Been To Hell

Chapter 6: Take Me Home.

A ghostly sigh fell from my lips as I drifted into a wake state, my eyes remained closed but I didn’t need them to see the world around me. I didn’t need them to know that Matt’s head rested in the valley between my breasts, his arm was draped over my lower stomach. I didn’t need them to smell the home cooking floating in the air like spring in the air. I didn’t need them to hear soft thunderous snores and people upstairs talking lowly. I didn’t need them to know that it was almost nine in the morning.

I shifted slightly, moving my aching arms to be wrapped around him. I managed to open my eyes to see the dark room. That’s when I saw the bruises wrapped around my wrists. I suddenly remembered that we owe Jorel a new belt. Matt has this bondage kink that he’s gotten me into. I swear, if he had it his way he’d carry bondage straps wherever he goes. Y’know, just in case. He was like this when we started dating. We’re twenty-three, we’ve been dating seriously for five years but we’ve been together on and off for a solid two years. I was seventeen when I lost my virginity to him. I don’t want to know what kind of stuff he was doing before we got together, so I don’t ask.

I looked down at the short black curls that were crushed against my skin; they were so soft and smelt like men’s shampoo but also cigarette smoke and sweat. I couldn’t resist the urge to gently stroke it. It was something that I found calming and blissful. It was all so surreal to me, everything from yesterday seemed to finally sink in and flutter my heart. Not only was I being entered in the biggest writing competition in California but Matt got signed to MySpace records. I didn’t even know MySpace had a record label. But I knew those guys were going to get signed sooner or later, they’re good at what they do. I didn’t expect to be entered in a writing competition though, the only person besides family and friends who believed in my writing were Rob and my twelfth grade English teacher, Mr. Evans. I still remember the day he told me that I was going to go far if I kept excelling like I did.

English has always been my favourite class. I suppose it’s because I want to be a writer and that’s the class I can actually put pen to paper. Although, the terms and conditions are guidelines that are restricting to the point where everyone’s work is the same, almost robotic. I do not robotically think when it comes to writing. I can’t. I’m as free as the wind rushing by skyscrapers of great importance. I am not a generic robot created by an un-pleaseable society.

“Bow Rivera,” Mr. Evans called my name.

“What’s the name of the poem you wrote to your past self?” Mr. Evans asked me while I stood at the front of the classroom, in front of the entire twelfth grade English class. A boulder of anxiety and nervousness sat in the pit of my stomach. I swallowed hard and looked at the back of the room to see Matt sitting there with a reassuring smile and a calming nod. He’s always been a very good security blanket, or net if I fall. It’s nice having him in the same class as I for a good part of the day.  

“It’s called ‘Writer Unknown’.” I replied flatly.

“Days are long/ Nights are longer/ I sway on my feet/ Staring out the looking glass/ A dreary grey haze blanketed the concrete flower peddles/ Fiery cancer dangles between my narrow bones/ Liquefied coffee beans swirl in the cup by a storyless type writer/ A colourful mind drew a black and white flat line/ As words go unwritten/ And stories go untold/ This is the life of an unknown writer.”