My Mother…

She says, “Everyone else is doing it!”
I say, “If everyone else was gonna jump off a cliff would you do that too?!”
“Yes,” she replies, “I wouldn’t want to be alone.”

Ladies and Gentleman, my Mother...

Honestly

Hope

I find it funny that people most often associate hope with light.

I don't.

I think that hope is like sitting in the dark, with faith, and it only takes a single flame of doubt to cause shadows. It takes more courage, faith and hope to sit in the dark. Just as it only takes the smallest doubt to shatter the darkness, to cause shadows.

Think about it, is sleeping with the light on not doubting your own strength to sleep without it? To sleep in the dark?

Hope is sitting in the dark without turning the light on, ever.

Relationship Advice from Someone Who Has No Idea What They Are Talking About

Chapter 3: An Episode of the Over Analytical Mind


It has occurred to me that taking English Literature has led me to be overly analytical of inconsequential occurrences. To explain, Reader, I will detail two conversations.

The first was with Baby Player, which occurred before the events of chapter one transpired. We were doing one of the many various mindless tasks that restaurant work entails and, as doing, set our tongues-a-wagging.

“So how’s your love life then?” He asks me.

I laughed, “Same old shit!” I was still dating Posh Twat at the time.

“What about at Uni? Is there no one there you like?”

“There is nothing for me at Uni. They are all younger than me.”

Pay attention, here comes the interesting part.

“So? You’re hot enough to get a younger guy.” He replies.

Now this statement intrigued me and I started to unpick the implications in my mind.

First of all there was the inference that younger guys were of a higher calibre and therefore a girl needed to be particularly attractive to land one. It was as if being younger made them higher quality item. Their own attractiveness seemed to be of no moment; youth being the golden ticket.

Second, that Baby Player apparently deemed me worthy of this ticket.

Finally, it had not occurred to him that I did not want to date someone younger than me. It did not register to him that women usually date older men for a reason. Maturity levels, experience, money; there are countless reasons, but none of this seemed relevant to Baby Player. The sole reason, in his opinion, for most women not to date a younger man was that they were not ‘hot enough’ to do so.

Later on that week I relayed the conversation to Post Twat, who sat patiently as I explained my thought processes to him. He listened attentively as I detailed the inferences in this statement and the connotations that could be derived from it. I referred to the language; the use of the word enough as if there was a level to be achieved before one could enter into the toy-boy regime. I referred to the tone of the statement; the lack of doubt showing that it did not occur to him that I might not want to go for a younger man. I concluded that this was a fascinating insight into the mind and opinions of Baby Player.

To all this Posh Twat waited tolerantly before turning to me and saying, “Hun, Baby Player is younger than you. I think he wants to sleep with you.”

“Oh.”

Oh...

That hadn’t occurred to me.

Choices - A Short Story

I didn’t mean to be this way. I just am. Well that’s not true; I don’t have to do this. I could choose not to. I could go get help, but I don’t want to. I want to kill her. I want to. I choose to.
I sit in my car, watching her. She has shopping, and she is struggling to get in her door. Ah, she’s dropped her keys; I could have guessed that would happen, she does that a lot. She dropped something on six different occasions last Monday; I consult my notes, yes, six different items.

She’s put her shopping on the ground now, bending over to get her keys, her underwear peeps out over her jeans, a thong. Slut. She deserves what she’s gonna get. I look into the rear view mirror, it’s getting dark but I can still see. I see my own brown eyes.

You will go into that flat and you will do what you know you are going to do. You know you want her, you know she deserves it. You know what’s right. You know about her. You have made notes. You have watched her. You know what she is. You know she is a sinner. You open the door of your car, you step out, and you walk towards her. You are gonna cut her, watch her bleed, you’ll see. You will see it when she’s dead, you’ll see. It will be there, you’ll see.

I get out of the car and walk across the road. She has located her keys, they were under the bush. I could have told her that, she kicked them there when she tried to catch them. I saw her.

“Hold the door, please.”

She looks up, smiles. Whore.

“I do live here, fourth floor,” I say.

“That’s ok, I believe you!” She laughs, and pushes the door with her shoulder.

“Well you can never tell, the world is full of crazies these days.” I smile, charming. Yes. Good. “Do you want some help? The lift’s broken isn’t it?”

“Ummm, yeah it is.” Of course it is, you told your friend on the phone yesterday. “If you don’t mind, that would be great.”

I take a bag, the heaviest one. There is wine in it. Drunken Bitch.

I smile. “No problem!” And follow her up the stairs.



A boy is crouched in his garden; he is at the back by the shed. His mother walks towards him from the house; she can’t yet see what he is doing.

“Sweetie, you have to come inside now. Your dinner’s ready.” She is wearing an apron and her hair is honey blonde.

“In a minute,” he mutters.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah,” he calls not looking; he is still crouched over something, using his hands.

“Well if you heard me why aren’t you coming then? It’s getting cold. Bring Monster with you, I’ll feed him too while I am at it.”

The mother turns and goes back into the house leaving the kitchen door open. She is humming to herself and opening a tin of dog food as the boy enters.

She turns, “It’s on the table, I...”

The boy is covered in blood; he is holding a small furry dog in his arms. The dog is dead.

He stares at his mother, “but I don’t like broccoli.”



“This is me.”

She flicks her hair as she approaches the door, and jingles her keys. She shoulder opens the door and steps inside, putting her bag down and reaching for the one I carried. I hand it to her.

“Thanks again,” she smiled. Slag.

She looks away for a second and then looks back at me, surprised. My foot was in the door so she was unable to shut it. I put one hand over her mouth and push her back into the flat, then with my other hand I grasp her throat and cut off her air supply. She struggles; she squeaks and squeals into my hand and beats at my arms with her tiny fists, but it was no use. I feel her getting weaker as her brain shuts down, then I let her breath again as she slumps into my arms.

There, there.

I pick her up and kick the door shut behind me, going into her bedroom, I lay her gently down on the bed and I start to get ready. I close all the curtains in the flat and turn off the lights. I find some candles in a cupboard and light them, to make it nicer. Then I push all the furniture back against the walls and create a big space in the living room. In the middle I put a chair.

You will see soon. It is nearly time. You put a chair there, yes, and you put her in it, yes; not too gently, she does not deserve such treatment. You bind her hands, good, and now her feet, yes! You go to the kitchen, looking, looking, ah, you have found it. Knives...



It is a school corridor; a tall handsome boy waits outside an office. His face is bored and subtly derisive; he clearly does not want to be there. He scuffs his feet and smiles ruefully at two boys that walk past, one of them mouths park -later at him and he nods.

“Mr Dawson, you can come in now.”

The boy goes in; he is maybe sixteen years old. There is a plaque on the front of the desk; it says Guidance Counsellor on it, a man in glasses sits behind it, steepling his fingers,

“Sit down, Dawson.” He does as he is told. “Do you know why you are here?”

The boy shrugged, his expression is polite but neutral

“Well, Miss Parker has left the school, you were aware? Yes? Well, there has been talk. She is being sent away, her family are insisting...Well, she is gone, anyway.” The man stared over his glasses at the boy. “They are going away for a while, it seems.”

“What this has to do with me, sir?” The boy looked into the man’s eyes without flinching.

“Miss Parker is suffering from an event. She is suffering from a ra... an incident that occurred earlier this week.”

The boy cocked his head to one side. “Oh my, that’s terrible. Is something being done?”

“She is refusing to name her assailant. I have been talking to some people from the night; they say that she was last seen leaving with you. Did you... Did you see anything?”

The man regarded the boy, searching for a reaction.

The boy shook his head. “No sir, nothing.”



She is waking up, she moans a little. I shiver. The knives clink in my hands. Her face starts to register the situation, confusion, understanding then fear.

She struggles in her bonds; her strap falls down over one shoulder. Slut.

You will not fall for that. You will not fall for this Jezebels charms.

“Hello,” I say quietly.

She whimpers.

“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers, “it’s not too late. I... I won’t, I won’t tell anyone. We can keep this just between us.”

I lick my lips and kneel by her, I look into her face.

“You don’t have to do this, it’s not too late. It’s not too late to stop.”

I laugh. “So I have a choice?”

“Yes.” She cried out on relief, she was shaking, the chair shivers with her. Her breath coming in short rapid gasps and her eyes rolling in her head, like a skittish horse.

“No. I don’t.”



A young man is standing by an open grave in a black suit, a casket lies in the ground but is yet uncovered; he is holding a white lily. The other mourners have long since gone but one other man stands behind him.

“I know you are there.” The young man said, he pushed his hair out of his eyes, he has been crying. “I know who you are, too.”

The older gentleman shifts from foot to foot, he looks uncomfortable.

“Your Mother was an incredible woman. I... I loved her very much. You should know that, I mean no disrespect. We loved each other.”

The younger man turned from the grave to look at the older gentleman. He was slightly scruffy, not a man of means, his mourning suit was tired.

“My mother was married,” the younger man whispered.

“Your father... We didn’t mean to.” He twisted his hands. “It just happened.” He looked helpless. Pathetic. Broken.

The young man stared into the eyes of his mother’s lover. He stared into the eyes of an adulterer and saw his mothers sins reflected in them

“Whore.”



I stand and walk over to the girl. She starts crying, sobbing, a dry racking noise. It was unproductive, no tears just raw emotions coming from her. I trace my fingers through her hair, it was soft, my mother’s hair was blonde, this girl’s hair was dark, but no matter.

I admire the colours in it, coppers and gold and chocolate.

I cut some off, a chunk from the left side. She cries out in shock.

I smell it, it is good.

“Please...”

No good begging, begging never got anyone anywhere. Begging is just another way of asking, and people who ask don’t get. I want never gets.

You have to take what you need.

“Please, don’t. Why are you doing this? Why me?”

I sigh. “Questions, questions, questions. Don’t you know we don’t decide these things? We are who we are. There is no choice in the matter.”

You will do it now, enough talk. You cut her now.

I hold the knife in my hand and draw one lean stroke from one side of her throat to another.

You see?

Ex

I remember the first time I realised that my Ex had issues with food. What I didn’t know at the time was what that meant for me and him. I remember the musky sweetness of his flat and the way his face darkened as he told me; but I didn’t really realise.


I was younger then.

I didn’t understand that in order to love someone else you need to love yourself. I heard someone say once that if you don’t like yourself then anyone who does is ultimately deemed a fool in their eyes; and who wants to go out with a fool?

I remember watching him look at himself in the mirror. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and all I could think of at the time was that he was mine, but then I was seeing the world with sex-tinted glasses. I missed the calculating and appraising way he viewed himself, twisting this way and that so to gain a better vantage point.

He would run his hands alone the contours of his perfectly flat stomach and say “I’m gonna go to the gym later.”

“Ok.” I would reply, thinking how healthy he was.

Then he would look at me.

“Why are you eating again?”

“I’m hungry.”

He would just shake his head, and then distract me and remove it later.

I often wonder what he is doing now; if he is ok; if he is happy. I hope he is happy, but then I also hope he is better. Anyone can convince themselves they are happy, so I guess I hope he is well.

He told me that he was able to make himself sick just by wanting to. If he felt like he had eaten too much he would just get rid of it. You know that bloated feeling you get when you are full? He didn’t like that.

I can’t even make myself sick by shoving my fist down my throat so the notion that one can think themselves sick is completely alien to me. Not to mention a waste, there are children starving in Africa you know? Or at least that’s what I was told when I didn’t want to finish my dinner.

It was no big deal though, he didn’t do it very often, and then only if he felt uncomfortable.

And I believed him.

As I said, I was younger then.

I should have known better though, when he asked me to keep it from everyone, even his friends. No one knew and I was the only one he had ever told.

I wonder if this is still the case?

Not my problem anymore I guess, he has people that care for him; I’m just not one of them anymore. Sounds harsh doesn’t it? Life and people move on, cliché but true.

All I think about now is whether or not I should have told someone about his occasional habit. Did they know? Would they ever know? Has he stopped? In keeping my promise, even after a messy break-up, was I hurting or helping?

Or was I making a big deal out of nothing? I am no expert, and when people feel nauseous they are sick. Why does there have to be a line on the ground? ‘Stand this side if you are normal, but if you vomit more the government quota allows we are pushing you over onto the disorder side.’

Hell, even I have had food poisoning, you look like shit and feel worse but there is no denying that being sick makes you feel better. I have also known people to make themselves sick when they have drunk too much, two fingers down the back of the throat and the world stops spinning long enough to get home.

One man’s solution is another man’s disorder.

So where is the line?

And who is fooling who?

Giving People What They Want

Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy...............................
Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy AndyAndy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy AndyAndy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy AndyAndy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy AndyAndy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy AndyAndy Andy Andy.................................... Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy AndyAndy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy AndyAndy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy AndyAndy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy AndyAndy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy AndyAndy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy AndyAndy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy ANDY Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy AndyAndy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy AndyAndy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy AndyAndy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy AndyAndy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy

There. You are in my Blog now stop pestering me and let me get on with some real writing, please.