At Night
001.
I watched his lips as he laughed, and I couldn’t think of anything except the entrancing movement. His chuckle slowly died and in its place, fast, unplanned words spilled over the pink flesh as he told one of his many stories. I gazed at him; if anyone noticed, they would think me a right weirdo. I didn’t know what it was about his lips, but they acted as magnets to my eyes.
I tore my eyes away from his lips because of a feeling in my gut telling me that my brother would be turning to look at me any second now. I had always been able to tell what he was going to do, seconds before he did it; I guess it’s just growing up as such close siblings. And I guess I can understand why he’d be interested in what I was doing, as it was at least a few minutes since I had last made any signal to the world that I was still ‘at home’.
My eyes wandered for a moment, before finally stopping to rest on the wall behind his head. I suppose that if anyone looked at me, they’d think I was staring at his ear, but I wasn’t. It occupied my mind for a second, but I got bored and restless when I realised that it wasn’t as interesting as I wanted it to be. It was different to the other three sides, though, as it was the one deep red wall in the room of gold. It was a warm effect, and I liked it.
I decided that it wasn’t going to work, trying to distract myself with my surroundings. I bowed my head down to look at my fingernails as thick, dyed black hair flopped in my face. A glace at my nails told me that I needed to get the nail scrubbing brush from my mother’s bathroom and use it with a lot of soap. My trail of thought went wild and I started thinking of all the germs on our hands anyway, the number of germs in the grime in my fingernails and how horrible it actually was.
I mean, we touch almost everything with our hands, and we’re spreading disease like wildfire. It made me feel sick thinking about the bacteria on things like keyboards for computers and remote controls and the textbooks that were handed out at the start of every lesson back in school – hundreds of grubby kids flicking through pages trying to find the most sexual illustrations and the set exercise numbers. Ugh.
I glance into his lap; not because I’m a pervert, but because his hands were laid gently on his thighs when he wasn’t talking with them. His hands looked so strong, and yet so soft, but at the same time so calloused. It was as if he’d be able to open the stubborn jar of whatever in the cupboard in a second when I’d struggled for half an hour; as if the skin were tender, but his fingertips toughened from playing guitar since he was four foot seven.
His arms were hidden under a long-sleeved t-shirt, but underneath, I remember muscles bulging slightly and security. I remembered a time on stage I had so desperately wanted to be real; he had run over to me, kissed me hard and fast and on the mouth and then gave me a quick hug before running off to bounce around the stage again. He thought I was wasted out of my face at that time, and I probably was, but I remember the warmth and safety I felt for a millisecond. It was the most amazing feeling ever, safety, after growing up told not to ever venture outside after five o’ clock for fear of murder.
“You alright, Gee?” my brother, Mikey, asked, worry hinted in his tone. “You haven’t spoken much, are you sure you’re okay?”
It was almost a shock to be spoken to after the while of residing in my own head with no one but my self for company. It was one thing I didn’t like about going deep into thought; I always end up trying to communicate with myself.
“Oh, I’m fine,” I smiled weakly as a reassurance. “I think I’m just tired.”
And then he speaks up, his voice residing in my ears for a few seconds after he finished talking.
“You could sleep in my room tonight, Gee.” He said, a grin plastered across his face. “I know you hate the guest room anyway, but sharing it with Mikey is bound to make it extra uneasy.”
“What?” I said, trying to take the offer in. “In your bed?”
“No, in the closet. Of course in my bed, you douche bag,” he said, the sarcasm taking over his voice so that I could barely recognise it. I didn’t like it when he was sarcastic; it was like he was a different person, definitely not the person I was so entranced by.
When he degraded me, which he tended to (accidentally) do a lot, it cut me like a warm knife through butter. I hated it, but I’d try and brush it off. Later, when I was alone, I would fight with the syllables resounding in my head, eventually giving in and letting the words eat away at me from the inside. His words had become my worst enemy over the years I’d known him, and yet for some reason I had this vision of him not being able to do wrong.
He didn’t mean it, I’d tell myself, while desperately hoping that I wasn’t fooling myself with my own synthetic lies. He doesn’t know what he’s doing to me, I’d tell myself, or else he wouldn’t do it.
The afternoon dragged into evening, the sun began to slip slowly over the horizon. People always think of horizons as beautiful, but they aren’t, and definitely not in Jersey. All I could see were buildings and factories. Industrialised land that was once, probably beautiful scenery.
Later, as we clambered into his double bed, I looked at him in just pyjama bottoms and socks, and I realised that I couldn’t deny it any longer; he was beautiful. He was perfect in my eyes. He was the vision of the body I idolized, and he was everything I wasn’t. He was tattooed, and the ink beneath his skin was beautiful. He was everything I ever wanted to be, and never could be.
I realised that maybe, I did ‘have a crush’ on him, and maybe he wasn’t just a ‘best friend’ to me. I realised that everyone’s romantic imagery was pure shit, and that love, like even the most beautiful rose, has thorns.
I tore my eyes away from his lips because of a feeling in my gut telling me that my brother would be turning to look at me any second now. I had always been able to tell what he was going to do, seconds before he did it; I guess it’s just growing up as such close siblings. And I guess I can understand why he’d be interested in what I was doing, as it was at least a few minutes since I had last made any signal to the world that I was still ‘at home’.
My eyes wandered for a moment, before finally stopping to rest on the wall behind his head. I suppose that if anyone looked at me, they’d think I was staring at his ear, but I wasn’t. It occupied my mind for a second, but I got bored and restless when I realised that it wasn’t as interesting as I wanted it to be. It was different to the other three sides, though, as it was the one deep red wall in the room of gold. It was a warm effect, and I liked it.
I decided that it wasn’t going to work, trying to distract myself with my surroundings. I bowed my head down to look at my fingernails as thick, dyed black hair flopped in my face. A glace at my nails told me that I needed to get the nail scrubbing brush from my mother’s bathroom and use it with a lot of soap. My trail of thought went wild and I started thinking of all the germs on our hands anyway, the number of germs in the grime in my fingernails and how horrible it actually was.
I mean, we touch almost everything with our hands, and we’re spreading disease like wildfire. It made me feel sick thinking about the bacteria on things like keyboards for computers and remote controls and the textbooks that were handed out at the start of every lesson back in school – hundreds of grubby kids flicking through pages trying to find the most sexual illustrations and the set exercise numbers. Ugh.
I glance into his lap; not because I’m a pervert, but because his hands were laid gently on his thighs when he wasn’t talking with them. His hands looked so strong, and yet so soft, but at the same time so calloused. It was as if he’d be able to open the stubborn jar of whatever in the cupboard in a second when I’d struggled for half an hour; as if the skin were tender, but his fingertips toughened from playing guitar since he was four foot seven.
His arms were hidden under a long-sleeved t-shirt, but underneath, I remember muscles bulging slightly and security. I remembered a time on stage I had so desperately wanted to be real; he had run over to me, kissed me hard and fast and on the mouth and then gave me a quick hug before running off to bounce around the stage again. He thought I was wasted out of my face at that time, and I probably was, but I remember the warmth and safety I felt for a millisecond. It was the most amazing feeling ever, safety, after growing up told not to ever venture outside after five o’ clock for fear of murder.
“You alright, Gee?” my brother, Mikey, asked, worry hinted in his tone. “You haven’t spoken much, are you sure you’re okay?”
It was almost a shock to be spoken to after the while of residing in my own head with no one but my self for company. It was one thing I didn’t like about going deep into thought; I always end up trying to communicate with myself.
“Oh, I’m fine,” I smiled weakly as a reassurance. “I think I’m just tired.”
And then he speaks up, his voice residing in my ears for a few seconds after he finished talking.
“You could sleep in my room tonight, Gee.” He said, a grin plastered across his face. “I know you hate the guest room anyway, but sharing it with Mikey is bound to make it extra uneasy.”
“What?” I said, trying to take the offer in. “In your bed?”
“No, in the closet. Of course in my bed, you douche bag,” he said, the sarcasm taking over his voice so that I could barely recognise it. I didn’t like it when he was sarcastic; it was like he was a different person, definitely not the person I was so entranced by.
When he degraded me, which he tended to (accidentally) do a lot, it cut me like a warm knife through butter. I hated it, but I’d try and brush it off. Later, when I was alone, I would fight with the syllables resounding in my head, eventually giving in and letting the words eat away at me from the inside. His words had become my worst enemy over the years I’d known him, and yet for some reason I had this vision of him not being able to do wrong.
He didn’t mean it, I’d tell myself, while desperately hoping that I wasn’t fooling myself with my own synthetic lies. He doesn’t know what he’s doing to me, I’d tell myself, or else he wouldn’t do it.
The afternoon dragged into evening, the sun began to slip slowly over the horizon. People always think of horizons as beautiful, but they aren’t, and definitely not in Jersey. All I could see were buildings and factories. Industrialised land that was once, probably beautiful scenery.
Later, as we clambered into his double bed, I looked at him in just pyjama bottoms and socks, and I realised that I couldn’t deny it any longer; he was beautiful. He was perfect in my eyes. He was the vision of the body I idolized, and he was everything I wasn’t. He was tattooed, and the ink beneath his skin was beautiful. He was everything I ever wanted to be, and never could be.
I realised that maybe, I did ‘have a crush’ on him, and maybe he wasn’t just a ‘best friend’ to me. I realised that everyone’s romantic imagery was pure shit, and that love, like even the most beautiful rose, has thorns.