"Every hour makes its wound and the last one finishes it off".
- Théophile Gautier26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡz1KxbJKlPj
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I turn away from the building, a sourness lurking in the back of my throat. Cassie asks in a faint voice if I'm all right, pointing to arm's wound inflicted when I broke the bottle and the one in my stomach, which is much deeper. The smell of blood rises to my gut and I take pleasure in breathing hard.
- It's all right, it's only a small cut.
We walk to her house in stunned silence. Before she walks through the door of her studio, she turns, faces me, wraps her little arms around my shoulders and whispers in my ear.
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- Thank you for this evening. I'm sorry I put you in that situation.
- I needed to let off a bit of steam anyway.
- Go straight home, okay? Don't make any more waves and heal your wounds.
- I won't.
She kisses me on the cheek before loosening her hold and locking the door behind her.
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1 h 47 -
The air is cool tonight and the gusts of wind are rushing through my hair. I even have the feeling that the cold is penetrating deep into my wounds, pulling them apart and making them so deep that my heart is sinking. It makes me tense, it moves me, it irritates me and the whole bloody situation excites me.26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrUfjDXNYuD
26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhWoVBFbhh5
It scares me to see that I still have so much anger inside me, so many grudges, hatred and bad feelings. Yes, I'm afraid of holding on to everything, of not being able to let it all go and of still being this ticking time bomb. It scares me when I see that I'm capable of lashing out so violently at strangers for sometimes trivial reasons. When it comes down to it, I'm not angry with them, but with myself and also a little bit with the Gods.
The gold medal goes to my hatred of myself. It scares me to be a grenade and to think that one day I'm going to explode for good and end up in a thousand pieces. I'm afraid of everything that's inside me and especially everything that doesn't want to come out.I finally understand that it's impossible for me to be happy by perpetuating situations in which I'm not. And if you were to ask me if I could do the same thing again, I'd say yes, because I've stood my ground. I stand up for what I am, for my intrinsic values, even the most devious ones.
I stood up tonight, proud, unafraid to affirm what I am, a nascent monster. I let my heart speak, unafraid of losing because I was already ready to lose everything, without ever losing myself.I was there tonight, ready to face the winds, the tides, the storms and the tornadoes, knowing full well that I wasn't strong enough to make it through. 26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡV21xVOjZqu
26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEh5zQczlf6
Today, in particular, I want to stand up for myself, not to protect those I love, but to experience new things, whether they're horrible or exciting. I know I have a bad temper. I'm cold and hard to figure out. I'm constantly hiding under my shell to avoid revealing my weaknesses, to hide the fact that I think too much, that I think too much and that I get too much into my head. The truth is that I'm never one for half measures, I hate with a deep-seated hatred and I love sincerely, like Cassie and alcohol.
There's a constant battle going on between my head and my heart, I'm between the two, between two worlds, trying as hard as I can not to fall. I'm a tightrope walker on the edge of my soul and I'm scared, I admit. I'm afraid of that wind that's a little too strong and that will make me slip, slowly, dragging me into a painfully deserved fall.
I'm hard to live with. Nothing makes me angry, because I take everything to heart. I'm possessive, jealous, stubborn, aggressive, amorphous, arrogant, asocial, quarrelsome, calculating, cruel, defeatist, flippant, selfish, rude, reckless, disrespectful, irresponsible, moody, nonchalant, lazy, grumpy, shameless, secretive, a little too crazy, even bipolar. I hear voices in my head all day long and I could go on and on describing all the fucking flaws that make me what I am today...
I wonder if there's anyone who could help me, because yes, from the looks of it, it doesn't sound very appealing.
I'm walking through the narrow streets of Puento and, strangely enough, tonight I'm not just wearing different clothes and make-up, no. I'm wearing a slight smile. I'm wearing a slight smile. I pass a few people coming out of bars and they move out of my way, not wanting to brush against me. A bit of blood on my body and everyone scurries off? You'd think I'd have to hurt myself more often to feel like a queen.
I had to leave my little paradise to join the cold of this night, slipping away like a shadow, avoiding the city's streetlights. A short climb and I'm in front of my building. Only a few metres to go, I finally put my fingers on the box to type in the code for the building.
1-8-9-2 BEEP.
The door unlocks, ready to be pulled open until I hear a rustling behind my back. My blood runs cold and I turn, ducking to avoid a possible blow and ready to fight again.
There was nothing. No sound. No one. Not a cat.
Have my old demons returned?
I shudder at the possibility before dialling the code again for the now locked door. I rush inside and close it behind me, examining the dark surroundings for a few seconds, feeling safe inside.
I decided to take the stairs and climbed them quickly, my heart pounding. It's a well-known fact in films that someone always arrives at the last minute to hold the lift. I'm in such a hurry to get home that I don't even notice the pile of cigarette butts littering the steps to the third floor.
When I reach the fourth floor, I check that no one is behind me, before entering the flat and closing the locks. I take a breath before untying my shoes and throwing them across the room. I head into the kitchen, grabbing a few pieces of paper towel with a bottle of strong alcohol. Then I head for the bathroom, where I pick up some things to close up my wounds and dress them. Needle, thread, alcohol...
Check.
I go back into the living room, where the light is brighter so I can see better what I'm going to do. I take off my jacket and the little black top. I look down at my side. Crap. Just a little nick, eh?
That's why my body had struggled up the steps, why cold beads of sweat were falling from my forehead onto my carpet.- This is going to hurt. I muttered, while a voice in my head retorted that this wound was only the fruit of my well-deserved sins. I tore off two sopaline leaves with my teeth and doused them with a little rum. I swallow before placing these thin, cold layers on my hot, heavy body. 26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrONqvV9zcU
- Hmmm... Arrrgh. Fucking hell.
I disinfect the wound a little before stitching up the stomach, gently, gritting my teeth, holding back my tears, with each pinch of bruised skin as I insert the needle and thread. Drops of blood trickle down my pale skin. After a few minutes, I get used to the pain and when I finally finish the 5 stitches, I take a deep breath, now allowing myself to breathe. I fall backwards, slumping onto the sofa. I grab something to dress my wound and wrap a white ribbon around my stomach.
I take the opportunity to drink a third of the rest of the bottle of rum. I'm hot, the fever must be rising. I stand up, rocking from side to side like a ship on a stormy sea, heading for the terrace. The fresh air does me a world of good, like the memory of my mother's gentle kiss on my cheek before I went to bed.
I put a cigarette between my lips and light it before taking long drags.
2 h 35 -
Ian's curtains suddenly open. His face appears in the subdued light of his living room. I notice the expression on his face, an expression I know all too well, that of anger. He's dressed in a neutral white T-shirt with grey jogging bottoms. His fists clenched, he opens the window and strides outside.
I can't take my eyes off his expression, which is different from anything I've seen of him before. From my point of view, it just makes him sexier. His mask seems to have fallen off and I find myself admiring him. I have a tiny bit of affection for people who scream in silence, whose almost perfect smile hides a burning scar. I admire them because, without knowing it, they have the intelligence not to pass on the insanity of their grief to others.
I love the rebels, the reckless, the ones who say the wrong thing, a wild hint, the verbal slap that escapes their lips, the rude under the guise of insolence, the not very wise, the burnt alive, the prisoners of emotional and social intelligence, the latecomers, the overthinkers, the contrarians, the brawlers, the criminals, the flayers. Living people.
I think I'm capable of loving, with as much passion as I love ignorance. I don't know if it's good or bad, useful or dangerous, necessary or mortal, eternal or temporary, permitted or forbidden, for me to love.
Our eyes meet again when he raises his head in my direction. His face changes dramatically, sending me a slight smile and a wave of his hand. He looks down at my breasts, covered only by a black bra, and at my stomach, now bandaged.
By the time I become aware of my own nudity, I see his lips open, ready to say something to me, but I don't give him the time as I hide my breasts with one arm and proudly thrust my middle finger at him with the other, eyebrows furrowed.26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFCpv8DGvx0
