As many of you will know, or those few of you who care at least, I’ve been working on a much longer piece than those to which I have become accustomed. One could almost say that this text is a novel, possibly even one lacking in such childish techniques which I cannot seem to get out of the habit of abusing, which belongs to some modern school of Literary Fiction. Anyway, whilst I’m working on this piece on and off, I’ve also been working on another novella which, I assure you, is more ‘experimental’, obscure and often non-sensical than Adjective Narcissism ever was! But here is an extract from the longer piece, and expect to see more about the novella over the next few days!
Water isn’t supposed to be white. It isn’t supposed to turn a recently cleaned glass into something marked and dirty, as though it contained a pint of horse semen only moments before. Nor is it supposed to stink of meat, as though that semen had mysteriously birthed itself into a young foal, with broken limbs and shattered bones to allow its residence in my glass. I remember asking myself, as I watched the molecules twist around each other like lovers, ‘I wonder if anyone ever told the water that?’
As I said, I watched the molecules twist around each other like lovers. They would combine and split again before leaping into the arms of another, enjoying some miniscule version of ‘sloppy seconds’ for a few moments before diving off into whatever combination forged the trilogy of that notion. But, by degrees of time, fragmented in the liquid, the white faded until the water was transparent once more.
I took a sip. The meaty sensation was still there, though diluted, as though the sudden departure of the oxidisation had weakened the taste. I forced myself to stand there as I emptied the pint glass, my free hand clasped tightly to the edge of the basin. I could stand without its support, of course, I just enjoyed the cold rigidity of the porcelain.
Through the kitchen window I could see the intermittent flicker of a street light. It had annoyed since I first noticed it a little over a month ago. It had a strange affectation, where it would remain lit though the bulb could be seen warring with itself, as though engaged in some masturbatory combat. Not like the dregs of America, a locale inhabited by some private investigator, with the neon light of a bar or a strip club peeking through monotone blinds. Even situated as it was in the midst of Bedlam and Squalor, or perhaps as a direct result of its positioning, that image still held with it the essence of romance. Some script, hanging over that tragic character as the shadow of the guillotine, which assured him that his fortunes that were on the rise. That the darkest of hours hovers just moments before the onset of the dawn, that he would suffer and, in that suffering, find his joy. That he was a character of substance and would be recognised as such.
I wish I was a character, one of substance or not. I wish I was the tortured product of some cowardly intellect, or the hero of my very own narrative. I wish that love was a certainty in my future. That some wealthy heiress or widow would find within me something to desire, even if that object does require some discovering. I wish, at my most basic level, that my life had been a lie, a fiction, for the entertainment of creatures so high above me in reason and wit that they find joy in my existence. I wish that I had those creatures to worship, to fear, to rage against. I wish I had a superior to fight.
But, even as I allow myself to dream, my grip loosens on the glass. It fell through the air, trailing the occasional droplet of water caught within its personal gravity. It hit the bottom of the sink at a curve, rolling along the wide basin of stainless steel. Had this, my very existence, been a fiction as I desired, wholly for the entertainment of others, then that glass would have shattered. A brief flash of drama, the explosion of excitement on the horizon would follow every shard. One would, no doubt, rocket up as though driven by some intelligent urge, into my hand. I would have bled and healed and scarred, I would have to spend the next few days with one hand wrapped in a bandage. No doubt, when my ire was raised as I came to face my antagonist, it would have begun to shake and bleed again. If my life was a fiction, I would have something to say, some witticism or animalistic noise to fill the sudden silence after the cessation, the quiet that became the loudest sound.
But, it wasn’t. And I didn’t. So I left the glass where it lay, and I went to bed.