personal blog: simon

I can literally hear my sister’s text yelling at me, “are you there? ARE YOU THERE?! check your fucking phone!” but I unzip my hoodie and toss it to the side. my cloths drop to the ground. the morning run has done nothing to calm me down. the silky flow of droplets from the shower-head warmly drench my body, washing me away, encircling at the drain. I stare at the swirling water in trance. my skin feeling a little odd, unlike me. unable to construct my physical form, my body, unrelated to it, unrelated to myself. it gets like that at times. I get like that at times, detached from myself. derailed from reality and I stab my fingers to my skin to feel for a moment… and in that bleak moment, Jacob always manifests. his exposed arm and the lines of mutilation scatter up to his elbow. engraved for eternity… and I trace them onto my skin, like a carbon copy, from my wrist to my elbow. all Jacob’s incision, to feel the pain, the physical pain, to connect to something tangible… real… to connect to him.

“did it hurt?” I asked.
“I think so.” Jacob answered, as if he didn’t know what pain felt like.

at times I don’t know what pain truly feels like. is it this numbness? is it detachment? is it physical? does it have a form? is it psychological and does that pain have a form? or is it void of colour? there, a moment of loss and I don’t know where I’m standing, what is my bearing?

“all that buzz, buzz. new client?” Kevin’s brows jump playfully. his mouth’s to the side in a mischievous grin.

I jump startled. when did he enter the room? how long have I been in my head that I allowed Kevin to invade my space? to miss the pivotal moment when Kevin got naked.

“good morning,” and he extends his neck to bite my shoulder and sneakily kiss my chin. “you’re up early. errand?”

“went running.”

“you don’t run.” his foolish grin and I hate it.

for a moment I return an equal stare but as quickly dismiss Kevin’s existence, reaching for the towel. “I’m done… it’s all yours,” and leave the tub with the water running.

♠

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© simon whittle — second act