Line up, soldiers

Couldn't walk straight, my footsteps created a z-lined pattern on the streets I passed. Bouncing from one building to another, left right left right. Like a soldier. In an army devoted to the greater good. We defend what they condemn. Teenage porn stars and acid? Sir, yes Sir.

She wasn't there. I was so sure that if I called, she'd come. The alley screamed she will never come back, you wont find her

I just wanted to know her name. Ask her who she was before those stockings got ripped.

When I tripped and fell on Bond street an old woman helped me up. Go home she said, sleep it off You'll feel better in the morning.

She lied.

Lolita

She haunts me when ever I close my curious eyes. She visits me in my bed when I finally go to sleep. She sings to me when I drink to much. The girl from the alley wraps her stick-thin legs covered with ripped stockings around my conscious when ever I let go. Last night when I was sound a sleep thanks to Tramadol and blanc de blances she softly whispered in my ear

You will go down with me

And I believed her. Now, awake and semi-clear minded I still do.

It's bedtime for jokers

Father figure Frank and Louis finished a bottle of bourbon, smoked cigarettes and laughed the way only men in their older thirties can. I made my way through the hallway, trying to be easy on the steps, trying to float on their smoke. I didn't want them to know I was listening. They never said anything remotely true then I figured out long before I learned to lie myself.

Louis whispered about the accident. About a shared needle and a positive test result. The laughter stopped that instant.

My hero had fallen, he had been reduced from a life in the warmth of spotlights to nothing but death on a silver platter. I sat down frantically holding on to a copy of 1984 and shaking with anx when Frank found me, picked me up and carried me back to bed. Then he made me take a sip and set my throat on fire. From the hallway Louis steps echoed and set the beat to which Frank sang
It’s bedtime for jokers We’re dead serious this year And here comes April all in blue And good she dresses torned and too They killed our heroes one by one´

My hero had fallen, and the laughter never re-entered.

This one's for you

An angel bored like hell

Walked through the deep fog in the hallway, made my way to kitchen with a vison so blury I couldn't tell if I was alone or not. Three Tramadol and gin on the rocks is to much. One and some plum wine is to little.

A bottle of what I assumed was champagne was left half filled on the table. I grabbed it, jumped up the window and slowly came back to life. A note on the table, took forever to read. Iris had indeed left. It told me more than that though

Funeral a week from now, noon. You know where.

Black, of course. Wear a bra, do not wear anything with lace.

I wont return until then, get your act together.

Decided to walk the shame off and to not get dressed. A black trench, unbottoned but belted halfway covered my naked body. Cold winds and strangers said bonjour to the freckles on my upper ribs. On a bench close to Liberty I sat down, smoked slowly and wiped away some slow moving tears. Hours passed, evening turned into night.

An alley not so far away, she asked the man infront of me if he wanted some company. He looked back at me, lowered his head and shrugged. Like I would judge you Mr, like I would be pure enough to through a stone. When I passed her I noticed her freckles, similar to mine. Her stockings were ripped, but the dress was a Chloè.

I wonder how she ended up there. Selling what I give away to who ever cares enough.

She could have thought the exact same thing about me. How did I end up there?

suicide solution

Been dying slowly these past couple of days. Been seeing everything I ate in reverse, reliving all nine stages of hell (Yes, Ive been to hell and back before) and sleeping more than Ive ever done before. In sheets stained with sin Ive sweated out all anxiety from my past. Iris gave me four Tramadol and left. That was wednesday so Im doubting she'll be back.

She fears weakness more than anything. More than love.

The fever is slowly dropping to a more suitable temperature (close to Rigor mortis), my back is drying up and I start to regain some sort of consciousness. I light cigarettes although I still have burning ones in the ashtray next to me.

I do not wish to be anywhere else, nor to be anyone else. Not because this miserable existence is what Id choose above all but because I simply cant imagin anything else.

Please

Im not interested in letting go

Iris, I just want to leave

A devil meaning well

A phone call. Autumn still, not long after a sunday walk but week had past.

- Im dying darling-belle and so are you.

- We're all dying dear. I might beat you to it old man.

- I hope not he said after a long pause, good night

Audrinne, a tall brunette which I shared room with at boarding school stared at me with sad eyes. She never asked about the nightly phone calls, even though they woke her up. Without a word she lifted her duvet and made room for me. I laid down next to her and she stroke my forehead until I fell asleep. Not a single word was spoken that night. The only light in the room was from her burning cigarette.

When I woke up, Iris passed the news through the principal who called to his office. Louis was dead. I had already dreamt about that exact scene the night before, in the arms of my loving roommate. I mourned him with intensity and passion, and wrote letters I never sent telling him about what he had left behind. Loved him more and deeper than before.

If I had sent them, we might have had those years (lost because of her lie)

What else has she stolen?

My hero

I was ten, maybe nine, and it was the loveliest time of the year. Early octobre, the leafs were blood red and yellow and my mind was filled wonder. We walked slowly, he smoked and I loved the way he smelled. Hyde park was filled with people, horses and dogs. He asked me if I wanted a dog and when I noded he promised me one. Iris ended up sending the puppy I namned Stalin to "a nice family on the country side" after a week. He had destroyed some dress.

I didn't cry.

We used to walk for hours, Louis and I. He never saw the bruises on the outside, but he knew where to find the ones on the inside. I couldn't wrap silk and labels around them. I could never hide a single emotion from his curious eyes. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. He was sick. I was hurt.

That is how I remember him. A tall handsome man in his mid thirties, causal chinos by Brooks brothers and always a lit cigarett between two thin fingers. Much like me, he didnt sleep and the evidence was painted with a dark shade beneath his eyes. We looked like father and daughter.

The sunday walks became less frequent, and his pants seem to increase in size. Years later, he was dead.

Killed by a blue sky, not beneath it

We are not alone.

I: bleeding finger nails. Contemplating. Desperately holding onto a glass of heated plum wine. Licking my lips. Staring straight forward, only slightly above her head. Focusing on the back of a book. Our Mutual friend, Charles Dickens. An old Brooks Brothers shirt and stay ups. Gorgeous hair.

She: Perfectly polished and french manicured nails. Running her index finger slowly round and round the edge of a high ball cocktail glass, filled to the brim with gin and ice. Fixating her eyes on the table. Tapping her left foot against the carpet. Dior, crisp white dress and pearls. Red hair.

We: Sit across from each other. Library setting. Dimmed lights. Exhaling Benson & Hedge smoke carefully. Not talking. Challenging each other.

No mother, I do not go to school. I do not eat. I do not sleep. I take a lot of pills. There are only two bottles of wine left in the once packed wine cellar. Yes, I drank it all.

Hours pass, not a word is spoken. Then she takes a deep breath, like she tries to push air down to her uterus, a large sip of gin and half a smile. I force myself to look at her (she's beautiful, I hate how perfect her face is) but I cant summon the strength to smile back. Then she slowly separates the two thick lines of Esteé Lauder that is her lips. When she leans over the table I can almost smell the lipstick (old age, or maybe even death)

-Did you know Louis?

-Your brother? Uncle Louis? No, I never met him. I thought he died

-Well, he did. Yesterday.

-Oh

She told me he died seven years a go. I didnt bother to ask her why she lied, nor did she explain it further. We simply opened another bottle, and let the silence consume us. Ignorance is bliss.