I am dreaming. I am dreaming. Drifting. For some reason incapable of movement... and she is there. I’m talking and I’m talking... but she does not want to accept my words. So, she picks up a long knitting needle. I know what is coming next. I just know. It is going into my ear, all the way in, into my brain, into what makes me - me. The knitting needle slides into me slowly and there is a searing pain as it punctures my eardrum. I wake with pain. Imagined, or not.
She lies there, tied up, next to me. Watching me sleep. Immobile. Her eyes hungrily, observing, taking me in. I feel truly restless, her eyes on me, wanting me to use her... but I feel a great aversion against that. All I can think of is how I am going to get out of this.
Words start forming in my head. It is not going to be pleasant. Not for me, not for her. Definitely not for her. I clear my throat. We need to talk... my words hit her hard. Her eyes widen, glaze over, and she is crying softly. I want to reach out and say that it was all just a joke, a bad joke, but I don’t.
I know anger will come. It is bound to. I need to get the hell out of Dodge before that happens. Even though anger really is easier to handle than sadness, disappointment, a spell broken.
She accepts the situation. She has been there before. At least I do not lie to her. I am crushingly honest, to the point, to a fault. One of the very first things I told her when I met her was that she needed to loose some weight. That fell heavily upon her, but she wiggled out from under that one. Spellbound.
She puts on a dress. It is green, blue and white. With some circular patterns and black lines. It makes me think of her as an ocean. She is calm now. Has come to terms with it all.
We wait for the tram in the scorching sun. All the colors are
washed out, like a childhood memory of summer. The summers always felt like this, like Sunday. It is a Sunday. The wait is long.
We are quiet in the rusty shed that protects us from the sun. She has bought me a ticket, a weeklong ticket. She was going to show me the city, her city, but now it will only get one use. Getting me to the railway station. Away from her, instead of closer to her, which was her plan. Her plan.
The tram is rickety and old, with real soul. There are mostly elderly people on it. Watching us lazily in the heat. They are making up their own stories about us, about our relation, our connection, our lack of connection.
Just as we are about to get off the tram her eyes widen. She pulls me closer and tells me that she has gotten her period. It is bad, she says, and as she gets up there is a quite evident big dark stain at the back of her dress.
We search for a pharmacy as blood is slowly making its way down her legs. We find an open convenience store. It is small and the aisles are narrow and crowded.
Red tendrils appearing on her milky white skin, below her dress. She looks truly distressed and I wish that there were something I could say, but there is not. I need to gain distance. I have such good momentum away from her.
She reapers from the restroom. Has tried to clean up in the dirty railway toilet. A place that stinks of piss and mold. Now she is stuffed. Her flood has come to an end. Only emotions leak out of her now. She appears less distressed, but there lies a great veil of sadness over her. You made me bleed bad, she says. Yes. I did.
I buy a ticket for the train, and she walks me to the platform.
We try to talk, but the words refuse to connect. They just hang lazily in the hot air, and fall silently to the dusty ground.
A wave of emotion comes over her. She decides that she has to leave there and then. She grabs my hand, desperate like. squeezes it, and lets it go a final time. She turns around and walks down the long platform. The stain on her dress is my focus, as she walks away. She does not turn around. Not once. Going up the stairs at the end of the platform and out of my life.
I am left with the other people waiting for the train. A guy approaches me. Gets into my face with obvious madness written all over him. Why do you defile your flesh, he asks. I say nothing. I just stare him down. Expecting a physical confrontation that never occurs. The train pulls into the station. I get on and disappear with it. Into a dark, cool, railway tunnel.
released June 3, 2014
Text written and read by Mikal Gule
Music composed and produced by Gjøran Sæther (Proteque)