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fairlyspnfanfic · 4 years ago

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The Ties That Bind Us - Part 8

Summary: When your past comes back to haunt you, who will prevail? Hunting had been your life since your were 4 years old. The monsters that started you on that path were resurfacing, and you knew what you had to do. But nothing is ever truly secret, and nothing is ever that cut and dry with the Winchester’s in tow.

A/N: This is a new one that is coming from a few requests. I’m not going to post the actual requests because…well because it would spoil the story line and I’m pretty into this one.

Words: 2438

Warnings: Trauma, medical terminology, stress, hospital waiting room, all the angst

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE PART FOUR PART FIVE PART SIX PART SEVEN

I hesitated to open my eyes, for fear that I’d wake up and it would all have been a dream. My lips felt warm and pleasantly swollen as I reached my hand up slowly to touch them, keeping my eyes shut. I took a deep breath and lifted my eyelids, coming eye to eye with Dean as he lay next to me staring.

Sheepishly, I smiled and released a small chuckle with my fingertips still glazing over my bottom lip. “Well,” I said meekly. “Not a dream.” His eyebrows were still knitted together as if he was unsure as to what my reaction would be. But the corner of his mouth twitched upward as the hint of a smirk began to spread.

“Kinda was for me,” he said through an exhale of breath as he ran the back of his fingers along my cheek. I leaned into his touch, relishing in the delightful feel of his skin on mine.

“How long,” I asked him.

“How long what? How long have I wanted to do that?” He paused, leaving the silence pregnant with anticipation. He let out a quick breath, looking to the ceiling as he thought. “Six years ago, St. Patrick’s Day. I told you to kiss me cause I’m Irish. You called me an idiot and threw a pillow at my face.” I laughed at his response. “Been hooked ever since.”

I could feel heat rushing to my cheeks as they blushed and a coy smile wound itself across my face.

“Or did you mean how long have I known you wanted me to? Cause that’s a very different answer.”

I ducked my head down, attempting to hide from his view, and buried my nose into the crook of his neck. “I mean, I’d be happy to answer that one for you, too, sweetheart but I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.” His words dripped with sarcasm as he pursed his lips and left a trail of kisses from the crown of my head and down the side of my face, slowly pulling my head back up to face him.

“See, when things weren’t looking all that great for you? I wasn’t doing so well. I wasn’t the pillar of strength you’re used to on the day to day.” His face returned to seriousness now, and my eyes fixated on him. “I kind of fell apart. No, that’s not true. I completely fell apart. A world without you in it? That’s not a world I want to be in.”

I felt tears pooling in my eyes, but I held them at bay.

“So, my baby brother, he decides he needs to cheer me up. See, he yanks me up to my feet, slams me up against a wall and tells me to stop being a selfish prick. Tells me I can help you by just keeping it together, by staying with you.” Dean’s hand lifted as he pushed my hair gently behind my ear. “Now I’m lost at this point. He’s talking crazy and all I want to do is hide from the world. But the big oaf that Sam is, he wouldn’t allow that.” He leaned in towards me again, pressing a short, chaste kiss to my lips before tucking his chin over the crown of my head.

“Instead, he looks me in the eye, tells me I’m a moron, and lets me go. But not before just blurting out ‘She loves you, you jackass,’ and proceeding to lecture me about how dumb I am.” The smile on his face is beyond genuine and my entire body feels as though it’s turned to gelatin. “That true,” he asks me, his eyes back on mine. The confident smirk on his face is betrayed only by the pleading desperation in his green orbs that are so focused on mine that I dare not even blink.

Slowly, I nod my head, feeling that same blush rise in my cheeks again. “Yeah,” I said, my voice cracking as I did so.

“Thank god,” he breathed out as his lips once again plastered themselves against mine, knocking the air out of me as he slowly wound his arm around my waist. He leaned into me, rolling me over onto my back as he rested his body on top of mine, his hips jutting against my own. I could feel his calloused hands wandering; one tangled in my hair as his fingers deftly caressed my ear lobe as his other held our bodies closer together.

I had wrapped my arms around him, clinging to him with desperation. Dean pushed against me harder as I felt his excitement growing against my groin. I broke our lips apart, breathing deeply as I lifted my hand to the back of his head, entwining my fingers in his hair. He began grinding his hips against me; an act I longed for but subsequently found intolerable. Shocks of pain tore through my abdomen in waves and I cried out, gasping for air as I ground my teeth together.

“Fuck,” I grimaced, wincing. Dean instantly backed away, holding himself almost as if he were doing a pushup.

“What’s wrong?” His panicked voice rang out as his eyes examined me.

I removed one hand from his firm waist and grabbed for my side, desperate to alleviate some of the pain.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered under his breath, looking down towards my waist. It seemed instantaneous that I sprang off the bed and frantically searched for the remote control with the nurse call button. A few seconds passed and the pain had ebbed.

“Dean, I’m fine, really.” My attempt to settle him did nothing as I spoke to his back. He was running towards the doorway now, yelling for help.

I rolled my eyes, knowing that he was surely overreacting. Pulling my hand away, I glanced down and took in the sight of dark red blood pooling slowly on the sheet beneath me. “Well, crap.”

Dean walked back into the room, a female nurse clad in dark purple scrubs in tow. He raised his hand and pointed towards my wound, and she immediately got to work. My gown was quickly pushed to the side as she took a look at the damage that had been done.

“You’ve popped a staple out. Haven’t seen that too often!” Her voice was cheery and calming as she smiled sweetly at me.

“I’ll get the doctor and we’ll get you patched up again in no time. Good as new, huh? How are you feeling in the meantime? What’s your pain level?”

“I’m good,” I answered simply.

“Are you sure, darlin’? You look a little flushed.” Her eyes were intent now, taking in every physical cue that she could.

“That, uh,” Dean began with that devilish half smile of his. “That could be my fault.” He held up a finger as if claiming victory. I rolled my eyes in response and watched as the nurse did the same.

She turned her head to face him and took up the absolutely accurate stance of an angry mother about to berate their petulant child. “You do know that she’s recently had invasive surgery, yes?”

I watched as Dean shrank under the nurse’s stare. He nodded solemnly.

“And that a team of highly trained surgeons spent several hours fixing her up and putting her back together again with slim odds that she’d even wake up, let alone thrive and begin healing?” Her question was obviously rhetorical. Dean held eye contact with her and nodded.

“Yes, ma’am.” He’d never sounded so young and childlike.

“So maybe, just maybe, we can pause on the hanky panky funny stuff until after she’s discharged, yeah?”

I stifled my laughter as Dean nodded again, and the nurse exited the room, patting his shoulder as she walked by; the smile on her face betrayed the entertainment she had felt at Dean’s expense.

Dean skulked back towards me, lowering himself into the chair beside my bed. The laughter that I had been withholding came pouring out of me, eliciting more pain as I again held my side.

“Geez, Y/N, you’re going to open yourself up more.” Dean placed his hands on my arms, attempting to hold me still.

“Yeah, well. You started it.”

His eyes went wide with incredulity. “How do you figure?”

“You were the one who opened up first!” My cheesy joke landed flat.

Dean rolled his eyes, leaning backwards in his chair as he sighed dramatically. “Good to see you didn’t lose your awful sense of humor.”

I smiled at him exaggeratedly. “I’m delightful.”

He smiled at me again, reaching over and raking his fingertips down my cheek. “Yeah,” he paused. “You are.”

The doctors had swooped into the room, getting me all stitched back together in a blur of lights, antiseptic, and latex gloves. The same nurse had accompanied them, insisting on administering more morphine when she did so.

They moved me into a wheelchair as they waited for my bedsheets to be taken out and laundered. I was struggling to keep my head up as I leaned my temple against my palm, fighting to hold my eyelids open. I could feel Dean’s warm hand drawing comforting circles on my back, but my head was swimming. His soothing voice rang out every few minutes, letting me know that it was okay if I wanted to fall asleep. Encouraged even. But stubbornly, I refused, shaking my head and insisting on waiting until Sam came back.

It wasn’t too long until Sam peaked his head into my room; his long hair unkept and falling in his face.

“Hey, Tarzan,” I mumbled, giggling at my own joke. Both the boys stared at me quizzically as my eyes closed and I leaned further over onto the side, my chuckles growing quieter.

“Tarzan? I thought it was Thor.” Sam’s voice drifted in as if he were speaking through static.

“She’s out of her mind on morphine, Sammy. Don’t worry.” I could hear the jest in Dean’s voice as he spoke from just behind me.

There was a small hint of commotion as an orderly came in with a rolling tray full of food for me. With my eyes still closed, I took a deep breath, attempting to smell my meal. But my sense of smell reacted negatively as I breathed in the scent of hard-boiled eggs, squash and fish.

“Gross,” I protested, grabbing at the wheels of the wheelchair I sat in and attempting to push myself away.

“No. Don’t want that,” I murmured as I shook my head. There was a strong hand grasping my shoulders as someone gently whispered in my ear to relax. “Mom made me lasagna,” I groaned, as large tears overwhelmed my lids and began cascading down my cheeks.

I felt warm fingers press against my cheeks as Dean’s familiar voice repeated my name softly.

“Hey, Y/N. Can you open your eyes for me?”

I stubbornly shook my head, opting for the darkness my closed eyelids afforded me. I could feel panic rising in my chest, and my breaths began coming in stuttered waves. Sam’s voice was screaming into the hallway, demanding a nurse or any sort of help. But my head was swimming. I could still smell the garlic and tomatoes as the cheese bubbled on the top of my favorite dish. I could hear my mother’s voice as she spoke with me. My father’s warm, teddy-bear embrace still ghosted over my arms. But all I could see was black. I longed for the comfort their memories had afforded me.

“Daddy,” I mumbled out as I felt the familiar push of medication run up my arm as forced, restless sleep overtook me.

I woke hours later. Days possibly. The sky outside my window was still dark and the light in the room too dim. Running my dry hands down my face, I pulled myself slowly to sit up in the bed. The ache in my side not entirely unnoticed. Every muscle in my body was sore and resisted moving. I kicked my legs out gently over the bed, glaring at my thighs as I balanced myself on them with the palms of my hands.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dean’s voice was stern as he spoke from the chair in the corner of the room. I watched his arms flex as he walked towards me, squatting effortlessly in front of me as his eyes locked onto mine.

“Back in bed.” His words were stern, but his eyes betrayed some sadness that lingered on his face.

“Dean?” My voice was groggy and sounded foreign to me.

“Y/N get your ass back in bed, now.” He sounded almost defeated; an unfamiliar tone for him.

I acquiesced and pulled my legs back onto the uncomfortable air mattress, keeping my eyes set on his face. “What’s wrong,” I asked him. “You seem grumpy.” He took his seat again in the lounge chair next to me, leaning on his knees with his elbows.

A forced, quick breath leaked through his nostrils, full of incredulity. “Grumpy, huh?” He paused. “Can’t imagine why.” His eyes fell to his hands, focusing on the thin piece of fabric that he was fiddling with. He flicked his gaze up to me, following my gaze back down to his hands.

“It’s part of your shirt,” he explained. “Or, well, was.” He paused again. “It tore off in your back there,” he gestured towards my side. “Had to dig it out on the way here.”

I took a deep breath, attempting to steady my surprise. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

He pursed his eyebrows and looked up towards me slowly. “For what? Getting stabbed? Not your fault.”

I reached towards him, surprised when I watched him pull away and lean back into his seat. “See, getting stabbed? Hurt? Happens to all of us. But you,” he said, holding the fabric up towards me. “You were reckless. You ditched me and Sam and did your damnedest to be in more danger than you needed to be.” His eyes shot up towards mine again, that same pained sadness shooting out of his eyes as he let silence stretch between us.

“And here, in this hospital. Some of the things you’re saying, been saying. They’ve got me wondering.”

I let his statement stand, wanting desperately to not discuss the topic at hand. “See, I’m wondering if there’s not something you’re hiding. Something you didn’t or aren’t telling me. And that? That won’t work. That’s something else.” He dropped his head, clenching his hand into a fist as he held onto the scrap of clothing. “So, talk.”

To be continued….

Part Nine

Taglist (Tag requests are open):

@vicmc624 @waywardprincesa @heyyy-hey-babyyy @carissime72 @deans-baby-momma @formulafun @woodworthti666 @yetanotherreader @crashlyrose @hobby27 @gabby913 @jxackles @polina-93 @supernaturaladdictsblog @fandomoverdose666 @deans-baby-momma @deanwanddamons @tazzi-baby @acertainhero @lilulo-12 @slamminmine @mimaria420

(Desperate attempt to get my faves to notice me) @thinkinghardhardlythinking @smol-and-grumpy @wonder-cole-reads @watermelonlipstick @that-one-gay-girl @waywardbaby @luci-in-trenchcoats @holylulusworld @cockslut-padalecki @calaofnoldor

#supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfiction #jensen ackles #jared padalecki #dean winchester #sam winchester #dean x reader #spn angst #spn slow burn #fairlyspnfanfic #supernatural #fanfiction #fanfic

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fics-not-tragedies · 5 years ago

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One Day in December: Chapter 1 🎇

one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - epilogue

A Christmas fic after the Christmas! Yes, that’s what it is, enjoy Christmas in May! 😂

STORY SUMMARY: At an annual Christmas party hosted by his friends Andrew meets Bianca - a girl that slowly become closer and closer to him as the years passed. Words: 1350; Warnings: none, unless you want a warning for drinking and few curses then you have it; Summary: Andrew meets a friend of a friend of a friend at a Christmas party.

Hozier tag list:

@letoursilencebreaktonight; @angelpeachamber; @sgt-morgan; @julessbrown;

December 2010

“Who’s she?” Andrew gestured, nodding towards a girl he had never seen before.

She had short, shoulder-length hair, kind of choppy and messy; but styled that way. She was nursing a beer, the same one for the last hour it seemed because Andrew hadn’t seen her move very much at all. She looked terribly out of place.

“Don’t have a clue” Alex replied, paper crown on his head and beer in each hand, “No wait… she’s a friend of… or wait… the cousin of… someone. Can’t remember just now.”

“Hmm” Andrew assessed her from afar, watching the way she smiled when the person she was standing beside told her what he assumed was something funny. She had a pretty smile, this much Andrew knew, even though he was a few beers in.

“… she’s… American. I know that much” Alex was still rambling on about the girl, “Why? You fancy her? She’s… cute. I’d probably-”

“Don’t-” Andrew laughed, nudging him, “Don’t make it like that.”

“What?” Alex exclaimed, “I was just going to say that I’d go chat her up if I were you. She looks shy enough. Not even you could screw it up too much.”

Andrew rolled his eyes, throwing back his head to finish the rest of his beer, “Thanks for the encouragement.”

“My fucking pleasure, mate.”

“Em…” Andrew grumbled, realizing he did need another beer, and maybe… he could pass by her on his way… offer to grab her another one… and…

Andrew pulled at the neck of his long-sleeve knit, wondering why he decided to wear something this warm in a crowded house full of sweaty, drunk people. He was boiling hot, and he knew his cheeks were ruddy from the beers as well. He saw that she was left by herself, and he made a beeline over… as cool as he could muster.

When he got to her, the person returned and Andrew hung a quick left to narrowly avoid an embarrassing and awkward conversation. Rolling his eyes at his own stupid self, he grabbed another two beers and decided now was as good a time as ever to wait in line for the toilet. It stretched down the entire length of the hallway so he had a while to wait.

He wasn’t there longer than a minute when she showed up behind him; the cute girl with the choppy hair. She was wearing a cute little dress and a pair of antlers on her head. It made Andrew smile. He nodded his head at her quickly, staring down at his Converse. He felt under-dressed, even though it was a house party, he wished now, standing next to her that he at least put some effort in.

“Have you been waiting here long?” she asked him, her voice soft, shy. Either she was trying to flirt with him in her own way, or she was just making awkward conversation to pass the time.

“Em… not too long… a minute or so” he glanced up towards the front, seeing another person leave the room and three girls go in together, “Well… looks like it’s moving fast, eh?”

She nodded, seeming relieved, “Good.”

Andrew laughed a little at that, “Too many ales, then?”

The girl’s cheeks flushed a rosy red, and she ducked her head in embarrassment, “No… actually. Not at all. Just one. I’m… trying to escape that guy that was talking to me” she gestured over her shoulder at the spot where she was standing and the guy that she just left behind.

“That big ugly guy over there?” Andrew made a face in his direction and she laughed, her giggle making him smile.

“Yes” she sighed, exasperated, “he won’t leave me alone, even though I tried to explain that I wasn’t interested.”

“Well then…” Andrew noticed she was empty-handed now and handed her his second bottle, “Take this. You can join me and the other people after we get through this line… if you’d like.”

She smiled and nodded her head, “Thank you. That would be… awesome, actually. I’m Bianca, by the way.”

“Bianca” Andrew repeated and shook the hand she offered to him, “I’m Andrew. Nice to meet you. Cheers, love” he clinked his bottle against hers and they both took a swig.

Bianca’s heart was pounding against her ribs; both excited and nervous to have found someone to talk to. He was a cute Irish boy with messy brown locks, curling in every direction. He looked like all the other 20-year-old boys she knew back home… but they didn’t have the accent. He was a slender and tall thing, with big green eyes and a warm smile.

When they made it through the line for the toilet, Andrew waited for her and escorted her over to his little gang. He went around and introduced all the lads and some of their girlfriends, “This is Bianca. We need to protect her. That ugly guy over there keeps bothering her.“

Bianca giggled, “It’s not that bad… but… I… you’re right he’s an idiot. Help me.”

“Are you new in town?” Alex asked, toying with the beer he had in his hand, “I feel like I saw you back in the college at one of the rehearsals of orchestra.”

“I was at few rehearsals, because one of my friends from here sings in the college orchestra.”

“Oh, you have a friend in Trinity? Which one?” Andrew took another swig from his beer.

“It’s Karen. Karen Cowley.”

“Wow… em, we share one friend!” Alex almost clapped his hands, but the beer bottle was restricting his movements a little bit.

“Don’t worry, now you share all of them with us” Andrew clinked his bottle against hers and gave her a wide smile.

The rest of them laughed and welcomed her, chatting like they’d been friends for ages. Bianca felt for the first time since she’d arrived, like she belonged. All of them were so sweet and nice, but Andrew…

She wouldn’t admit to herself what she felt because… it was silly. She’d only just met him… but… she might’ve been developing a bit of a crush on Andrew Hozier-Byrne.

By the end of the night, or well… early morning… most people weren’t in good enough shape to be driving. Andrew was drunk. Very drunk. And silly. Bianca hadn’t had nearly as much as him, maybe three tops… but he was drinking like a fish all night.

Rory and Cormac were supporting him, helping him make his way out into the chilly December night. Alex and Bianca followed along behind, Andrew’s coat swung over Alex’s shoulder.

“Is he… is he gonna be alright?” Bianca asked him, worried that her new friend was going to most likely have a very rough hangover.

“Oh yeah…” Alex nodded, “He’ll be fine. Does this a lot actually. No doubt he’ll probably get sick on the walk home… probably on the same lawn he always gets sick on.”

Bianca nodded, watching as he stumbled down the steps, despite being practically carried by the other boys, “Wait!” she could hear him shout, his accent getting in the way of understanding what he really said.

“Bianca…” Cormac called to her, “Andrew wants to say goodbye.”

Her eyes widened and she scurried down the steps, coming face-to-face with the drunk boy in the torn purple paper crown and Christmas beads hung around his neck, “Hey Andrew” she smiled, seeing him struggle to make a sentence.

“I just… just wanted to sayyy…” his words were slurred and dragged out and she giggled at him, “Sayyy t-that… it was lovely! Lovely!”

“What?” she laughed and the others laughed with her.

“You!” he shouted, “Lovely to meet y-you!”

“Oh…” she smiled and fixed his crown, patting his head, “Likewise. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep?”

“Yes!” He exclaimed, throwing one arm up into the air, pointing towards the sky, “I shall do just that!”

“Alright…” Rory chuckled, and nodded his head at her, “Goodnight… it was very nice to meet you… Sorry about this idiot.”

She shook her head, waving goodbye to the boys. As they headed down the street, she heard Alex shout, “Raine’s gonna be fucking mad!”

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sentimentalica · 8 years ago

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Coney Island Baby

.. Do you remember the way Robert Duncan taught me how to forge a scream into a smile? When I wore that shimmer dress with a bright face, dangling in and out of bending lower backs, as if yielding for the concave is always as safe and sound as a sound is ever safe. Or was it more than soft as softness usually sweeps for? What I imagine comes next is like a third person involvement in a screwed dormitory, drafting the atlantic, where I plead that a lion cannot surf, perhaps he bit off the cream that polluted the blue phantom pains from your waist and down.

A childless women in a pair of knitted boxershorts wrecking nylon sinuses on a blissful Friday.

I still adore the messy promises of an advertisement Henry Miller disregarded when cutting the Brooklyn Bridge in half,

before looking overwhelmingly to one side towards the navy yard and to the other,

a skyscraping playground left by Frank O´Hara in the midst of writing Lunch Poems to his downtown lover, my hero in tights who prefered a typewriter over the museum so he could fully commit to language as a lifelong affair with typing out those faces we never saw-

Back to Miller on the bridge,

after humming calm untitled jazz scores to the jewish men abiding fear of Javeh with the tide, in an opium fuzz- there hovering in the hudson river screaming out from his deflated lungs; “Either way is hell.

And in that throwback of a breeze, he lifted up the wind that was hardly present, as all literature begin to explain, replacing the sun with crisp gleaming grapefruits

sleeping their tails off by the boats, channeling this and that to someone so unique in the mind of a person in love- not even getting through to the middle

of what that could possibly entail, I reached for the pen that dropped to the floor.

I have enclosed all of these excerpts from that day of disclosure, where roaming with thrifty eyes were enough to carry observations as valid

as their imploding certificate of choice.

I painfully watched you dodge again and again all the signals from the woman across the room, who was fiddling with old news papers and caressing her presence with yours- what more could you offer than a significant blow to her hair? Don´t you know she just fancied a tickle all the while you plundered the new bought lace with such a precision, that not only changed her mind but that sold her the momentary conviction that

two bodies are better than one.

Nadja by André Breton is being moulded prematurely. The havoc of looseness, abstraction and faith comes to term with what bohemia needed in order to survive-

it wasn´t the firewater, the endless dipsomaniacs or the following haze of polyamourous misconduct,

and it wasn’t explained to you on page 24 of texte zur kunste,

it arrived on the first submarine put under oceanic credentials in 1776,

taking us fingertipping with smudge free tokens across a timeline of panic and refusal to pay the fine for loosing.

Nadja makes drawings of mermaids and ravens in tuxedos on napkins, con aperitifs from regulars at bars that wear mustaches as neat as the reclining canes next to woollen slacks and tipping leather shoes, and most importantly, she wears the objection and surrender to the myth-

Before the map was a map-like mappish mock making a trail of the female on the run from a young soldier, a rusty locomotive and yellow cannon fudder- she who dropped a face beneath the love of god, that feared you to be up there with the rest and descended you poor,

but wealthy enough to go figure in the world, relentless or cool,

leading up to Tikal and the viaducts of Rome.

In my diaries, I have written that she was found in July, when it was still a frigid crater. These seasonal mileages seem to make soup into porridge, where it should have been steak burned slightly from the toaster.

The string that spinned from unsolicited leverage a journal can only attempt to regain when left alone, brings up again the question, what essentially is so special, and what is so rare that it must be done?

I think of Meret Oppenheimer´s wooden foot model of two feet forever connected by the toe-

I wonder if the same idea could be applied to a straightjacket? Having two identical jackets connected at the end of the left and the right sleeve, so when wrapped around, one are interlocked, sharing that closeness but forever be disconnected by the brain. Airing the thought to my father, he tells me so all relationships by virture will grow- Applied insanity is cocoonish by nature,

only its sad to me but rest assured enough, if its is meant to be buckled as nice or not.

Here was not the following that took the flight in good moods- forgiven is my tempo, and forgotten is my malignant partitur- speaking on behalf of the lesser memories in transit(Hangups need company too):

On the third floor of this catatonic ship, remembered as an apartment building housing all the dresses left behind, some from Kenneth Anger´s puce moments, some by your calibrated daughter and a few by my amputed former self,

as we all took turns in wearing them for the camera, the mirror and the door-

none to which I recall made a remarkable difference, and none to which I recall bothered to master the right hand more than the left- as if the hand, the gesture and the handle bar pulled enough forces to tell the next inhabitant to keep still.

I sit on a twirling barstool by the window overlooking the petite arrondissement, number forgotten and mail box key even more- because the mail here was as thinly stacked as the handkerchieves in the drawer, where left over weed buds had seen better moisture and light to grow- as if smoking and caring were one and the same whenever we opened one more envelope, unravelling detritus and gold- you always told me that I should dance with my eyebrows lowered, as if to look gargantuan and benign, my pupils like rodents and my neck like the unbroken vase on the table left untouched whenever we would fight over all the things, over all the sentiments unnecessary by the age of who cares.

The piano departs a melody into the carcass locked brain child, he swam so careless and far- we wondered when drowning could turn talent,

instead did our words under the bed, the carpet and the foil-

where giving the lampshades names and strobing my heart with sentimental ennui, then so sudden a decision by two individuals about to leave Mercury for Neptune, I believe they call them your parents, but it might as well be Frederique from downstairs playing games with us.

Even if I sold you my pirouette, the plie and the adagio in one and the same deal- watching the pants folding when undressing for you, I tried to release my own heat and dust from the etude in waiting for the signs of exile and disempowerment, as the feet, the bricks and the fastly lit matches danced in front of a peak, the one that I would actually fall from, that after some minutes was just as exhilarating as the vortex of boredom or apathy,

color me dead, please.

How lukewarm these tunnels can be, as if temperature could make hell and paradise separable only by a few degrees- lets wait and see of how tired we become- the ice can just as well be the kindest thing you have ever and will ever know.

Why did we decide to follow the trafficked fanfare on last weeks Sunday,

the day that trimmed our hair into petty nobodies and cerebral distress overshadowing the fact that you left me by the wink of an eye-

I spent the rest of that afternoon pestering my nose after doghouses and snaredrum infernos-

slaving to the eternal search of my lovers marks,

as if sniffing them out again would re-live the wormholes I tried so hard to get out of.

Dear elbows, do you still bestow upon yourselves the rejected caleidoscope of the last battle by that oak tree in the mud? A fist in the eye of a beggar climbing my way-

convincing he who doesn’t want to give you to give you exactly just that-

Was I maddened by your chest, your scribbled version of a song and that Irish brilliance of another intellectual wake? Had I not worn that hat and had I not put on that nonsensical laughter, would you have taken me to the fifth floor? Had I not said those uninspiring lies and oblivious contradictions,

would you have lifted up my skirt and felt yourself into the busty abyss? The dreams that dream you in and out of the edge, the transpired blueprint of your neckline, all that make you read me out again, to be summoned the brevity and the holy weight of the day

when I´ll fantastically open the door again.

I know you painted those words on the wall, so the whole city eradicated the horses, the automobiles and everything that Paul Virilio will write about in some decades in the pentecostal future,

the stark violet century of a clenching lawn-

even after the bedlinens stretched its last fibers,

You who rescued my pillow in March.

I spent my last evenings peacefully honing the opulent relics, representing all the phallic emotions of our time- they call it architecture and it died when your face spoke their version of gratitude. Resurrected was the only theatre in town, and the stage was ours, and one day with a two week release note, I will bleed myself ready for Not I, and my teeth would reach the elasticity of a wild duck, chewing your knuckles and swallowing the poignant marks devoted to the editor of heartfelt misanthropies.

Graphofobia, the fear of writing, and Philofobia, the fear of falling in love- these two reckless twins are tormenting me at night, giving short stories their flare for fight against the light- drifting as us, into, let´s say, a more or less fumbling form of hope, perhaps this is not the idea and neither a glitchy plat du jour, but I have not so much as a heroine in them to connect with- as I violate the tropes in their spinnings.

I must continue without you, and frame the last image.

Here´s a man who resembled a fox so much that he began the behaviour of one, as he painted his skin orange, fortified his freckles with feathers sucked in gum arabica and sought the mystery of a white end to his life becoming a bold aspiration to confront exactly just that.

You keep me here with your global pauses of serene blockage, all the while Handel, Bach, Mihalovici and Schubert is flowing out of the windows of your condominium, like flights of epicurean princesses- while in me, non had fled as much as a mile, out here then so far from the strata of asphalt, may they who cringe remove the organs that nurture and grow abundantly out here in the wild, dark and green, if only the spline could split in millions and defer into the quantum leap, so my head could release the whips, and then I will take that money you send to keep me imprisoned and

torture the very cloud your head has been replaced with. The doctors have become my characters for a play that will travel across the Indo-European landslide, and finally reach you back in Paris one day- they will not wear white coats this time, but black face paint, really more like a minstrel show with a diagnosed tone, and they will make you laugh and then cry when they show you the multiple X-rays and the empty pill jars all the while arresting the very pile of skeletons underneath the stage, dragging and re-assembling bones til the break of dawn in which a glowing fish and a silver-rectangled octopus attempt an opportunistic strangle of the entire cast.

I remember you saying that tragedy is the controlling denominator of our destiny- from which we all will suffer as redemption continues to exist as a moral predicament.

This will not be the theme of my life.

Because as long as I only understand the water if it wants to drown me and fill me with that which is already me in the most biodynamic logic possible, call it peace, name it an exit of thought- either way, it can make a fleet for those who cannot swim.

I decided to stop dreaming of you, of stopping the waves on the shoreline all together, this is nowhere as close to the flowers obeying sunlit reflection of the aluminium stationaries frequently flipped and retained

as the potential support system for visitation and small talk-

cold when dark and only remotely pleasant if heated by some bourgeois arse.

Unravelling the not yet written into a sanctuary- I thought it had so very little to do with the love I scheduled for, that it´s all just a wasteland of deceptive pleasure-

tuned into your grey streaks I fell in love with along with the smell of freshly applied wax.

My intellect reeks fixtures in situ, removing is not the same as hiding, when taking a picture, and leaving the sun, I relapse into that slum animal- eating a 400kg heart from a dinosaure.

Even though I want to write you the beauty and the beast in one and forever changing opera buffa,

it will never emotionally rescue the concept of us, despite that I know you will open the kilogram tortured package and drop a knife on a monday, cutting a toenail and a bond, a monday we remembered as a normal day that never seated normality enough to consider the sublime in white sugar cubes, that rushes through your veins and never returns.

Hi again, again and again and its hello ok? a bloody hello, a hello that don’t need a hello back but yes, its hi for you now, maybe not maybe, i don’t know, a nod or a sank, a smack, a what might not be eyes and a foot.

Greet me the one opportunity with salt- hydrating afterwards with water dripping from your sullen chins whenever the fois grois let you down as April lost its kingdom,

but in the food hall, I look up at incandescent swords, cutting blue light into yellow umbrellas,

these manufactured resemblances to the decline of victorian households, let me think of two parallels, one that commemorate the loss of the living room as we know it with the itchy chandeliers and their wavering spirits, and secondly, that modernism was not a private affair at all, but rather, the first ill conceived format for the public as a neutralised mass, ironically only commissioned by shallow hands, the way social currency will drive and destroy our future- but the carpet can’t be pulled out just yet, cause we still make the same mistakes again, just as the one made when they decided to push me out from the ground. so I’m left with the story of how I fought with mother, and how her pearls glitched in the stature of silence and in the betrayed light of her satin robe, not giving any right to my hands shifting the prodigious stalker of decorative puns-

The book shelf was weaker than I, and so the archive was disastrous to my temper,

the way you all attempted to put a lit on genuine rage,

and not even once trying to justify its potential within itself as much as a chess game needs gravity and a birds eye.

Mother, I´d rather fight with you again in the fortuitous swing of a chandelier, than to sit next to you and watch TV until you cannot breathe anymore and my insanity has been mirrored dazzlingly between the cushions and the remote-

Why couldn´t Icarus be more precarious? Moving under the sun, heading for collapse. Remember that director who asked me to be a cat sleeping under a shadow casted by a tower about to fall on a little bench, where a bag of flour had just expired, leaving a town in hunger and grinded desperation? If I could only emphasise the most wondrous places in the world that bypasses strangers as carefully carved columns, pretending to be pillars of the might, covering my most favourite vertical spots in the vision from my stand. If romance could live forever in train stations, back alleys and trenches- even holes to shit in, temporary life could linger and soothe a bit longer, die, and then anticipate and leave very little marks on my skin,

as if these places are meant for the mass, the crowds and in these, I, and you spend half of our lives,

leaving me to suspect that a life could be so reasonably unnoticed and ghostly-

My longing of your couch, your fume perturbed coat and your grinding shoes- if I could belong to these items and die in another persons grave, i´d come pretty close to the truth. After black, you said, you can´t really return to colors- as we sat there opposite each other in your kitchen, as two darkened snails- being detained and free from whatever demanded us to be anything of interest out there, out there on the dull street, out there on the mortal pavement where only a stabbing and a parked vehicle could aspire to change.

I awake in my single bed frame, a single slide, a single keyhole- I wonder if its similar the one we never locked but that we stuffed with wet newspaper so silence could permit. The resonance of steps are friends now, can you imagine, just as I skipped that surface of that wooden floor in the apartment in Paris,

where my limbs were angles and curvatures, my steps were heavy there, just as your yawn, just as your limp posture, there by the window, there with a cigarette, there with a sentence that transformed the world, as if that pure entity was yours to discover and to assemble anew-

a fare well to the absurd you say,

when I looked up from that surrealist magazine Minotaure, and how I repeatedly begged for a contact there so I could publish my renderings of growing up with a molesting brother, a Prussian mother and a father, who, to your misapprehension I have made peace with by now-

you believe that the Jungian archetype will never be fully satisfied and that I look for a father figure in you,

but the bollocks and the dread of that must remain scarcely unresolved because its fiction derived from cocaine covered beards that sink and scooba dive into inferior lakes of innocent minds. Id rather avail myself of the story where the mother is my rock, and the brother my curtain, my father a chair, on which you kindly sit on, family being your home and so me, what could I possibly do to further objectify myself?

Perhaps a taxidermic bear, extended back as a carpet, soft stepping and where rudimentary love making sheds an eye before the fire- here I sleep, eat and forget about the matches, once again- foxtrotting, cocktail hours aside, when a rare street light makes up for the broken candle that intended to bury us alive.

How I hated that coat and how I resented those shoes- dress me with your plays, your whispering novels, I infatuated myself with the demise-

An elegy to the woman who I saw putting on 20 coats, 5 hats, 3 pair of shoes and 8 stockings, who diligently picked up tulips and gave each one away to imaginary passer byes, the stronger sexes of our time, in which she sang “Pleas Don´t Talk About Me When I´m Gone” by Gene Austen.

Don´t forget the one you haven´t met yet, is what I want you to say to someone one day, and that someone once told you and meant it and glanced just right over your shoulder while inhaling a fractal of bad breathe, while half way defeatist kept pulling your eyes back where they used to belong- in the junction of the deepest knowledge

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