Writing: "Everybody Lies" and "Gasoline."

Reflectionist · Feb 8, 2014

I wanted to share these two prose bits that I wrote and have been sitting on for a while. Hope you enjoy them. I was trying an attempt to write in 2nd person perspective, to really put YOU in my shoes and put YOU into the story in ways very few things do. I hope it was effective. Let me know what you think.

...Also, sorry, it's not music. lol.

"We need to talk," he says.

You recognize the voice almost immediately. And though you've only heard four words, you know the voice so well that you'd almost swear he just spit the most venomous, hateful thing you can possibly think of. Not that that would be either surprising or new, at this point. You don't acknowledge him. You don't even slow down—though it's not like you were going very fast to begin with. They'll either keep up or take the hint and go away. You have medicine to take that's more important than what you know is coming. So you walk. You hear his footsteps start up behind you. Then a couple more pairs fall in. Christ. What is this, some kind of intervention?

The tension is almost palpable, but you continue on your way, and he launches into it. Look at that, you were right. Like always.

Great. You think to yourself. Another idiot. How many times am I going to hear this shit before they give up on me, too? He looks at you with disdain, without even the strength left to hide his betrayed disappointment from you. It's as if your very presence has betrayal written all over it, even though they came to you. But you know you can't go back now, so you set your jaw and lower your head, like always, hoping that the stoic exterior hasn't faltered. You sneak a look, barely listening to the lecture you're receiving. You've heard it all before. There was once a time when you could deliver it word for word without hardly blinking. You want to join in, as if you're hearing an old friend sing a song you've not heard since you were a child, but now you're older; professional courtesy prevents you from interrupting. But you're sure as hell not happy about it. So you decide to do the only logical thing left to do: you stop listening entirely, and trust your brain to tell you when to cue back in for the conclusion.

So you naturally let curiosity take over and your gaze wanders away. But everywhere you look, all you see are those eyes. Oh, God, those beautiful eyes from years past. Once they were filled with admiration, respect, love, and maybe even a hint of lust, but the last time you saw them, they were cold, dark, and saturated with disappointment. As if disappointment itself had manifested and become those eyes. Part of you knows you can handle this; you handled it yesterday, and the day before that, and even the day before that. But there will always be that part of you to keep the wound fresh; that part that, no matter how much you repress it, just doesn't care about what's logical, or rational, or more importantly, what you 'know.' So it gives you hell, while it still can, promising another sleepless night, recounting everything said the last time you saw her, like a broken record you have neither the will nor the power to turn off.

"I can't keep doing this. I can't breathe with you. I can't be everything for you like you want me to be, and I'm drowning. It's not that I don't love you, and it's not that I'm giving up on you. It's just... you give up on yourself, and it's like I don't even matter. I just can't do this anymore."

It broke you to hear those words, not sure if you could believe them anymore, and you've limped on ever since. Weighed down by that part of you that refuses to accept the logic. But it is that part of you that's dying and bleeding in your hands—it was once the best of you, and might have been all along. So with every second that passes, its death becomes your downfall, your obsession; your cross. But you know that you alone don't have the power to stop it. You did it to yourself, but it evolved on its own. Your pathos is dying in your hands and your logos is sighing in disappointment at you (when it's not making you its bitch to get some sick self-righteous high off of it), while your ethos just looks on helpless, a ghost of what it once was. Torn apart, right down the middle, staring at you with those same absolutely beautiful, disappointed eyes. God, those eyes... those eyes make you want to take everything back. Every single word.

Something distant snaps you back to the here-and-now. Still somewhat lost in your own thoughts, you catch the end of the lecture: some question about personal testimony. You reach your destination, and find that familiar little not-quite-orange bottle; the reminder that no matter what happens, there will always be one area in your life where you will not let rejection become an issue. You don't even need water anymore—you can pop those pills like candy. But it is now in this very moment when, more than any time before, the absurdity of it all hits you dead on. So as you look around, from inquisitive face to inquisitive face, you realize with deep, bitter regret that the next two words you will say are just as much a confession as they are a challenge to the question. Perhaps even more so. And as you sigh that same over-rehearsed, exasperated, dismissive sigh to mask the inner turmoil, the words come out simply:

"Everybody lies."

And as they stand there, dumbfounded, you turn around and leave, a miserable, depressing embarrassment. But through this seemingly self-loathing concession, you're somehow rejuvenated. Maybe—just maybe—you'll try to take it all back, after all.
Click to expand...

Next in next post.

Reflectionist · Feb 8, 2014

"Gasoline"

It begins innocently enough.

A face comes to your attention that you’ve not seen too often lately, so you reach out. A friend, indeed, as the expression might go. You talk, at first merely grateful for the midnight company, and take care to mind the gloomy potholes that now dominate the infamous Memory Lane, out of respect for the others vantage point. As a wise man once said, “Many of the truths we cling to depend greatly on our own point of view.” And without having to even think or process, you know this is true. The months past have beaten this into you with such ferocious finality that it becomes nothing more than instinct. But those months are past. A new dawn is at hand, and you feel more alive than ever.

You find that you’re gradually enjoying each others presence, so you’re beginning to feel a little bit more comfortable. You carelessly exchange information – a new means of communication. It’s one you’re familiar with, but haven’t used it like this in a while. But you’re so focused, now, it seems, on for once interacting like a normal individual, that you forget that the potholes were even there. You speed up in your excitement, and stumble on a single, innocent little…name. A name that… well, the name means absolutely nothing compared to the emotions it has the potential of unleashing. It is less than a name to you in itself, but the name is an extremely unhealthy addiction.

So at this point, you’re completely at the mercy of that name, and it is then that you realize that the potholes are not really potholes at all. They are punji pits. And you’re dead already, so what’s the worst that can happen? The poison, the infection, is already seeping through your mind, triggering glands and chemicals designed solely for the purpose of overriding logic and reason. Against all odds, it is love that keeps you forcefully digging your foot down deeper, in the vain hope that this was all a test, and that her loving, apologetic embrace is just on the other side. And you really shouldn’t do that, because you’ve just murdered something extremely important to the way you function: your own point of view.

Your companion tries to help. Tries to save you, but all you get is a new vantage point. All you get is a fresh wound. New information you didn’t know before, that without it, you could protect the innocence of that name. But the innocence of that name is gone, now. That memory is tarnished, that point of view is contaminated, and now you’ll have to find a new one, if you hope to survive. But you know, in your heart of hearts, that you’re stuck here no matter what. Right here, between granting her innocence and destroying yourself through self-hatred, or betraying everything you promised her, and destroying the one thing you pretend you’ve still got left. And those are both inherently selfish.

The sheer inexorability of it all brings forth another demon from the dark, frozen corners of your heart. Another feeling you left, long ago, and forgotten had even existed. All of a sudden, you feel in your bones, you will die soon. All of this is for naught. Just like you used to feel, before her nurturing touch on your cheek pulled you out of those frozen corners so long ago. You feel your mortality weighing down on you like shoulder pads made of depleted uranium, and after having felt its absence for so long, the sudden presence is that much, much worse. There are still hours before dawn, so you must endure. You must.

And before long, you find yourself lost in thought, quite literally, floored by the magnitude of this moment, irreverently yanked from the metaphor that protected you. It was the last thing you had left, and now you stare your demons in the face. Desperately begging for some reason to believe that this world would be different if you hadn’t existed. Desperately grasping for some reason to believe that your life actually means something to even just one other person on this lonely planet. In this darkness you have no choice but to call home, for now, there is but a single, dull, blue light radiating from a window on your left. The moon. On the floor, in the moonlight, you see only one object: a single ball-point pen. The pen is mightier than the sword, you think to yourself. But when applied with a little creativity, the line between their use fades and disappears.

An hour passes in silence, and soon you’re neck deep in debating a hypothetical. What would happen if this was the night you did it? Of course, you’d have to leave something behind; a farewell of some sort. Some words of wisdom–no, words of truth. This would be no time to pull punches. What would you say to her, if you knew it was the last thing you’d ever say to anyone ever again? Would you say you loved her, forgave her, even still, and assure her that it wasn’t her fault that the grief and guilt had eaten you alive? She wouldn’t believe you. She’d immediately blame herself for your suicide, perhaps rightly so, and everyone who blames themselves for such things does not feel loved in the slightest. They feel abused, betrayed, neglected. Poetic, you know that road well, but no. She’s as good as killed you already, and she should know this, so why rub it in? That just wouldn’t do at all. What could you possibly say to do any good now? Indeed, what good had ever come from you?

Perhaps your time has come to bow out at last. This heartache has gone on long enough. There must be something completely and unutterably wrong with you alone for the pain to have lasted this long, especially after she’s moved on so irrevocably. You reach, clumsily with your left hand to pick up the pen. Neither you, nor the pen, nor God knows what will happen next… whether it destiny lies on the bright, resilient saving grace of a sheet of paper, or… a half inch into the jugular. Not yet.

But just as your finger touches the pen, lightning seems to flash from absolutely nowhere, and in that brilliant flash, something catches your eye like a bright ray of harsh, burning, guilt-ridden sunlight that bursts through the cloud and unapologetically lays siege to your retina. Another name – five simple letters. An unblinkingly honest, disappointed, dejected looking name on your weak arm. This name you cannot escape, cannot push away, cannot disown. This name now belongs to you, and you to it, as you need each other to survive. But the name bears no responsibility in and of itself… that burden, too, is yours to carry. You’ll not be bowing out of jack shit tonight. The inanimate ink seems to scream at you in that moment. Selfish. Selfish! SELFISH! And you know that it’s true, and that there is no saving grace for you tonight; nothing in Heaven or on Earth that could possibly have enough power or compassion to resurrect you after this betrayal, so you do the only thing you’ve any power left to do: you weep, and pray to anything and everything for forgiveness you don’t deserve, don’t expect, and don’t believe in. Or care for.

And so the last remnants of the beautiful soul you may have once had catch light, and the ice in and around your heart melts into liquid, but it was not water that had frozen your heart.

It was gasoline.

I will surround your heart with lies

And it’s a heavy burden, that will always stay with me

Until the end.
Click to expand...

lime treacle · Jul 1, 2014

Fucking shit man, that's got to be the deepest, most abstract, most accurate displayal of human psyche I've ever seen.

And it was quite hard for me to read with the level of English I have.

Reflectionist · Jul 3, 2014

Thanks for checking it out!
I could've been a little more considerate with the english

lime treacle · Jul 3, 2014

Reflectionist said: ↑

I could've been a little more considerate with the english
Click to expand...

Nah.

Log in or Sign up

Writing: "Everybody Lies" and "Gasoline."

Reflectionist Excuse me while I kiss the sky.

Reflectionist Excuse me while I kiss the sky.

lime treacle You are not alone Über Member

Reflectionist Excuse me while I kiss the sky.

lime treacle You are not alone Über Member

Share This Page

Log in or Sign up

Writing: "Everybody Lies" and "Gasoline."

Reflectionist Excuse me while I kiss the sky.

Reflectionist Excuse me while I kiss the sky.

lime treacle You are not alone Über Member

Reflectionist Excuse me while I kiss the sky.

lime treacle You are not alone Über Member

Share This Page

Useful Searches