Atomic Holes

Atomic dots, tiny and invisible yet having the capability to overwhelm you with deific energy, fucking it all up as the crimson drowns my eyes and clouds them with the blur of memories; all fading and cascading down my skull as they escape through the cave beyond my hazel irises, my eye-sockets, and it all comes down to imperfection. Mistakes. Because the flaws and hollow holes of uncertainness are everywhere, like atoms, like cells, like tissue and fucking crimson liquids; like the needles sprawled on the ground. And I look at them one more time; their corrupted innocence and sterile malleability sparkling with the stars' reflections as their pointy ends crave and lust for the flesh they tear apart, for the veins through which foreign inadequate chemicals are about to flow. Your vacant eyes staring into the ceiling, and the salty fluids smeared around them and down your pale cheeks, contrasting the silky smoothness and porcelain paleness of your face.

Your breathing heavy and slow at the cliché exhaustion of after-sex, while the cheap white sheets are still damp and sticky. Crimson flowing down your thigh due to your fragileness, but you've become accustomed to it; and then your sweaty fingers are holding the only thing I can hold onto in your absence, and its absence. "Here," you begin as your obliviousness to my open eyelids vanishes; it's annihilated and terminated just like every other imperfect thing in this universe, just like everything. And then the dirty green paper is lying immobile on the pillow, paralyzed at the tension flowing clearly in the atmosphere. And you couldn't distinguish the glassy look in my eyes. But when I didn't respond, you knew something was wrong.

Something was, oh, so very fucking wrong.

“Gerard?” Once.

“Gerard?” Twice.

“G-Gerard?” Thrice and you stuttered.

“G-Ger-Gera-” Four times and your voice cracked.

“Gerard!” Five times and your fingers fumbled with the buttons on your cell-phone. The mattress sunk as your weight pressed down on it once again, and you waited impatiently as the beeping noise resounded inside the four walls; the calling device's speaker being responsible of it all. And all you just needed was to explain what you knew, get it all done, and leave. If only you knew. “Hello, what may I help you in?” a female verbalized from somewhere in an office in Jersey, and unknowingly broke the crucial transfixing excruciating and simply fucking climaxing silence that had been consuming my soul. Your sore throat whispered a barely audible “Please…”, before the sound of cheap plastic and linoleum floor clashing echoed in the tiny and filthy motel room; the collision of solid materials signifying my nearing departure, my brittle salvation. You mumbled unintelligible words for the wind to carry elsewhere; your vocal chords streaming unexplainable phrases.

Disappointment.

It flashed through your eyes as your pupils dilated to an impossibly small size, and you saw them. Who ever said phobias are stronger than addictions? My fear to those surgical implements… it wasn't stronger than its appealability. Trypanophobia, they called it. And it was easily seized from my mind as ecstasy fulfilled me and shot bliss through every vein in my circulatory system, invading it with improper crystalline compounds; bittersweet and orgasmic sensations flooding my brain as the morphine did its job. It was my routine: do and forget do and forget do and forget and never regret. Just enjoy. And yes, I combined it with the flammable intoxicating venom that killed my nerve cells and fucking destroyed the imperfect memories my mind held.

“…why? Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…” you uttered repeatedly and picked one of the syringes up. Your pierced and tattooed figure shook; your emerald orbs shone with remembrance, and the beauty-shattering tears made your eyes seem glossy. The first time you'd felt compelled to do what you were about to do, it was my fault. I was always the damaged and broken one; I was always the reason we fought. I was the reason we wasn't we anymore.

The moans of pleasure and hormones filling the empty voids in my heart as we became one, and the hot air that surrounded our naked bodies fogging us of reasons and consequences; thinking with impulse, animal instinct, rather than inoperative useless intellect. Merely hours ago, while the narcotic still penetrated my sober state and wasn't working as poisonous cyanide. Lifelessness wasn't part of my vocabulary, while the word Frank emitted from my mouth once too many times. And I did and never regretted it, yet this time I wouldn't forget. The visions so vivid, pooling my hazel orbs with unnamed emotions and love. Us in fucking love. That was perfect. Or so I thought, for that was murdered by selfishness and insanity and cheating and lies and confusion and panic and everything else; you can't destroy perfection. Our relationship seemed flawless, but it had those atomic holes that broke it; atomic holes, tiny and invisible yet having the capability to overwhelm you with deific energy, positive or negative. Atomic holes, such as the atomic scarlet dots that adorned my arm. And it all comes down to imperfection.

I stared as you held the needle close to your wrist, its silver ends barely millimeters away from what you thought was your salvation; it was my consumption. My eyelids fluttered closed… a “Goodbye,” and sobs… the sound of a syringe hitting the floor. Then silence.

Perfection.