Monday, August 11, 2014

scrapped chapter/scribbles

I sit down down at the dining room table. I see Jason's body lying face down in the kitchen. I sit at the dining room table with my head in my hands and stare at Jason and the space around him. I watch the sunlight play across the linoleum, dust motes hanging in the air. His hair seems to slowly bob, moved by some unseen breeze. A thousand sounds from the outside world-- birds singing, car engines, construction starting up somewhere. I sit motionless and look and listen and think and breathe.

I go through the mundanities of murder, the tidbits of the terrible. What I could do with Jason's body. Constructing my alibi. Formalities. I wasn't concerned, to tell you the truth. When I'd woken up this morning I hadn't planned to kill Jason, and now that he was dead, I hadn't planned to deal with it. Maybe it was something he said, or a way he had looked at me, I don't know. I didn't feel anything, as is customary at this point. When you get it all out there is nothing left. So I sit and think.

I don't know exactly what Richard says, but it's enough. My face is flushed and hot, my skin goes prickly, covered in a thousand stabbing needles. Maybe he's insulted me, taunted me. No, I don't like that-- maybe he's insulted Jason, yeah... Objectified him. Turned him into a prize to be won, and claimed him as his own. Jason, helpless, fooled, stands off to the side, mouth open, hands limp. I draw my arm back and throw my fist at Richard, pivoting my hips and shoulders to add weight to the punch like I was taught in 5th grade Taekwondo class and it explodes in his face, breaking his nose and covering my fist in blood. Maybe there's even a spurt, a splash of blood that pops from his face and flies in a perfect arc like in a Sin City comic. With just one powerful punch Richard falls to his knees, sobbing, begging, snot and blood running down his face. Coolly I glance at Jason and offer to help Richard up. Or, no, no, I'm calling triple zero, “Hi, I need an ambulance, my-- friend has broken his nose...” and sensing that I'm distracted Richard can't help but make a desperate go at me, flinging his body up at me from the floor, fingers outstretched and face twisted, contorted, a devil out of hell. And, of course, I slap him down, I don't even break a sweat. I raise my leg and bring my boot down, a terrible hammer of justice, this time knocking him unconscious. Without missing a beat I cock my head and resume talking into the phone, telling the lady our location and Richard's injuries. Jason rushes over and joins Richard on the floor but he's looking at me, he's a little horrified and angry but he's turned on too, impressed, and I look at him and I don't say anything, ignoring him and that turns him on more and in my head I'm screaming Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you

Seconds dragged minutes dragged hours. My ass gets sore sitting in one place. Occasionally I crack my knuckles and think about Jason. My hand, always at groin level, brushes my dick through my jeans and I think about Jason, his neck, his stomach, the little hairs leading down from his belly button, his dick, short and thick in girth and stench, that mix of saliva and sweat and semen that emanated from his pubic hair. I miss him, I miss that, already, though I knew I shouldn't. It is quite silly and unfair to, when you think about it. This is my dream I had.

We finally arrived at the docklands, somewhere on the fringe of Fremantle. A nice area, clean, deserted (everything is closed on Sundays), full of new shops and the sweet salty smell of the sea. It is sunny but windy, so we alternate between freezing and thawing out as we walked along a white concrete path under large trees. For a while nobody says anything, and if I turn my head right and look out onto the ocean I can pretend I am alone, taking a leisurely stroll by the sea with my hands in my pockets. The cawing of gulls, the gentle throbbing wash of the waves is calming, and I feel at peace until I turn my head back and remember who I'm with. We're walking shoulder to shoulder-- Jason, the shortest, in the middle, a strange half smile on his face, his gaze fixated forward. Richard seems uncomfortable, he keeps scratching the back of his head and looking around nervously. Neither of them acknowledges me looking at them. Eventually we stop at a speckled grey concrete bench. Jason and Richard sit down while I, not wanting to make either of them shift over, pace back and forth in front of them.
I look out at the ocean horizon, the sun bounces off the water making me squint. “Nice day,” I say to nobody, who don't say anything back.

Despair washes over me. Despair is a strange, lonely sensation, that makes you feel sick in your stomach. Despair is the opposite of hope, despair is exclusionary. It makes you feel out of place, like you don't belong, it's a sense of wrongness and displacement. The world is meant to be a certain way but it isn't and there's nothing you can do about it because you are wrong. That is the meaning of despair.

Jason and Richard are talking-- well, mostly Jason is giving a speech, with Richard chipping his monotone “Yeah”s and “Mmm”s but I can't hear them. Glancing over their conversation you can pick out certain key words: Relationship. Love. Decision. Breaking. Friends. I'm looking around, searching for something to focus on. A fishing shop, with dead fish lined in frozen rows in the window. Bug-eyed and awful. I like fish, I like their movement, the slow careful hovering into quicksilver darting, effortlessly moving through three dimensions. Like aliens, hanging in space. Jason hates their eyes, and their smell, and their taste. I don't really like their faces all that much, expressionless, and those damn glass eyes, I just like their movement. They seem free. I'm thinking about how darting fish are animal and kinetic and alive and looking at the store fish they are product and marketable and dead and I feel even more nauseous. I become aware that I am scratching my arm when it starts lightly bleeding.
Jason finishes his prepared statement-- the looks he exchanges with Richard at certain points tells me they'd already run through the script together. Jason looks up at me with a sad, expectant smile. I feel like crying and whilst I know it's a formality at this point, I can't help it and tears burst out my goddamn face as I try to swallow them down in wretched gulps. Jason leaps up and says “Oh, oh, oh,” and puts a skinny arm around my shoulders. It's a horrible moment. Even through the sadness I find Jason's touch and tone comforting, and that makes me feel worse, because I know he's already gone. Everything is gone, already, so soon... our in-jokes and memes, habits, gone. All that trivial knowledge I have mentally banked: Jason's birthday is April 30th, Jason hates Thai food, his middle name is fucking Mallory...

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