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At The End of The Day

3am. I am still awake, not surprising, not confusing, but it is sure as hell annoying. 3am and I am at home bathed in the glow of my computer screen, mindlessly searching the internet for...a distraction, or is it answers? I always get those two mixed up. 3:01am and I leave my computer, leave my room, leave my house, leave time behind even. I am in another place now, one filled with panting and sweat, two bodies melding together, desperate in their embrace. Writhing on the bed together. One is me, or was me, that I am sure of. I study her, this old me, her hair is a tangled mess, her skin smooth, and she is achingly vulnerable in this moment. The slight swell of her breasts and curve of her hips, hint at womanhood. My focus changes to the male part of this ritualistic dance. His biceps bulge with the effort of holding himself up, the hair on his chest glistens with the sweat of his exertions. I feel a tug in my chest, remembering, the girl, she loved this boy. The picture blurs momentarily, like snow on a television screen when the aerial blows about in the wind, then it clears. The tug in my chest becomes more pronounced as I see the frenzy before me. The girl is whimpering, in pain not pleasure now, her eyes closed not wanting this memory tattooed on the back of her eyelids. Where before she pulled the boy closer, wanting him inside, now she pushes at him fruitlessly. An animal sound escapes her lips, it doesn't sound like anything human vocal cords could produce, it must, I assume, be the sound of her heart breaking.

3.02am now. It seems absurd that so much can pass by in a just a moment. A cigarette is clenched between my lips, the end glowing, before I realise it is out of the packet. I draw in deeply, wanting the taste of him gone from my mouth, from my consciousness. Watching the clock, the seconds tick by endlessly, each swing of the hand marking my increasing desperation for this to cease. Sometimes the thought skitters across my mind, maybe this is the end, that would explain alot. If this is the end, then it would make sense why I am always dragged back to the beginning...
The day is warm, not hot, not cold, just right. I am young and bold, my dreams filled with romantic aspirations of adventure. I fantasise of summer days, spent lazing on the beach, watching condensation trickle down the side of a bottle of beer, my mouth watering at the thought of the foam bubbling down my throat. So it is funny that though I met him on one such day, it is the winter days that are etched onto my mind forever.

3.03am and I can't stop. I can't stop the inevitable series of events unraveling and spiraling through my mind.
The first time I saw him, his shirt clinging tightly to him in all the right places, his eyes gleaming as they came to rest on me. I saw a need in them that I knew was reflected in my own. I search more frantically through the murky swirl of memory, activating the fast forward button, slowing in time to see his face contorted with rage, his eyes darkened...But no it is too soon for this part of the routine yet.
3.04am, another cigarette sucked down before the taste fully registers. I envision that beer again, but before where it was one, now it is a case. A temporary oasis in my mind, but I dispel this illusion as quickly as it appears, alcohol won't stop this particular journey in its tracks, not for long anyway.
Posted on 11/08/09, 12:11 pm