torstai 12. tammikuuta 2012

Knucklebone Blues

As her eyes rolled back and my fist raised back up to it's oh so natural striking position, I started to realized what I had done. What had begun as mutually agreed act of our own fetishes on my kitchen floor had been destroyed by my complete dominance over her. She was practically pulp by then. She was young, probably a wounded teen from a broken family, dad drove cab so he was never around until one night he came home drunk and beat her mother beyond recognition. You know, the usual, old and worn out story. She grew to understand love is nothing but pain. If you give love a chance and enough time, eventually it will backfire with serious consequences. She grew to understand that every moment carries a threat of violence in it. The easiest way to get away is to embrace it. As I thought all these thoughts she was bleeding my purple rag-carpets all black. So much blood.
It's surprising how much a woman's face can bleed when you pound it with only your fists. But in a way, it's her own decision. We're not connected in any way. This is just a way of letting all the steam out. And for her, a way to feel loved, I guess. I can't possibly think of any other reason a girl would volunteerly enter someone's house to get beaten up repeatedly. Suddenly I feel embarrassed.
Why am I doing this?
Why am I DOING THIS?
What do I get out of it?
Shot-term pleasure, perhaps, but in the long run it could only do damage. I raised my fist, with an intention of stopping this train of thought and crashing it into her face. But I just couldn't. I felt guilty. I felt pity. I felt actual love. I rolled off of her, to her side and laid there for a whole minute, listening to her shott, sharp breaths. She was sobbing, she was broken. Her beautiful young face was nothing but blue, bruised flesh and broken cheek-bones. Sobs grew into cries. I looked at her and hugged her uneasily. I had never been kind to anyone. I mean really, honestly kind. I've pretended a lot of times. But I can't remember many occasions where I would have acted out of actual, pure kindness. She was so small. So fragile. She was trembling in my arms. She was electricity.
She was incredibly loud sounds choked by silence. It felt so... Invigorating.
It was like I have imagined dying would be. It was release.
"Don't be scared..." I whispered to her ear through the mess that was her hair. I realize I sounded insecure and scared myself. I was shaking too. Just like her. She calmed down eventually, but it was not easy. I held her tighter and cried. I fell asleep.
As I woke up she was still there. Trying to breather through her swollen nostrils. I stood up and went to the fridge. Milk, OJ, some tomatoes and butter. I drank some milk and went to take a leak. I left the bathroom and saw the girl starting to wake up, little by little.
"Don't be scared..." I muttered again. I went to my bedroom and turned the guitar amplifier on. The valves took their time to warm up. Soon they begun their soothing, warm, fuzzy humming. I took mu guitar from the bed and turned the amp from STANDBY to ON. I let my fingers do what they can. The first blue notes filled the air. They followed eachother smoothly. It was somewhat devastating experience. Some moments ago these hands were destroying.
Now they were creating. But they were creating out of their own need to create. I had nothing to do with it. It made me kinda sad. Destroying that girl was entirely my decision. My work of art. This was not. This was purely therapy for the aching fingers. I was completely drowned by the sounds. They were choking me. My guilt was swimming into my brain. These blue notes were healing, but they were also honest. They brought back all the pain, they truly let me have it all. Guilt and blame with the works, please.
I felt tears flow down my cheeks and into my beard. I can't remember the last time I cried before this day.
"That's beautiful.." the girl had snuck up on me. Speaking was painfull and hard, but she had made the effort of expressing her feelings about the music. It felt strange.
"I guess..." I muttered to my beard, I turned the amp off and looket at the doorsill where she was standing. She was struggling to stay calm, but she was not afraid. more like cautious.
"..After all, it's your music." I finished my somewhat confusing sentence. Interest lit her eyes.
"whaddya mean?" she asked.
"Well... I didn't have that much to do with it. It was more like my fingers, trying to apologize for everything.. Every note was a mistake.. unintended."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" She clearly did not get it.
"Nah, it's just some existential voodoo mambo-jambo, nevermind..."
Now that I looked at her as a person instead of object of... passion, I realized she was kinda pretty. In that fragile, clumsy way. She did not look like a whore, that's for sure. She was not like all the others. She had a long, dark hair that fell down her shoulders like river. It was a bit messy, for you-know-what that had been going on a bit earlier. Her eyes would have been pure fire if I would not have beaten them to just dim embers that had to fight to maintain any warmth at all. Knowing it was me who did all this made me feel uneasy.
I turned my back at her and fingered restlessly the frets of my guitar. The blues comes so naturally in times like these.
"Listen... I'm not angry or anything... No regrets, right?" She said. Her voice was soft, insecure, broken. She sounded a bit scared again. As if she thought I was going to jump at her and beat her with my guitar. I know. My own fault. I was speechless. She left the doorsill and I played some more. The music carried me away. This has been one strange fucking night. The slam of the closing door woke me up from my unwritten songs. She's gone? Just like that? Well, can you really blame her?
I unplugged my guitar and dragged my feet to the hallway. For some good minutes I could do nothing but stare at the closed, heavy wooden door of my apartment. Another door shut. She's never coming back. Now I have to confront the complete silence. It surrounds me, it attacks me. It is violent. It is malevolent. She's the only girl I ever even felt sorry for. Suddenly I hear the same blue notes again. Life goes on. I am the spider, this is my web. I play these notes, and eventually, after all the flies, it will attract someone like me. And she'll come. And she'll complete me. Until then.... I just wait.

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