Cache
one of one
Hayden is a sad and tired man. Tired of crying, tired of sinking, tired of being consumed by the emptiness and smothered by wildfire in his heart. Flames rising up and burning his brittle edges, oh, those edges, honed and whetted. His loins are small and thin now, his hip bones digging and grinding against his skin. He doesn't have any kind of disease, but he always finds himself expecting some type of cure. Possibly for his depression or suffering or monotomy. Hayden tries so hard to find solace, pity, fool's paradise with an air castle.
It's about time that he stops bleeding through that hopeless, pin-downed smile.
He collapses onto the futon in his bedroom, tears crusted onto his face. It's been one year and he's still dirty, waiting for the spring to come by and wash him clean of his impurties and grit. Hayden has cheapened himself. Fucking filthy, vulgar boy. He practically lives in a pigpen: newspapers from months ago, magazine clippings, stale potato chips, moldy food everywhere.
She's sizing up herself in the mirror. Alanna's hands are in her pockets, sharp elbows bent and vast eyes never leaving those prodding hips. She turns and now her hands are on her haunches, squeezing and poking at the tight skin reposed over her bones. The bones, cracking and stale and empty. Her sandy hair fills in her cavities and endless pits.
"What are you doing?" Hayden asks from behind her. He throws his legs off of the bed and stands up, walking over to her.
Alanna shrugs off her dendritic blouse and is left standing in a bra and her riveted jeans. "Nothing, just–" Alanna pinches the skin of her stomach. "Looking."
"Looking?" he laughs. "Looking at what? There's nothing to look at."
"Can't you see it?" she says. "The flab. Can't you see it, Hayden?"
"Alanna, baby, you don't have flab, you're not fat." He wraps his arms around her waist, gently kissing the crook of her neck. "You're perfect the way you are."
He hates when she does this. It's annoying and painful to watch as she filches whatever skin is left into her tiny fingers, pulling, yanking. Her limbs are thin, branches, tinsel. That must be why he always thinks of Christmas and ornaments and fushion jazz music when she's around.
"How come you don't see it?"
"Because it's not there."
Alanna died six month later on the white linens in the white room at the hospital. Hayden had cried and tore his knuckles open punching the bricks outside, for hours on end, all he could do was beset that cinder block wall.
Why do you keep beating yourself up?
He looks around, confused. That voice is raw, coiled in barbed wire. But familiar, a sick familiar. Sick like a clinic and thermal blankets and eggshell, he shivers at the thought of anything like that. He knows by now who that voice belonged to, someone gone, remote, lonely, like himself.
It's not your fault.
Through the window shines a cavalcade of light, the glass is so scratched that Hayden is surprised at how any light gets in. It's bright, her smile in an old brass picture frame, faded but codial polaroids.
But, it's all going to be okay.
The light is on his face now, drying his overused tears. "You're back," he whispers, a smile on his face.
It's about time that he stops bleeding through that hopeless, pin-downed smile.
He collapses onto the futon in his bedroom, tears crusted onto his face. It's been one year and he's still dirty, waiting for the spring to come by and wash him clean of his impurties and grit. Hayden has cheapened himself. Fucking filthy, vulgar boy. He practically lives in a pigpen: newspapers from months ago, magazine clippings, stale potato chips, moldy food everywhere.
She's sizing up herself in the mirror. Alanna's hands are in her pockets, sharp elbows bent and vast eyes never leaving those prodding hips. She turns and now her hands are on her haunches, squeezing and poking at the tight skin reposed over her bones. The bones, cracking and stale and empty. Her sandy hair fills in her cavities and endless pits.
"What are you doing?" Hayden asks from behind her. He throws his legs off of the bed and stands up, walking over to her.
Alanna shrugs off her dendritic blouse and is left standing in a bra and her riveted jeans. "Nothing, just–" Alanna pinches the skin of her stomach. "Looking."
"Looking?" he laughs. "Looking at what? There's nothing to look at."
"Can't you see it?" she says. "The flab. Can't you see it, Hayden?"
"Alanna, baby, you don't have flab, you're not fat." He wraps his arms around her waist, gently kissing the crook of her neck. "You're perfect the way you are."
He hates when she does this. It's annoying and painful to watch as she filches whatever skin is left into her tiny fingers, pulling, yanking. Her limbs are thin, branches, tinsel. That must be why he always thinks of Christmas and ornaments and fushion jazz music when she's around.
"How come you don't see it?"
"Because it's not there."
Alanna died six month later on the white linens in the white room at the hospital. Hayden had cried and tore his knuckles open punching the bricks outside, for hours on end, all he could do was beset that cinder block wall.
Why do you keep beating yourself up?
He looks around, confused. That voice is raw, coiled in barbed wire. But familiar, a sick familiar. Sick like a clinic and thermal blankets and eggshell, he shivers at the thought of anything like that. He knows by now who that voice belonged to, someone gone, remote, lonely, like himself.
It's not your fault.
Through the window shines a cavalcade of light, the glass is so scratched that Hayden is surprised at how any light gets in. It's bright, her smile in an old brass picture frame, faded but codial polaroids.
But, it's all going to be okay.
The light is on his face now, drying his overused tears. "You're back," he whispers, a smile on his face.