Young Writers Society

I haven't gotten into the habit of writing for quite some time, but this idea popped up when I was taking a walk. Be as critical as you'de like :p I welcome it.

It was the kind of night that wraps around your mind when you’re on the subway, or trying to fall asleep. Each moment within the memory blends together—and yet, that mural of memories still manage to stain you. Your day could be going great, but the simple reminiscence of it drains the blood from your body. The visuals ambush you, ensnare you, and force you to recall them with a distubing definitive.

I was at a bar with a few buddies. They thought I was there for the same reason they were—to find a whore and to forget about my job, or maybe just my life in general. But to be honest, I was there to people watch. I love watching people. I could do it all day. And when I’m drunk, it makes it all the more interesting.

So we were sitting at a table in the corner. Jeremy was ordering rounds of Jim dean, and we each gulped them down, cringing with satisfaction. I was watching people dance. Their movements were slurred and rubbery, like a flag on a windy day. I could hear the guys talking heatedly about something—maybe politics or an argument with their girlfriend. It was strange, watching people dance so offhandedly, despite being surrounded by tension.

My ears shifted towards the music. The band’s deep wail embodied every inch of the bar, but the majority of people were completely oblivious to it. The music was bluesy—instrumental. I could hear a saxophone, a patchy voice, and… a piano.

Yes, a grand piano. But there was something different about the sound of it. I recognized that sound. The way the dynamics rose and fell with disturbing precision. I could visualize ten dainty fingers colliding on each key with an effortless passion. It was too easy to see it in my head, because I’ve observed those fingers too many times in reality.

I wanted to stop listening. I could feel my stomach writhing within me, my eyes straining to stay on the sloppy dancers. I already knew that it was pointless—I had to look up. The possibility of ignoring that sound was not only unrealistic, but also impossible. And let me tell you, when I looked up, the night was already shattering around me, on the brink of collapse.

There she was, that foolish girl. That foolish, beautiful, compelling thing of a girl. She was in the corner of the stage, trying to remain unnoticed. But that was ridiculous—how could anybody not see her? Her passion and mystique would swell until the whole room could feel it. It curled around each body in a thick mist, dilating their pupils and running down spines. I hated it. I loved it. I missed it. And I wanted nothing more than to forget about it.

She was wearing a green dress. She always told me green was her best color. It favored her hair—a deep, and golden auburn. Although she was sitting, I could still see it wrap around her figure, creating an alluring hourglass. It scooped down her neck in a heart-shaped line. Her collarbone and shoulders were porcelain under the bar light.

I felt myself getting up. My thoughts were racing—my mind begging me to sit back down. I had to get closer, and the closer I got, the more pain I felt. The punctures were poignant and demanding, but they made me feel alive. So alive. And so I kept inching forward, closer, the sound getting louder and louder, the visual of her fingers getting increasingly vivid. I drifted past the dancers and nearly found myself merging into their apathy. Their legs syncopated with each other, but they didn’t seem to notice how my footsteps interrupted the atmosphere. Nobody noticed me.

I finally found myself at the front of the band, a statue against boundless movement. Although I was surrounded by warmth, I felt completely frozen. I gazed at her, swaying into the piano. It was almost as if she were a part of it. And suddenly, I could see us. Entwined like two circles. I could feel her breathing against my chest during several midnights. Her eyelashes fluttering against my cheeks when we kissed. I swear, I was so frozen that even the softest touch would have shattered me.

She looked right at me with those big doe eyes. They burned into me with scorn. I could hear her fingers drumming on the keys harder, faster, angrier. It was clear that she was seeing red. All the passion that once swelled into the air had vanished—and all because of me.

My heart didn’t stop beating; it disappeared. The contrast between our emotions devastated me. I loved her. And she absolutely despised me.

She despised me because I am a blueprint of my father. Our relationship, once placid and raw, begin to spiral into a chaotic reverie. Like her hatred, my drug addiction morphed me into something unrecognizable. I treated her like an object, rather than a person. Just like how my father treated my mother. I covered her in spots of black and blue. I want to give you a reason, to tell you why, but I can’t. I don’t know. I really don’t know why I did it. Maybe it was her innocence, or her helplessness. To see those doe eyes watch me with alarm, a deer in the headlights. I thought she’d be like my mother, vulnerable and timid. But there was something black and steady within her. She eventually snapped.

I told her it wasn’t me. It was the drug. But her reply is still haunting, and I drag it around heavily each day. Don’t you see? You are the drug. And you won’t accept that, so that’s all you’ll ever be. A slave to it. A fucking addict.

She left like a moth, so soundlessly. And as I watched her at the bar that night, I didn’t know who I was looking at anymore. She ripped off her wings and let that once small black spot consume her. I’d never seen so much hate.

I stared, entranced, as band stopped playing, and someone new shifted onto the stage. I stood by the entrance of it, attempting to remain transparent. I just had to see her face up close—just one more time. Everybody appeared before me in slow motion. I waited for what seemed a lifetime, and I would give anything to have never done that.

She came out the entryway, her arm looped around the saxophone player. And let me tell you—she was looking right at me. Her once innocent eyes were now grinning maliciously. I finally found myself shattering, and whatever remained of me dashed back to the table in the corner.

The guys still didn’t notice my presence. They weren’t arguing anymore—just laughing. I realized how much rounds they must’ve had while I was in my trance. I sat down quietly and waited for the next one. And the next one. And the next. I was silent the whole time. Especially when I watched her walk out the bar door with him.

We stumbled out after midnight. A few of the guys had giggly girls wrapped around them like skin. It was raining, but we still waited for the cab. One of them asked me if I was okay.

“ Yeah, fine man. Just tired.” Frozen air leaked out my breath in a mist.

He observed me unconvincingly. “ You sure? You’re pale as a ghost.”

I nodded. “ Yeah, I’m fine.” I repeated. I don’t remember his reaction to that response anymore—I was in a complete daze. By this time, everything had already collapsed around me. The buildings, the faces, the sky—they were crumbling before me, becoming part of the several lost values within my life.

When I got home I couldn’t sleep. So I pulled a dusty bottle of vodka out of the cabinet. The drunkenness was nothing compared to the rush of shooting up, but I was too broke, let alone exhausted, to reunite with my dealer. When I fell asleep, I had nightmares. She was entwined around me again, but rather than the feel of those soft lips against my navel, I felt teeth. Biting me. Eating me. And what agonized me was not the pain, but the knowledge, even in that nightmare, that she wasn’t really there. She consumed me, leaving bloodied sheets and yellow bones.

She still consumes me to this day.