Braingasm

He stared at the wall, purple bags matching the blue in his irises. If you looked closely, you could make out a flicker of a smile form on his face every few seconds as if a broken film porjector lost its image—

Could you tell he was crazy, staring at the wall without thinking about good or evil, ordinary or bizarre, real or imaginary—?

He had one visitor, his sister, today.

“Victoria, why do you exist?” He asked not looking at her.

“The same reason you do.”

“Maybe we should die then.”

“I have things to do first,” she said, opening her purse to pull out a chocolate candybar she smuggled into the asylum for him. “I brought you—”

“Are you free, Tuesday?”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Next Tuesday, you dumb bitch.”

It didn’t faze her that he hated her guts as much as he hated himself, which explained why she answered, “Sure.”

She was the sister to a man who couldn’t tell the difference between an apple and a orange because he didn’t fucking care, alright? She was the sister whose sociopathic nature led to personal apathy, never caring about her life—so could she be considered suicidal if she didn’t care to live? Oh, how did she not get the same sentence as her brother, knowing their bond was disturbingly close yet distant simultaneously.

“We have a date,” he announced, shifting in his seat so he could slip his hands—palms down—under his thighs. “Alright?”

“Alright.” She smiled, liking the way he asked her to confirm they were doing something together, like how they used to play with one another when they were kids.

“How will we do it? Let’s make it fast.”

“Want to get ice cream?”

“I can’t take you out of the home, Ben.” She pouted, whispering guiltily with the fact, “You know that.”

“Bring some.” He smiled completely, and it sent shivers down her spine when she glimpsed at it. “And poison it for us.”

“Alright.”

They used to eat sundaes on Tuesday afternoons with their mother, who never explained why she felt the need to experiment with gravity with her neck. She wasn’t a woman to have children, despite the both turning out brilliant. She wasn’t a woman to be a mother, despite being the most loving woman to nurture. She wasn’t a woman to live, despite being alive.

“Are you scared?” He asked.

“I don’t care.”

In truth, the both of them were children who missed their mother, despite being thirty and thirty-two (Victoria was older.) Oh, how could they have lived this long as orphans? Oh, how could they live?

“Why do we exist?” He asked again.

“The same reason why we cease,” she answered. “I don’t think life is important. I don’t think we were meant to live these lives.”

“Sometimes I wonder if we really do exist.”

“Who knows.”

And honestly, even if they believed in God or not (and neither of them really cared to learn that aspect of themselves)—why, even if they did, they still didn’t know just why they existed.

a tale about adultery I wrote some long time ago:

I’m not exactly sure how this all started, not exactly aware of when I got myself into this situation that I couldn’t—and to be honest, wouldn’t—get out of. In the beginning, I remember, there were butterfly feelings of danger and ecstasy fused into one emotion of sadism against others’ feelings. There wasn’t one bit of care, not one ounce, which merged with our conscious—and guilt? Guilt was a figment of our imagination.

He took my lips, ghosting his kisses on them as he held me close.

It always took place in one location, and one location only: On top of his desk at the police station no earlier than ten fifteen, forty-two seconds past—PM. The cameras in his office would focus on his door rather than his desk at that time, so clearly it was a practice we needed to master.

My shirt was slipped off, baring my flesh before his eyes.

Sometimes we were cute, there for the kisses, there for the sweet nothings we wished to hear from each other. Then there were times where our sole concern was how wide my legs could spread, how loud we could be, and how hard he could thrust.

It’s only lust if you don’t say “I love you” in the end.

“How is she?”

He was inside me, embracing me with his arms as my head leaned back, hanging just next to the edge of the desk. Drenched in forbidden desires, our bodies pressed closely to each other, orgasmic sensations pulsating throughout.

“She’s fine,” he answered. “Still naïve.”

“When are you going to tell her?” I whispered, taking his chin and guiding him towards my lips, which kissed his softly.

“When the time is right.”

Oh, he wasn’t mine—technically. I was the shadow behind the curtains while he dated Her, a girl who couldn’t pinpoint a lie even if she tried. Sweet girl, just not worth it. She did not have the history he looked for, did not have the obstacles he had to fight over. There was no hard way of obtaining her, there were no chances of being sent to jail for kissing her, for… fucking her.

Shoving me into the wall, he held me up with his hands firmly cupping my behind. With my arms wrapped around his head in the way that a lover’s would and with his kiss taking me under his charm the way a romantic’s would, we smiled at our situation. We were cheating the whole world with our secrets. We were fooling everyone into thinking we were mere acquaintances with bitter emotions to each other.

In the beginning, it was all a game. In the end, it was a painful journey.

He kissed my shoulder, spreading me out on his computer desk once again. My eyes winced as I pushed him away this time, whispering, “What if she…”

“She won’t.”

“What if you…”

“I won’t.”

“Then why am I here?”

He stood before me, gazing down into my eyes, murmuring lovingly to me, “Because, unfortunately, people would rather see me with her than you.”

“Do you love her?”

“Never.”

Capturing my lips, he continued, “I betray the ones I use, I hide the ones I love.”

So it comes down to the fact that I was a mistress so to say. As I watched her love him, I restrained myself from ever clawing at her face to yell the truth into her ears. I restrained myself from ever showing a glimpse of affection towards him in public, but instead that cocky attitude everyone came to know and love.

He took me. He took my heart.

I was the dirty little secret who saw everything. Except, this time… I wouldn’t tell.

“I don’t want to hide forever.”

He wiped the tears from my eyes.

“I know.”

Imagine… What started off as a sexual frustration turned into deeply planted longings. Our sinful uses of our connections with the police became our haven from the rest of the world. He seduced me into falling for his witty charm, the words he murmured into my ears when no one was around. We kissed behind doors, feeling the adrenaline of forbidden love.

Sometimes even the police break the law.

“Did you tell her?”

He gently tilted my head towards the door, where She opened and gasped when she saw us.

“Yes.”

And sometimes they get away with it.

The wind blew his bangs over his eyes as he stared out over the cliff, above the terrain of Californian deserts, past the overview of the city, misted by the afternoon smog. Oh, he relished in the moments where the breeze decided to steal his most brilliant thoughts, mainly his epiphanies about youth coinciding with the wise, and love being a figment of everyone’s gay imagination.

“Can you hear me when I whisper ‘I love you’?”

No, he couldn’t, closing his eyes from the setting and taking himself into the beauty of my blushing breasts and cheeks that burned his in the passion of our love making.

“Can you see me love you?”

Yes. Oh, could he.

He was as sensual as he was insightful,; he knew things I could never imagine. I was the typist to his authorship, and I listened eagerly, hoping, wanting, yearning for him to tell me his blessed words.

“Can you tell me you hear me?”

“I can do more.”

And it did.

The goal is simple: Just survive the day.

Yet, see, it’s a bit hard to focus on that oh-so-lame goal when I’m trapped in a closet that the girl I slept with last night shoved me in so she could hide me from her boyfriend-of-four-years, until of course the both of us realize that the man pounding behind the door is not her boyfriend, but the cops and—shit, there might be a bit of crack on some graffitied five-dollar-bill because, hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Shit. Am I going to get arrested for possession?

Well… Guess I’m not going to finish dental school.

I mean, it doesn’t matter right now because my claustrophobia is way more terrifying than handcuffs. (God, this reminds me of that goddamn elevator that stopped so that the Fire Drill could be “more realistic.” Holy Crap.) No, no. This is cool. I expected to die when I was rammed on both ends (front and back, baby) by Toyotas. I have the scar to prove I survived, and the apathetic soul that actually died.

Ugh.

No more one-night-stands.