Mostrando las entradas con la etiqueta waste. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando las entradas con la etiqueta waste. Mostrar todas las entradas

miércoles, 8 de marzo de 2017

Waste of space

   Every day was almost exactly the same. He would wake up, have something to eat, then shower, look for a job and then lunch. After that, it would be hours and hours of basically nothing until dinner. At night and in the morning he would exercise a bit and before going to bed he would watch something, like a movie or whatever was available. That was life like for him, even after he had decided it would be different. His decisions in life had amounted to nothing and he didn’t know what to do.

 He had been living there for almost a year and nothing had happened, nothing at all. Not a single change since his arrival. He tried to keep it different by distracting himself with movie or by going out to walk around the city, but that didn’t change anything either. It was a perpetual movement he was trapped in, a series of actions he repeated every single day, every week and every single month, no matter the little differences like weather or things like that. Things didn’t change.

 He had tried to change them. He had really tried but he soon realized that one person couldn’t really change the world. Whoever had said that in the past was wrong. A single lonely human couldn’t change a thing in this world. Every major shift had to involve lots of people with a common goal and a certain organization. And he didn’t have that at all. He was alone and he depended on his parents for survival. They weren’t happy for him or anything, but they felt they couldn’t refuse him help.

 The money he received as an allowance was used very carefully to pay for the apartment, the bills and the food. Those were the normal expenses. He sometimes used the money for distractions, going out and that sort of thing. In those instances he would have to remember that he was taking money away for his food. He never minded. Besides, it wasn’t something he did often; on the contrary, he managed his money in the most careful way because it was just enough to survive.

 But that was the thing: he had been thinking for a long time if it was worth it to keep on living as he was. He was draining money from his parents every month, he was sitting on his ass doing nothing, except getting older and older people have a harder time getting a job. But no one was giving him a job, not now or before. Not when he was recently graduated or after his various years of studies all over the place. They had never acknowledged him as a nothing more than a man that could pick up a phone or move boxes from one place to the other.

 The money he earned for such jobs disappeared very fast. Most of it was taken away by the health service they provided, which he never used. And the rest was used to pay debts or bills. Nothing remained. Those times, whoever, he could grab a little more from his parents money in order to have fun, even for a short period of time. He would get drunk, go out and party and just forget about everything in his life and who he was. He lost himself every time or at least he tried.

 He loved going out to dark places with loud music, wherever they could have alcohol. He even tried drugs a couple of times but it wasn’t his thing. The point of it all was forgetting his life, which was pathetic and sad. He was a leech and a waste of space. He remembered that expression once and it had gotten stuck on his head since then because it described so well what he thought of his place in life. He did feel as if he was a waste of space and would have loved it to be different.

 But it wasn’t things are as they are and one’s blind optimism cannot change that. People want every single person in the world to think blindly that everything is going to be ok but the reality of life is that probably nothing will be ok. The world itself is more and more violent, not a hospitable place for actual life to develop. So why should people be blind to that? Why should be people avoid the truth, instead of embracing it and maybe then find a solution for whatever the problem is?

 Many times, he looked around his house and carefully planned his last day on Earth. It was kind of like a game he played with himself when things where a its lowest. He would imagine cutting his wrists on the tub and having one of those almost artistic deaths, with the blood tainting the water slowly and also spilling gently to the floor. It looked almost like a romantic thing inside his head. But it would take too long and that wasn’t something he was very eager about.

 He imagined many other outcomes for his life. Some more admittedly violent and graphic but others were even more subtle that the one in the tub. He had a great imagination, which he used laying on his bed, waiting for someone to respond to his calls looking for one of the many menial jobs the world had to offer. He had realized a while ago that no one was going to give him a good job where he could feel like a real person. He was apparently built to be a slave and he had decided he didn’t mind at all, it was his destiny all along and that was settled.

 Sure enough, he had two jobs latter on: one as part of the cleaning crew in a hospital and another one in a supermarket, doing basically the same thing. He would break his back for a pay that was laughable but there was nothing else to do. However, he decided one day to ask his parents not to send him any more money. They did ask him “why” but he never answered, so they just did as they were told and the subject never came up again, in telephone conversations or when he visited, which was rare.

He had decided he would survive with whatever he had. His meals were greatly reduced and he had to move to another apartment, one even smaller in a much uglier part of the city. He sold some of his belongings too, in order to pay for the first couple of months. He tried to set aside something every month for pleasure, such as alcohol or whatever he would be in the mood for. Those small moments were not of joy but of quiet and a certain peace, which he still enjoyed.

 After some months living his new life, he got very sick with the flu. He stopped earning money for almost three weeks. When the disease didn’t kill him, the lack of food almost did. He actually had to be rushed into the hospital but he escaped it as soon as he could because he didn’t have the money to pay for a hospital bed. He just bought bread and medicine and hoped for the best. He was fired from the hospital he worked in but kept the supermarket job, where they raised his salary a bit in order to make him do more stuff.

 As always, he didn’t really mind. He got better, or just about, and start working harder every day. The hours were longer than before and this time he had to work every single day of the week but at least he was distracted by something. He didn’t have time to ponder or think about what could have been or what the future may hold for him. Those were empty questions now and no one care about the answers. He had lost the will to rebel in any way. He just lived, if that’s what it’s called.

 He was eventually fired from that job too. Not long after that, he decided to jump off a bridge that passed over a highway. His parents had nothing to keep from him anymore, as he had sold almost everything except and old notebook he had kept from when he was young, Inside, he had written a number of stories and he had also drawn lots of characters and abstract figures. They took one look at it and then stored it away somewhere. The man became a memory and, after his parents died, it was as if he had never existed on this Earth.

martes, 5 de abril de 2016

The sound of latex

   I could hear it once and again and again. Every single time I closed my eyes, I remembered that noise and it made me sick. For some reason, I couldn’t stand it but the roots of the problem were probably much deeper. No one just has an irrational disgust for something, it always come from somewhere.

 To be precise, it was the sound of latex pulling out of their bodies. That was the sound that made me sick, repeating itself once and again and again on my brain. Every single guy I ended up with had that faculty of making a strange noise when they removed a condom after we had finished and it was the only thing I remembered clearly.

 Yes, you could say I was a bit promiscuous but I always took care of myself. That was the only thing that was constant in those dates, in those outings if you will. The rest was always slightly different but always ended with that horrible sound and it stuck in my head.

 One time, the sound was so very ingrained in my ears that I couldn’t really hear anything else. So after getting out of that house, or being kicked out probably, I put on my headphones and tried some loud music to make me forget about the sound. But it kept coming back every time and it made my stomach turn.

 The last time, I actually had to vomit by a tree in the middle of the night. I guess I couldn’t take it anymore and my body had to translate what it felt in whatever way possible. After doing that, I felt weak and disgusted and sad. I started crying right there and was thankful no one was walking down that street at that time of night.

 I decided to walk home, which was not the best idea but I knew no taxi driver would pull out for me in the state I was in. I was disgusting and tried to fix it by taking off my now dirty t-shirt and folding it to keep inside one of the big pockets in my coat, which I closed tightly due to the cold weather at night.

 I walked a few blocks and then realized I had no idea where I was going. My brain was confused; I was lost and had no idea why. I couldn’t form a rational thought in my head and I slapped myself hard in the face to wake up and do something that made sense but it didn’t work at all. I don’t remember having had anything to drink that day and I don’t do drugs. I’m not that fucked up yet. But I didn’t feel normal and started worrying that maybe the guy I had been with had done something to me. I tried to remember and the only thing that came to my mind was the horrible sound of latex.

 I covered my ears and started crying again and tried to keep on walking but I couldn’t. It was too difficult, too complicated for me to keep on moving with all the images that were coming to my mind. It was like seeing many photo albums at the same time, and these were all about my sexual encounters with random men. I knew what I did and how I did it but apparently my brain and my body were trying to tell me that they couldn’t do it anymore.

 Suddenly, I collapsed. I fell to the ground on my knees, getting hurt really badly. The world started to turn and the only thing I could hear was latex…

 When I woke up, I was still very dizzy. I was lying in some sort of bench but I wasn’t in a park or anything like that. I instantly smelled food and my stomach growled, complained it had nothing inside. The light was very bright and when I tried to get up, a man got closer and told me I could rest there all I wanted.

 He was really nice, he looked nice at least. His smile was soothing and I just did what he said. I put my back against the wall and keep my legs up on the bench like chairs and realized I was in a small restaurant, the kind of place you an find really late at night, for those who want something to eat after partying or having a load of beer or any other alcohol. After all, they say fat brings the drunkenness down.

 I stay there, unable to close my eyes again. My head still felt like a toy used by a baby but I could at least focus on what my eyes were seeing because it made me feel a bit more relaxed. The guy that had come up to me appeared to be the only employee working the night shift. He brought food to the two busy tables and started mopping the floors when he had a moment. It was then he looked at me and I couldn’t help it. I had to smile.

 He smiled back and then my smile disappeared. He was very beautiful, an angel, and I couldn’t just smile in the state I was in. I was a disgrace; a fallen being that didn’t deserve any kind of kindness. I had always thought I was a little bit below everyone else, so maybe that’s why I preferred to be submitted to others and that’s why it was who always heard the sound of latex, every single time.

 The smell of food made my belly growl again and I decided it was time to leave. When I put my feet on the ground, the man got closer and told me I should wait, as he was going to end his shift as soon as the sun rose in a few minutes. Then, he could take me home in his motorcycle. He said he would feel much better if he did that because he didn’t want me to be in danger.

 In my head, I wondered why the hell he cared about me and if I got killed or if I vomited again in another tree. Maybe he had seen so many fucked up guys in the world that he just had to help them. Or maybe he knew of someone who could have used that help and now was dead because no one had given him a hand when he was drunk and wasted.

 I just sat down and waited and the thought that maybe he wanted me for something more passed my mind. And I decided I would fall on purpose of the motorcycle before I accepted to that. I couldn’t be this person anymore and that included hooking up with any person I saw on the street, no matter how kind and nice they were to me. So if he wanted more, he wouldn’t get it. My business was close.

 I laughed when I thought of that, because of the phrasing, and some of the people paying their food looked at me with disgust. They probably smelled my t-shirt or simply saw who I was and knew I was just the scum of the Earth sitting there, too close to them, and that made them cringe. I thought that they had probably done awful things too, but they had that thing that most people have when you lie to yourself about what you do. I had lost that, that very night.

 I had no shame anymore, no standards or limits. I was well past any of that. And I couldn’t lie to myself about it. I was who I was and that was a fact and the truth and nothing I could tell myself could change that. It was a bit sad but at least it was honest and I hadn’t been honest in a while, so it felt really good.

 The guy came out of the kitchen wearing a black leather jacket and his helmet. I walked closely behind him towards the motorcycle. He met the guy that would take the next turn. That one didn’t look at me, which was something really weird as I was only a few centimeters away. He took me out of my thoughts asking me my address and I said it, robotically.

 We got on the motorcycle and left that place. He accelerated and I pressed my hands around his waist, about to fall asleep once again. We got to my place in no time and was surprised because he didn’t said anything about coming up and it was indeed my house because the doorman recognized me.

  I stood there by the motorcycle and he just took a good look at me and asked: “What happened to you?” I opened my mouth and then closed it again because I wasn’t sure I understood the question. I didn’t know what he meant. He didn’t wait for the answer anyway. He winked at me, told me we would meet again and then drove away fast.

 That morning, before I fell asleep again, the sound of latex came back to my mind. But it was now mixed with the sound of the motorcycle, the image of a wink and the thought that, maybe, life hadn’t been able to destroy every single part of me. Maybe, I wasn’t done.