I N D U L G E M E N T: March 2014

WARNING: No actual plot, excessive use of profanity, no point whatsoever. Enjoy reading.

Sometimes, he just didn't know.

He didn't know if the veins popping along his paper skin should just be cut off or not, didn't know if the heart beating under his chest, protected by the claws of his ribcage, should just be better off impaled or not. With a fork. With a knife. He didn’t know.

Some days, he felt like he breathed but not breathing, taking lungful of air in a single suck, feeling it filling his lungs but not knowing if the oxygen stays to be permeated or just that, filling up his lungs. But not seeping into his lungs. Like an asthmatic would feel, probably. Perhaps he was an asthmatic, perhaps not. He didn't think so, but he thought maybe so. His doctor told him that he was perfectly fine, perfectly normal, and in perfect health.

He could just be exaggerating. Exaggerating the feel of this… this hollow thing that was eating up his whole head, incessantly cloying his thoughts, his whole mind, his whole chest, blotching his heart with dark intents. It flowed under his skin as if replacing his blood with air, making him felt light and unsure and confused in all senses possible. He was alive but he felt dead. His heart pumped, his neurons delivered information but his soul, his soul was darkening and withering.

He stirred his cup of coffee— black, he used to like sugar but he didn't anymore, not after what happened. The windows were closed, his kettle of water whistling. Funny, he had an automatic dispenser, which could boil, but he rarely used it. He preferred boiling his water in a kettle, like Mother used to do many, many years ago. When his teeth were all young and his hair was all brown and his fingers were all tiny little twigs with cleanly-cut soft nails. Mother used to overly dote on him. Kissed his cheeks in front of his friends, did all his laundry, made his bed before he could make it (or ever would make it), clipped his nails, brushed his hair, dressed him up. But now, nearly twenty seven of age, Mother wasn’t there anymore to pamper him (or stifle him, more likely, he’d never liked the attention, never appreciated the gestures).

His coffee spilled. He sighed.

His apartment was all beige and boring, filled with standard furnitures of standard prices, a bedroom for one (or two, in several occurring wild nights, sometimes three, if he was up to it), a brown-tiled kitchenette, and a nondescript shower, as nondescript as his whole life. His life. Heh.

The spill would leave an undesirable mark on the wooden table soon. He got up and reached for a dry rag, wetted it under the sink and wiped it clean with mechanical precision. He was used to cleaning everything all by himself now. No more of Mother’s critical eyes assessing the wrinkles of his shirt, or the state of his room, now that he was way older. Now with his hair dyed black, his nails not so cleanly-cut anymore but awfully bitten. The phone rang.

He clucked his tongue and threw the rag, reached over for the ringing device with grappling fingers, the other hand reaching for his cup.

“Hm?” he hummed into the speaker. He didn’t bother with any introduction, or taking pains in being polite. Only several people knew his number, only about four of them called to it, especially in this early of the morning.

“Heeeey maaaan, how are you doing?” Oh God, no. Not this. Not this again. He wanted to throw the phone down and break it into two just to make sure that this voice wouldn’t bother him anymore, at least for today, preferably forever, maybe. Such hassle. “Leal and I were just talking about you and we thought maybe it’d be good if you could come with us to the bar this afternoon. New year’s eve and all?”

He palmed his face. Ugh, not this, please. “Hubert, you know I’m trying to decrease my—“

“I know, I know, we’re not going to drink any,” probably, he could practically hear the word laced oh-ever-so-subtly beneath the sentence, “we just want to catch up. You know, it’s been months since…”

“Yes, I know.” There was an awkward pause, either reluctant to continue. He tapped his fingers on the plastic frame of his talking device. Drap, drap, drap.

“Uh… so, yeah. You up to it?” Hubert Winston continued, unsurely, somehow sounding childishly sheepish.

He rolled his eyes, leaning his body on the fake marble surface and took a slow sip of the coffee. “Last time I joined you two, Paul came barging in and managed to make me punch his face, resulting in him bed-ridden for three days at the hospital, demanding payment over his broken nose. Which, I don’t regret,” he added, pride momentarily colouring the words. He’d felt satisfied with the feel of bone cracking and blood spilling under his fist, the cries of pain only fuelling the satisfaction even more. “But still, you get the point.”

“Well, Paul is our friend too, it’s not like as if I could just leave him behind when there is any—“

“And he’s not my friend. You invite him, I’m not coming,” he cut off somehow acidly. “I’ve had enough of him shitting all over my life, all over my fucking bed with my whore of a freaking girlfriend.”

“Now, now, it’s not like as if he’s still with Rebecca, and you didn’t even really like her back then anyway, what’s with the hard feelings? You said so yourself. You were about to break up with her too, right?”

No, it wasn’t right. Granted, he had several arguments with her, several fights, spits of insults here and there, but never, never did he actually ever thought of breaking up with Rebecca. With pretty, pretty Rebecca. Her chin sharp and jutted out upon one dreamy palm. Her lips had always looked so inviting, full of secret laughs and polished with expensive red paint. Lipstick. He hated the taste of it on his mouth, but he liked the way it made her lips look so cute it could kill.

He’d only said that so he wouldn’t feel the pain. Oh the pain, the pain of losing Rebecca, who he kissed tenderly every night, whom he waited for in his now lonely apartment every night, whether drunk or sober, who cheered with childish wonder over hatching bird’s eggs that nested just outside the living room window. He’d always done anything he could for her, but she obviously didn’t care enough for him to stay. Just because of some small disagreements she went into another man’s arms. Fuck. Fuck everything. His sacrifices and love were all for nothing. In the end, she left. In the end, there was no point of him yielding to her every time, because the one time he tried standing up, she left.

“Still, Winston. It’s the principle of things.” He wanted to hiss, but he held back. There was no use trying to get through Hubert’s thick skull. He was too dense to understand things, even as basic as the principle of them.

“Oh, so are we back to last name calling again? Should I call you Wighorn, now then?”

Tch. He sure knew when to hit a sore spot. He hated his name. It wasn’t his name. It was his step-father’s name. Such an ugly name. Hubert used to be his bully back in high school, and he used to call him with that. Wighorn. Who the hell invented such pathetic excuse of a name to be put at the end of each its unfortunate family member anyway, one of them being him.

“Fuck off, I don’t need you mucking up my mood this early. Don’t think I wouldn’t break your arm again just because you’re my somewhat friend now.”

“Whoa whoa, chill man. I was only joking…” He heard as sigh from the other end. “Fine, I wasn’t going to invite Paul anyway… we would be waiting at the usual bar, Parkinson Bar and Grill, Leal and little old me. I hope you’ll make it there. Three-thirty sharp?”

“I’ll see to it.” With that, he dropped the phone back, not even waiting for any reply. He blew an exasperated sigh and poured the rest of his coffee down the drain. Suddenly he felt that the drink was too bitter for his liking.

Hubert irked him very much that sometimes he just didn’t know why he was still friends with the bur. Perhaps out of loyalty, perhaps out of sympathy, or maybe because he just didn’t want to tire himself with trying to cut off all contact. Too much of a bother to be worth a try. Hubert would only pester him endlessly until he decided to forgive the Neanderthal. A guilty Hubert is much more annoying than a normally annoying Hubert.

He opened the cabinet and took out an instant packet of hot chocolate.

Shit. Now what was he supposed to do?

Hubert called him two more times, during him eating and when he was in the middle of taking his shower. In the end, he gave in to the man’s pleading and went to the bar. As usual, Hubert wasn’t there already— and he had even tried coming late, just to make sure that the bur would already be there when he arrived. But no, he miscalculated again. And where the hell was Leal too, anyway? It was already 4 PM.

He sat alone on one of the wooden stools, brown eyes glaring at his drink, watching as the glass sweats water down the coaster. The air was humid, blondes. God, he hated blondes. Rebecca’s hair was all dirty gum-smacking blonde, soft like silk and thick and shiny like a pocketful of mucky sunshine. He cringed when one of them inadvertently bumped into him.
and the people in it too loud for his liking. He wanted to go back home, being surrounded by beige walls, alone and silent, listening to his kettle whistling boiled water. Strings of girls walked past his seat, giggling and silly and most of them

“Oh! Sorry, hee he… I wasn’t looking.” She reeked of cheap perfume, or maybe expensive, though it certainly was too tacky to be classified as classy for him. She smelled debauched, whorish and garish and sexually dangerous. Her friends squealed and giggled and just be plain annoying to his fried nerves. He gave a tight-lipped smile, nodding an okay and tried giving some space between him and the woman. She didn’t get his discomfort though. Her fair hair brushed along his cheek as she leaned in to pat his shoulder, acting as if she had every right to invade his personal space, just because she thought she was gorgeous, just because she thought she was desirable. And blonde. And full breasted. Her dress was too tight and showed too much of skin to be desirable for him. He hated whorish-looking girls. Perhaps another time he’d take her up for it, but he wasn’t in the mood to screw around with some chit.

“I’m really sorry… perhaps a drink would suffice as an apology?” There were hushed whistling coming from her friends, as they watched the bothersome conversation that sure would unfold. He wanted to wrinkle his nose, but he held back. Nobody noticed a man of 27 being surrounded by what people called gorgeous girls, but for him only nuisances wrapped tight in scraps of cotton.

“It’s new year…”she smiled at him, showing rows of too white teeth. Her dentist must have bleached them so hard to make the colour become so blindingly white like that. He grimaced.

“No thanks, I’m… waiting for someone,” he finished lamely and smiled, apologetically, sheepishly. The blonde frowned, head tilting to the side, her group of friends ooh’ing her. “Aw, a girlfriend?”

Another ooh, another whistle (or two or three, he didn’t count). She pouted, placing herself down on the stool next to him, perfectly red manicured nails wrapping around his watered down glass. Red, cherry on top red, Rebecca’s favourite colour. Tacky. Her eyes fluttered, her lips curled, hair falling like fine silk to the side. She brought his glass up to her lips, and sipped. Her friends catcalled, he stared. She put his glass back down and leaned a palm to her left cheek.

“I need to go to the bathroom.” He stood, ignoring the now wide-eyed blonde, her group of friends, his drink that was wrapped around her witchy fingers. He dropped his bill, regardless of the intention he’d told, and proceeded to walk out the bar. He heard soft profanities shouted, whispered degradations, the slithering voices of cheap gossip sounded. He ignored them. He ignored them all.

He missed something. He didn’t know what, didn’t know why, but he did. He missed something. Or someone. Or maybe just a thing. Or maybe just someone.

Rrring. Rrring. Rrring.

He was already back in his apartment, comfortably clad in washed off old jeans, bare-chested, enjoying a cigarette, nimble fingers fiddling with the button of his cell phone. He deliberately ignored the ring of his home phone.

Rrring. Rrring. Rrr—

He picked up the handle and leisurely dropped it back on its post. He didn't give a single fuck even if it was the president himself calling. Or even the Queen. Or even Rebecca. They could all burn in hell, being forked by devils and screaming and kicking and crying and begging. And he wouldn't be concerned.

Rrring. Rrring. Rrring.

“Fuck it!” He picked the phone up and dropped it back down again. It was then when it started ringing for the third time that he pulled off the cable.

There were trumpets sounded outside, little kids screaming, wailing, and radios being turned on full blast. It was New Year’s Eve, the time of new resolutions being made, promises that wouldn't be finished to be left unfinished or either be made new, the time when spirits of most human beings seemed to be lifted. New energy, new start. A full 365 pages of empty papers of life to be filled. All those bullshits. He didn't think it made any difference to him. Why wait until new year to make new resolutions? To make plans? To end or to start something?

He knew that outside right now people were walking to the centre of the town, which wasn't far from his apartment, which in fact was only about several blocks from it. Some slightly drunk, middle-aged man sang God Bless America, very loudly, very badly. Nobody seemed to mind though, since the awful voice continued singing. It was 6 PM, and the streets were already getting crowded with colourful attires and laughing mass of children, wearing ridiculous hats with cheap plastic metallic fringes and cheap plastic metallic trumpets clutched in hand.

He took another drag from his cigarette, blowing out fine white, curling smoke. He watched as the tendrils twisted in ways, dispersing into the air and leaving only the smell of burn. His eyes flicked to the window, counting the bodies bouncing through the pavements, counting colours, counting hopes.

He missed something. He missed someone.

SHORT STORY

Ratu Annisaa Suryasumirat

Start: 31 December 2013 | Finish: 29 March 2014

First time posting my story here. I was intending to make an actual plot for it, but then I kind of can't figure out about what should happen next.
So I suppose ending it the way it is now is somehow proper in overall.

MOOD PICTURES | Source: Tumblr