Constellations stretch over the sky like the moles on my skin.
Spread wide or cluttered together, too many to count, clinging to the backdrop of black like they'll fall down otherwise – like they'll smash against earth's hard shell and shatter into a million pieces. From the corner of my eye I catch a quicksilver of the beaming moon, full and white like milk. It casts a glow over the ground and reflects off the many windshields I weave through, leading to the back of the parking lot like a crumb trail. The smell of rain-soaked cigarette buds and spilled slushies is overwhelming, but barely registered in my anger.
This wannabe Lowlands fest will have no shortage of break-ups.
Oh my god, I mouth to the sky in a snide, soundless attempt to release all my suffering out in the open. Hippy therapy doesn't sound as farfetched as it might have an hour ago, before years of high school counselling went down the drain. In fact, prancing around in nothing but vibrant flower crowns and becoming one with the trees is right up there with the all the things I'd rather be doing. Read: everything.
Now that I've decided on a nomadic life shared with promiscuous coven-sisters, my stomping gets accompanied by wordlessly begging the cosmic powers for patience and the cleansing of my body. I am feeling excessively more dirty the longer I am surrounded by the ugly jeeps and mud-stained caravans – property of stoned adolescents and the rare breed of indie-frat hipsters. Everything around me reminds me of how I've, inevitably, hit rock-bottom once more – all because I insisted love doesn't lay in the skin, but in the heart.
Because it does lay in the skin, it really does.
Because in this world, your skin shapes you into who you are – and apparently, decides where you end up. Look where I ended up, ignoring years of experience. I'm in the outskirts of society, practically a step away from some dystopian community, surrounded by drugged-out wackos that see the sounds and taste the colours. The only thing I'm missing is Dust in the Wind playing in the background, to really solidify this loss of respect for life.
Instead, I hear someone throwing up a few cars over.
I pass a pair of dry-humping dudes and their friend, who is filming them for some reason not known to me. Or known to anyone, really. It's just how stuff works at festivals, and I start regretting getting up in the morning. Or at all. I want to die at the embarrassment and anger I feel at being here: my glare intensifies exponentially.
The violent slaps of my bare feet against the wet asphalt resound through the semi-empty parking lot instead of the screaming my throat itches for, the glossy sandals in my white-knuckled fists glistening under the fairy lights above us.
"Us" being myself and the sorry dick that messed me up real good. Good enough for all those long anger management sessions after high school to burn up brightly and join the ashes of my horrid love life. That said, I never was peculiarly against arson. Maybe it's time to pick up a nice jerry can, a lighter and head over to burn a specific car. A specific house.
Maybe specific parents – they're responsible for his existence.
"Babe, c'mon!" Carter cries and wow, it's officially decided that I'll never date people that have –er names. It just doesn't work. Carter, Clover, before her Cooper, before him Chandler. Let's cross off Cs as well. You know what, fuck it, let's go all out: all letters are forbidden. You have a name? A fascination with the alphabet? Sorry, but this amazing ass is off limits and probably capable of murder at the moment.
I clench my jaw, speeding up my pace as I pretend that I can distinguish my bike in the darkness, still leaning against a stray, malfunctioning streetlight. Only my righteous fury keeps me from feeling as lame as that sounds, and my lips tremble with the effort I put into keeping my regionally infamous break-up speeches locked away behind grinding molars.
"Babe, don't exaggerate!" And I can just imagine his face, all tense and worried like I'm actually in the wrong and this is all a big misunderstanding. Like Carter can somehow justify his kind-of impressive ability to grope three unwilling girls at the same time (doe he have three hands – how?). Like our life is one big rom-com and Zack Efron is just waiting around the corner, ready to jump me with a classic plot twist. Make the romance more interesting with a love rival – well, guess what Zack? I'd rather date Vanessa. She's a Sagittarius and you're a Libra like a certain somebody and I'm a Virgo so I'll dislike you on a misguided principal alone.
Ignoring Carter's attempts at catching my attention, I get a better look of the outline of my pathetic ride. A sweet, totally ugly low-rider that once was my dad's, marked my own with old, peeled or peeling Chin-Chan stickers that came with the gum I used to buy. I pick up my pace a bit, careful not to step on anything and one-hundred percent determined to ignore the footsteps following up behind me.
That's when he makes the mistake of touching me.
My sandals clatter down from my hand, hard soles hitting the ground like a gun at a horse race. I slap his hand off my shoulder like it's poison, suddenly completely disgusted by the guy I previously liked so much. The contact between our skin, fleeting and rough, feels like an electric shock – a wake-up call I didn't really need. Those same fingers traumatized a few girls todays – and who knows how many preceded them? And how the hell did I not notice this very apparent flaw before wasting my time? And how did I actually put up with all his shit for four months? (Was I really stupid?)
And then I lose my mind, because I don't get invested easily, but I do I get invested to a ridiculous degree.
I whip out my keys like the incredibly dangerous Fast and Furious lead I am deep inside, whirling around with the first curses already slipping from my lips.
"Don't you fucking touch me! Don't you fucking do it!" Carter immediately backs off, eyes wide and hands up in surrender. We haven't known each other that long, a couple months, he doesn't know about the time I pushed Allison Wedgings off the stairs in high school or how I have a track record a mile long.
(But he's about to find out.)
(Allison was asking for it.)
I violently wave my arm around, my backpack sliding down my arm, probably looking like I have rabies in the process. That's a joke: I always look great. Had I actually been a dog, I wouldn't be a dog at all – I'd be a rabid, well-bred wolf. Dogs get rabies, right? Nothing makes sense at the moment. "I cut a guy up with these keys and I'll do it again! I'll make you wish you really had three hands – to defend yourself, piece-of-shit motherfucker!"
"Holy shit, what the hell ?" He throws me a puzzled, bewildered expression and blocks the backpack when I throw it at his face, tossing it to the side. I feel my anger spike even more when I think of the water bottle he might have slightly dented in the process. Who even does that? "Three hands?"
"Don't you holy shit me!" I yell, loud enough to revive the dead. If, you know, all it took was some yelling. Then I thank god I moved out of that old flat, my neighbours were insane screamers. "I swear to god, Carter, you're gonna be one broke-ass bitch after I take finish with you, because those hospital bills are going to stack higher than Stark's tower!"
"What are you talking about?" He asks, eyes darting over my face as if seeking clues, eventually settling on my – really? – breasts. They are admittedly amazing, but so not his main priority right now. They also are incapable of answering any of his questions.
"Fight me." I state decisively, a demand and an order in one. I place my hands on my broad hips, settling them snuggly into the hollows of my sides. "Fight me right now!"
His expression turns deadpan and it strikes a chord. I have a chest voice, I'm an alto. Right now I'm adducted – high pitched in my mind, but still carrying an easy tone my words. I hate it when people dismiss me. Carter rubs a hand over his face, wearing the same placating expression that he uses to calm down displeased costumers at work (he is the ice-cream man, no joke). "Okay, obviously you've gotten high on the fumes here."
"Fight me or I'll spread the pictures." I declare, like I'm Russia and this is my big, fat veto right. Suck it up EU, UN and Carter. I'll go all annexation on the whole world, I don't care. "I'll buy a billboard, I don't care if I starve for months. Everyone'll see you in that tiny little speedo on the-"
"Shut up!" He yells over my threat and fuck, I hate being interrupted. He's flushed, both with shame and annoyance, and I don't find that cute at all. Despite, you know, having a things for that. Blushing. God, I hate his guts – nothing can save him now.
"Don't cut me off, I wasn't finished!" I stomp my foot like a toddler. "You always cut me off! I should have dumped you, like, two months ago!"
"Maybe because you talk too much and you- wait, we're breaking up?!" Where is my new wicca entourage? I need to head out into the woods and hug trees. Become one with nature. Find love and sexual gratification in the art of sorting herbs. Get away from humanity because, technically, everyone shares his genes. "Why? Are you short on breath – is your head fuzzy?"
"This isn't an asthma attack." I all but hiss, keys glistening threateningly. He once told me he likes karate over a dark, steaming mug of shared coffee. I'd counted his lashes and he told me I had nice skin, we got into my bed and rolled out hips together until we had to muffle our cries in a kiss. But I don't doubt that I'm going to pound his face, black-belt or nah. Memories or nah. "This is me, getting back at you for all the chicks you groped. So, like, a regular attack."
His jaw pops open and locks again, the click audible over the distant guitars and heavy bass. I don't even like rock that much.
Carter's face is darkened by shadows, handsome even when he's barely visible. The strong curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the mess that's his brown hair, his heavily lidded eyes. His broad frame blocks any of the weak light from reaching me, but I stand casually in the face of his towering form and his peeking nipples. That's a really low tank, yeah.
I take a deep breath, picking up my sandals again. "Next week, Wednesday, six pm – Root Park. I'm going to either beat your face in or become a real life arsonist."
"You need sleep." He decides with a shake of the head. I can almost physically feel our relationship crumble apart, already weakened by the strain of little fights. His lips pull back tightly, thinning, and I exhale harshly as I pick up my backpack.
(Take the trash out. Wash your own plate. Don't order me around. You should change that skirt. You should go back to college, you know. Why'd you post that picture.)
"Hide your mother tonight," I say, eyes narrowed. "Or I'll slit her throat."
Then I start the anticlimactic process of opening my lock in the dark, accompanied by only my vengeful thoughts and Heartless. Carter's MyStory tells me of his drunk escapade while I cycle away and lulls me to sleep when I get to the nearest motel.
sooooooo! i think i'm going to like writing this, unsure about where i want to go with this and as always, i am slow as snails. they're really slow. let me know if you like this, and any thing you'd like to see.