insilico

Preview

     The sun forced open his eyes like an intruder, breaking in through the window sill with quiet intent, scraping its tendril-like hands across his face. He laid there, the bloodshot sclera accompanying his pupils in staring blankly at the ceiling. Another day.. he thought with a deep repulsion. He forced himself to get up and blundered drunkenly to the bathroom.
     He stared at himself in the mirror, the unshaven bristles of his stubble mapping the beaten, weathered features.
     A twitch cut into his concentration.
     “So Matthias, are you still a failure?”
     “Shut up.” The seedling of irritation took root.
     “Look at you,” the eyes stabbed into him, critiquing. “You look like shit.”
     “Shut. Up.” He said, his annoyance blooming.
     “What’s a matter Matt? Am I hitting a nerve?” The mirror mocked him. “How long has it been since you fucked up your family? Ten years, right? Ten years since you -“
     “Don’t patronize me with this shit! It’s always the same damn thing over and over. Find something else to screw me over with.”
     A laugh slowly crept out of the glass. Matt looked straight into his tormentor, the brownish blue eyes piercing into him like music. His mirrored twin knew every weakness. He knew every minuscule detail, every minute fragment of memory, and every lie, down-faced shameful story, disgustingly painful secret.
     “Hey Matt,” he gasped in between nerve striking guffaws. “Do you still - do you still talk to her?” He exploded at the thought, his laughter a vice grip cutting deep into Matt’s anger. “I bet you still replay that moment over and over again when she left you, huh?” He grinned.
     Matt’s teeth gritted at his reflection, his fingers balled, the tips digging airtight grooves into the palm of his hand. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that you prick.”
     “You do, don’t you? Wow. Holy shit, you’re one sad, piteous man, Matthias; an unemployed, worthless shell without a damn sense of reality.” He beamed a Cheshire smile.
     “Shut your god damned mouth!”
     “Or what, Matty? You going to break me? Split a few cracks in this mirror? Punch yourself in the face?”
     The anger boiled a deep hot red, the hate beginning to overflow. Matt gripped the sink, ready to shatter. A little girl’s head slowly grew from the door frame.
     “Daddy, are you okay? Is he being mean to you again?”
     He hesitated and, after looking back at his daughter, sighed heavily. “Yeah, Lil, but it’s nothing. I’m okay. He’s just.. he’s just a bit annoying, that’s all.” He took her hand. “Let’s go eat some breakfast, yeah? We’ve got a long day planned and you need some energy.”
     She smiled wide as they began to make their way down the hall to the kitchen.
     “Have fun,” Matt’s reflection boomed after them. “Have fun in your fucking dream world.”

This is a fragment of a short story I’ll probably never get around to finish.

Addiction

He sits in bed. Leaning on his headrest, his mind wanders the contours of her face, her image beating numbly, repeatedly.. annoyingly.. quicker than his heartbeat. Her features fade in and out, in and out, while he sits and contemplates just what the hell is going on between both of them. His lips mimic another part of his mind, miming the words over and over in succession with her looks. She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not.. No, no, her lips say, I do love you, know that, but not the same, not the same. His heart stumbles over a pulse, tripping over the thought of her words. Never, never. In succession, they overlap against her and the childish whispers outlined by his motored jaw in an unending circle. The words overwhelm him, overwhelm him and he’s left to hide himself from the contraption - the machine of his mind’s own creation - by sifting through the memories that tie them together by the seams. She flashes into view, her hair a mesh netting protecting her face from his as she digs her head deeper into the pillow. He gawks at her, inches away, just inches, and all he can do is look at their intimacy, unbroken by the words that drip and sputter from their mouths. He longs to kiss her, longs to devour her love and in turn be devoured by the passion he’s held on for what has seemed like an eternity, never ending, forever. He can’t, he knows, her words glaring at his intentions boring a hole of guilt he can never cover. It’s awkward if we do. It grips him and holds him and all he can do is lie there watching the face that he’s willing to stare hours at, wake up to, completely adore, sear into his mind; the words of a joke escaping from his skull which he cannot recapture, which he cannot undo because the moment is over and he’s left to take up his post, her laugh intermixing with his. She fades and scrolls of conversations roll through the simple, wrinkled, crevasses of his brain, each and every word sticking into him like a bullet that sizzles and melts into his soul. Her love. He feels it warming him, warming him like a distant sun that freezes when every single phrase of most likely not, I may never, we may never be together, together, together as friends, that’s what we are friends, all we are - friends, crawls through the surface turning fire into steam, the hoarfrost edging to engulf his only source of light. Click. He switches, the room goes dark, a void, a vacuum that sucks away all the words that they’ve shared together, lived together. And he’s stuck, the emptiness of her so apparent that the black of the room in his head becomes a nightmare that he can only run away from. Click. She flashes into view, her smile, he caused, so beautiful, so lovely, so sweet and so caring, so amazing, ravishing, astounding, serene, and mocking, taunting, over and over he’s left to stare at the face that he can’t grasp. He can’t have her. I can’t have her. The words embedded into him, nails into his coffin. He’s reminded, reminded of her care and understanding, her sweet words for him and only him. He’s submersed and he’s left to glare at the hypothetical what if, what if, if only, if we do, if we will, if we are, what if’s that continuously haunt him while he makes it clear to himself that never is always next to forever - and all she is is a lost cause, and all he is is an idiot. She loves me? He sits in his bed. She loves me, not. Leaning on his headrest, his mind wanders the contours of her face - She loves me? - knowing, knowing that she, to him is utter perfection, imperfect to the world but perfect, spotless just to him. She loves me, not. Her flaws, what about them? A mystery is what they are, because he loves them, utterly and completely lost in adoration for every speck of dust on the diamond of her. She is a vinyl record, the static and distortion blended in the music is what he longs for. She loves me. No, no her lips say. She loves me, not. He lies in the dark. She loves me. She lies in his mind. She loves me, not. He whispers to no one. I love her. They lie together. Both, intertwined in each others’ thoughts while they ebb away.. drift away.. fade away into dreams forever lost.

Regret - A Short Story

Regret ○ by insilico

     And the birds, they cry to the stars while my eyes fade to black.

     We were lodging at Elly’s parent’s cabin – we being me, Elly, Gabe, his girlfriend Charice, and my two best friends, Amelia and Adrian – and it was the first time we were all bunking together without the excess burden of parental supervision. One could say that the feeling shared by all of us was complete and utter relief from the freedom of weight on our shoulders – and with it, came the ecstasy of having two weeks of peaceful enjoyment. The cabin was luxurious for six suburban teenagers out under the boughs of the forest; three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large kitchen, and a living room all fully furnished and assaulted by sighs and cheers of absolute glee. The centerpiece, of course, was the fridge, completely packed with food to sup and voraciously gorge on thanks in part to the help of Elly’s parents. Along with our complete liberation from the outside world and the paradise that accompanied it, we were absolutely free of plans as well, deciding to take the lucrative route of “winging it.” It was damn refreshing.
     The forest was relief for me. She was like a foster sister that protected me from the world I came from; singing me lullabies filled with sweet chirps, deep hoots, and insistent chatter; shading me from the violent, beating hand of an abusive sun. It was from her that I found serenity in the turmoil of my life that was edging me over a cliff, a Siren calling, enticing me to jump into the crashing, blue waves of insanity. This was what I had wanted, what I had longed for ever since Elly excitedly proposed the idea. 
     In the small clearing where the cabin resided, the breeze flowed freely through the porch where I sat. It danced along the wooden fencing, slowly whispering its sweet voice into my ear while cool hands enticed my skin. It was day three of our trip, and we were all comfortably situated with our small temporal abode. The day was still young and the sun kept its adamant presence, a silent sentinel raining down its warmth. Intermixed with the constant tease of the playful wind, the atmosphere was perfect for the obligatory mountain hike. It was cliché, of course, but still someone had proposed it and with the majority, brimming with the cumulated energy of the last two days, shouting in agreement, all I could do was trudge along. It was either trekking the wilderness with companions or be left alone trapped within the confines of my own mind. I chose the former; besides, it gave me much desired time with Amelia, regardless of the others’ presence. Seven years of friendship, a year of flirting, and a day of awkwardness when she denied my offer to be together and I was still obsessed with her. She was a health and fitness freak with a fetish for running so this hike was like a much needed fix to an addict and I, with the brain embedded in my groin, followed her like a lost puppy. Sue me; she looked absolutely astounding and, sewn together into the fabric of the picturesque scenery, she was my Artemis and I stood there, gaping; her voyeuristic Actaeon. Yes, I was glad I brought my camera.

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