personal blog: simon

fumbling with unwrapping the burger patty from a frozen and fused to its paper, I can only think how my skin morphed to a goose flesh as my father’s touch crawled along my arm, how his hand swaddled my throat, how his threatening words hit me with hot and cold air unanimously. the image unescapable and I toss the patty into a dry, un-preheated frying pan. the sizzling and cracking noise of the bubbles popping as the ice melts and the meat thaws and the unscented patty becomes a burst of greasy meat odour. after a long whiff, the odour turns my stomach and I barely make it to the toilet bowl vomiting bile. maybe it’s my empty stomach that surged the reflex or maybe it’s the recollection that equipped my body to do what it is only capable to do and retract anything horrible that might be still left in me no matter how minuscule… because there are no feelings left. no ability to cry managed. an empty vessel moving through a vacuum of my life but there is so much garbage trailing behind and inside of me. unable to sort it out. unable to unplug me from being lost and unknowing. unable to do anything but purge my stomach.

my hands begin to tremble and then my whole body as I listen to the frying pan in the kitchen and the meat bursting and popping. like bullets flying overhead and I cower for a moment and then collect myself because it’s not wise to burn a house down after it has been sold.

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read more: ← thursday 10:09 • more to come soon

© simon whittle — second act