How to be Pia | editing 2023

how to lose (iii)

"Welcome to one of my many hiding places," Roman announces, stepping on top of the wide mason bannister separating solid pavement from a drop moderately rugged and slouched towards them.

Roman sits down in the stone barrier, looking out at the rumbling ocean that sounds something like a hungry stomach. Pia sits down next to the boy, sipping vodka gingerly—as if it can better his decorum by sipping it like tea instead of chugging it like water.

"I come here to clear my head," Roman says. "My old house used to be in this street before my dad bought the church house and renovated it. In this house I used to walk up to here just so I could scream and then walk back without a voice." Roman pats his pockets down before he pulls out a packet of boxed lung cancer with decorative warnings no one reads.

He picks out one of the cigarettes before placing it between discolored lips, antagonized by cold. Lighting the stick of cancer comes to him as second nature—as easy as it is to breathe cold air—he cups the cigarette to guide the subtle breeze over the small flame spitting at his fingers. The second the flame touches the edge of the cigarette and it lights like the brake light on a car, Roman sucks up as much of the poison as he possibly can. His body calms down with the breath of smoke in his lungs, his eyes close and he exhales heavily, silently, as if he's completely relieved from all his physical and mental agony.

If only emotional pain were a breath. How easy would life be? The second you see yourself take a step back, the second you feel your heart break, all you have to do is exhale and you'll have energy to face the sunrise.

"No one can hear you scream from here," he utters.

Pia takes another sip of vodka, forcing his eyes down at the drop. He hates the harm Roman does to himself, how he deliberately blocks his lungs with smoke. But Pia's tongue is tied with the bottle of vodka bubbling straight through his liver.

Roman bites the cigarette between his lips, his mind working and reworking through his thoughts. He leans forward and scoops up a handful of small stones, no bigger than a Zam-buk pod. He hands the handful of earth colored stones to Pia, puffing on his cigarette.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

He picks the cigarette out of his mouth, pinching it between his thumb and his index finger. "I'm not good at rugby or at drinking and partying, but I am good at reading people."

Pia swallows a big gulp of vodka; his heart is thumping uncontrollably beneath his sternum, like a spirit in an exorcism, and he has no idea how to get it to quiet down other than burn it with alcohol. It upsets him that at this point of the night, he cannot taste pain or feel bitterness in his mouth or his throat. The vodka cleaned off all regular functions in his body, leaving him with nothing but the taste of stale blood and a dry mouth.

After much deliberation, he accepts the handful of pebbles.

"For every pebble that you throw at the ocean," Roman starts, "you scream something you hate. It's kind of a game I learned. There is reason behind action."

"Okay." Pia mutters hesitates. He is confused at the game, pushing a few pebbles around his hand to look at each one separately.

"And the beauty is: the ocean can't reply," Roman sits back, his lips snugly wrapping around the cigarette again. He doesn't look amused or high anymore—he looks exhausted. He looks hopeless. His eyes break light like a shattered mirror, in no specific direction. You see reflections of anger, frustration, disappointment, poignance. One can see the suffering etch into his skin, like a twig drawing a line in sand.

"I'll try," Pia musters, putting the bottle of vodka down next to him. He picks his ammo first: a small, oval shaped pebble the same color of the onyx ocean. He vaults the pebble at the ocean suddenly, carelessly. "I hate Rose," he says, emotionlessly.