvement.

Bitterness?

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Tension as seconds expanded themselves upon my memory, filling out inert space, creating drifts of untold possibilities.

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The fusion of repulsion and aversion as scents forced their way up the nostrils, the ancient blend of personalized and acquired smells which signals an entity apart from the self, the fickle otherness. He was unknown. He - the unknown - giggled at the wide eyed expectance of the unexpected at the initial sight. A pat giggle, resolving nothing, hiding - potentially - everything.

He cleared his sore throat, and tried on a failed deliverance of casualness, "Yes?"

His grin was pervasive while the eyes preyed on every single detail it could swallow of the inert. Dramatic, pregnant pause, to further up the expectations. And like the best gunslinger, the unknown stretched out his hand toward the inert, looking fabulously rediculous.

"You might think this a surreal case but I know what you are and why you are." He laughed. "Name is Damien and you have a startled, disbelieving aura about yourself," and laughed for the last time.
 
 
Robot Man Reformed
18:48 / 16.01.02
Endulging Damien, the inert traded on the size of hands, cautiously, almost sexually, melting his palm and fingers onto his. The inert's breath was slow on delivery and intake. He was confused. Conflicted even. Solitude had silenced him but he prepared himself with dialogue of questions and playing merrily along with the neat bag of newness Damien could deliver, striving to recall the necessary etiquette of multiple pasts forgotten. Damien looked down on the handshake, the solid, impersonal grin still on his face. "I decidedly think you can let go now."

Damien had a bland facial wholeness. Not enough handsomeness to make your head turn but did it really matter? Especially when it was served with such a calculated approach?

His chilled cheer disappeared like all good things had in the past.

"Let go."

"Now."

"I don't know you," he let go and quickly closed the door; locked it, in fact.

One. Two. Three.

*Knock*

"Nick, don't be foolish. You know we are, so why not make it sooner?"

Nick went to the bathroom, and sought to drown his impressions inside the days old water in the sink.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Food.

Lack of food. Time passes by quickly but this time marched in snailpace. He searched through the garbage for more cigarette butts. He reeked now but hadn't the drive to wash it off. No TV meant he had read the once-glossy magazine backwards. Word for word. Hallucinating. I can't sleep. Augmented sounds, someone is beside me screaming like frequencies in my ear, just like. Some deformed bleak angeldemons inhabited my same room but they were silent, their electricity cotton on my complex skin. Rash-y, sometimes I'm deaf, completely complex trite and true, brand day night, what is happening?

Happening of a lifetime, look, a horrified version of my mom floating behind me, everytime I turn she disappears before I can catch her horrific but she is there, I know she is, look, I just know, okay? I'm not hallucinating, she was, otherwise how could she have delivered my failure, my inability.

I try to sleep but music keeps me awake, I throw a fit and scream at the top of my deafness, what is the volume? What time is it? What day is it?

How old am I?

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
 
 
Robot Man Reformed
19:13 / 16.01.02
The nurse cries. She cries at the sight of me. Save your tears for yourself, sister, did I say that? You will have plenty of time to figure out how this life is, when you have grown old, you will know you can't save everyone else in order to forget yourself, compassion to override the self. Why must you complicate yourself? I'm sorry, I'm sure you have your reasons, and I pass out.

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Doctor looks concerned. I'm still groggy.

He takes his time; what is this? Pity the fool period? I realize he's talking, his stiff lower lip, no, focus on the upper.

"...s. ...g. ...i. ...t."

I politely laugh.

"Cann heer." He whips out his cock and penetrates the patient next to me.

I'm hallucinating.

"Passersby."

I look at doctor intently, "Repeet."

"Can you remember anything?"

"Hunnerds snails snailed me heer?" I politely laugh at my joke.

"No." Oh, do stop with this concern, emotional porn substituting your sexless existence? "A passersby found you and brought you here. Your bloodloss was bordering on the lethal. Your right arm will be...You'll need intense training. Can I ask you a question?" Polite, calm, concerned. I nod. "Why did you eat your arm?" I shrug and laugh, politely.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Damien enters and picks up my hand. He doesn't say anything. He gets out.

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Robot Man Reformed
19:41 / 16.01.02
Sometimes the wind gathers around me, whereever I am, whenever I am, sometimes I see what others are not allowed to see and sense what others can't.

Sometimes I have intense headaches but all of this could be the drugs talking.

Talking drugs.

So weird, I live intently within my filter and no one's able to see what I can inside myself. What is my point? I'm sure I keep within myself but are others aware of it? Can they pierce through my layers? I regain enough of my appearance and leave as quickly as I can. I walk. And walk.

And walk.

Walk is such a funny word. Walk.

I intentionally walk in areas I can't recall, making myself lose sense of place in this city and I walk on. I walk for 2 days with no sleep, and although my pace isn't as brisk as it was in the beginning, at least I have worn off the effect of the drugs. My arm is sore, in a good way, my legs are blue, also sore.

All is in a good way.

I order coffee, black and she serves me what must be hours old, stale caffeine from a kettle. The music is mesmerising. I leave a small tip: "You have cancer." Odd thing knowing what their hindrances are in their care, full lives. I have sex with their souls. Messages must reach them, eyeing me, sensing unfamiliarity.

Everything comes in 3's and I return of the day to my flat. My sanctuary, how you have become me in my darkest night. And I hole myself up anew.

Imagine a world where there are no points, imagine a world where you require no fullfillment, imagine yourself alone and feeling undaunted by it, imagine yourself not wanting anything any other way, imagine your personality disintegrating, imagine your naked self for what it is, your flesh is just as edible, your soul a waste in a peaked container, nothing to live for and nothing to die for.

Someone knocks on the door.
 
  
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