Pia only notices pretty things when he's alone or when he's drunk.
He notices how gorgeous the Kaapse fynbos is, how it looks like green spiderwebs all across the crooks and nooks of the mountain, snugly sitting against the ocean. He notices how the ocean washes up against the boulders fastening and supporting the mountain, sinking over the rock as amorphous mist. He notices the scarcity of life the further they pass through the area, how the houses seem vacant, how wildlife seems depleted, as if the earth got tired and muted life.
He notices how high up they are, how steep the road is climbing hand in hand with the mountain's side. He notices how clear the road is, like fresh skin after a scab has shed.
The ocean and the sky differs by only the ocean carrying a rich blue tone, breathing up against the night sky like a beast in slumber. The stars glimmer soundlessly, suspended in the air like dead fireflies. The wind crawls through Pia's hoodie, assuring him that it is spring—albeit early spring—enough to make him regret wearing ripped jeans.
Pia notices how warm Roman's body is, exuding heat like a radiator—he seems feverish, his body is wrapped up in slight trembling. His arms, however, are secure on the handlebars and stay unmoved, handling the machine beneath the boys strictly. Roman wears a red, floral patterned satin shirt, a material unabashed to quantities of money. You can feel wealth in the wreaths of material, writhing beneath Roman's leather jacket. Flowers bloom from the material, a garden of blood oozing over Roman's chest and stomach.
Pia sets his jaw on Roman's shoulder, peering at the boys slim, cadaverous fingers wrapped around the handlebars tightly, whitely. The leather jacket pulls up slightly as his arms extend to make the turns, revealing frayed wrists and the vermillion cuffs of his satin shirt. But his shirt and his wrists have so many colors in common. Staring up at Pia, egad, is bright cordons of vermillion marks, still flames ebbing from the cuffs.
He reverts his attention away from the boy's tortured wrists, rather holding his attention on the boy himself straddled between his legs. Roman might be slightly high, but he still has full control over his motorcycle, taking every turn with assurance. He might not have seen a single speed limit—because Pia did see it and he was ten, twenty kilometers over it—driving as if the limit were merely a suggestion. [He may have driven over a closed railroad track as well, but Pia didn't see a single train in sight.]
It was when Roman turned into the steep road that Pia noticed all of his surroundings. How the sky and the ocean met in a amorphous snog on his left. How the stars dangled as if they committed suicide above their helmet-less head. How the mountain to his right rumbled with darkness.
In one hand Pia balances half a bottle of vodka he stole against his body and in the other hand, he clasps a ball of Roman's satin shirt to hold onto the boy securely. Roman's breaths were languid and every now and again he chuckled with his own amusement—only reminding Pia that he is, in fact, as high as a the clouds vaulting over the mountain.
Roman's quick drive was a lot shorter than Pia anticipated when the motorcycle halts in the middle of a lookout point in Boyes drive—a road overlooking knots and knots of ocean from the middle of the steep mountain.
The lookout point is gorgeous—it reminds Pia so much of his view from the living room window back home. You can see the stomach of the ocean push out waves, ebbing out onto over the low-angle rocks packed to the lookout point. Plants and bushes and leaves grow out of every possible cranny of the stones, etched into the stones like calligraphy over pretty, aged paper. But beyond the stones and the low stone bannister, there is nothing but darkness and revelry. The wind blasts past Pia's ears in a sinister whistle, the leaves crackle on the pavement like a boiling pot.
"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.
"C'mon," Roman chastises. "You can do better than that." He sucks on the cigarette, balancing it between his fingers.
Pia, frustrated, takes another sip of sour liquor. He chooses a bigger pebble this time. He wraps his hand around it, forcing pressure on the stone—the sharp edges dig into his skin, hurting him a fair amount. But the vodka's numbing effect is on his entire body, not just his organs.
He sits up straight and pretends Roman is not here, watching him scream at nothing but the open air and the ocean. He pretends that he is all alone—that he has his own oxygen, his own voices and opinions, that this game belongs to himself. He closes his eyes and focuses on his alcohol infused breath, still minutes away from passing out. He pictures Rose, her tawdry little body martyring Pia's memories.
"I hate Rose Garland!" Pia hollers into the ocean, slinging the pebble into the water. All the ocean does, is grab hold of his voice and swallows it completely, just like it swallowed the pebble, as if he didn't even utter a single word.
"There you go!" Roman praises.
"Now you go," Pia says breathlessly, passing a stone to Roman. Roman hesitates, but puts the cigarette between his lips and accepts the stone—it is only fair that they make turns.
"Okay." He sits up and picks a pebble from the palm of Pia's hand. He picks the cigarette out of his mouth and balances it between the fingers of his free hand, as if he's afraid he might burn himself. He takes a breath, closes his eyes and chucks the pebble feebly; it barely reaches water. When he opens his eyes, Pia can see complete fury, anger buried so deep in his veins that it powers every breath he takes. "I hate being a Mariano! I'm always on a goddamn pedestal!"
Pia sits back, impressed by the voice that spawned from that frail body of his. Pia picks another pebble and takes another shot of liquor before closing his eyes. He throws the pebble, aiming it at a boulder that sits slightly out of breach, completely surrounded by water.
"I hate Ingrid King for being an absent mother!"
The pebble snaps and shatters into the water like raindrops. Pia's tone became hostile and bitter far too quickly. His breaths are rugged and strained, as if he can't quite catch his breath, as if it is lodged in his throat as if he swallowed a sponge. Like stale acid reflux. His body is insolent in manner of warmth, slowly going through the seasons.
His body is forced through horrific hot flashes. He sweats, yet the touch of his skin is no warmer than the stones in his hand. He neutralizes the sudden discrepancy with another sip of vodka, but at this point, his ears are singing.
Pia beckons Roman for his turn. The boy is less hesitant this time, but he wears his resistance far too thick on his sleeves. He doesn't really want to do it, Pia can tell from the moue crinkling in his velvet face, but he introduced it and therefore it is only fair he participated as well.
Roman chucks a pebble into a wave none the less. "I hate my emotions for controlling my life." This time Roman sounds monotone, but Pia feels it wouldn't make anything better if he dug up the grave of reason. All this exercise is doing, is digging out old graves. He can feel the toxicity of it burn through his skin, as if the ocean's spray is caustic.
Pia takes his turn again, growing accustomed to the mantra. "I hate Meg for confusing the fuck out of me!"
Roman doesn't twitch at Pia's hatred. Pia is grateful, to say the least. Roman takes his turn this time without ifs and buts, as if he decided that Pia's mere presence couldn't abolish his already tattering status in the boy's eyes.
"I hate it that people think rich kids don't have problems!"
The flow of the game becomes automated, as if Pia cannot stop himself from continuing. As if he stumbled up hill when the game started, showing as much resistance and work as possible, and now it's cruising downhill. Each chuck is accompanied by a cry of rage and each time, the ocean swallows it completely. It is as if Pia didn't make an utterance, absorbing his words like a dry sponge.
"I hate Cornel for being a fake ass friend!"
"I hate being a prefect!"
All at once, Pia's anger seems to erupt in corrupted wrath. His veins are filled with caustic crimson, lividly ossifying his muscles by the second. Oxygen turns to fine shards of glass, almost sand-like—ripping apart his veins, exuding physical agony over his entire body. In his mind's retina, he sees flashes of the ashen-locked man so familiarly estranged from him; his tunnel vision narrowing on the rested face.
"I hate Hennie Meyer so fucking much for leaving me when he said he'd be here for me no matter what!"
His voice is like a drumroll; an echo that returns to his own ears pitifully. The ocean refuses to absorb his cry, casting it back to his own ears. It angers him that the ocean accepted every other hate he had in his heart, but refuses to accept the hate he has for his father.
He jolts up to his feet, chucking another rock into the direction of the water. "I hate you for lying to me. I hate you for fighting against me."
With each sentence, another pebble flies at a higher speed that the previous one. The ocean refuses to absorb his fury, continuously chucking Pia's words back at him in the shape of a hollow echo. His body turns into a machine gun, shooting the rocks contained in the palm of his hand.
"I hate you for not protecting me against Rose! I hate you for hurting me more than any other person could possibly hurt me!" He grabs another pebble, but his palm is filled with nothing but dust. Blank-minded, he jerks the at the empty vodka bottle.
"I hate you!"
His voice claps through the humid air thunderously. The bottle follows his voice down the ebbing tide, aimed at a crown of stones worn by the water. The glass breaks and shatters, splattering into the ocean's water like dribbles of blood on a delicately slaughtered crime scene.
Pia is hyperventilating. His breaths a short and volatile. His hands are balled in the smallest shape that allows the most harm. His face is blotchy and bloodshot, as if he has been stung by bees around his cheeks. His eyes are glassy and foggy, his retina only registering in shades of vermillion.
With blurred vision, Pia turns around to look at Roman. The other boy stepped out from his seat on the bannister, separating their demise by distance. He stares strictly at Pia, monitoring him with big, devilish eyes the same color as mold—as the ivy infecting half of their house's walls.
"I hate you," Pia whispers.
He draws his lips over his fist dryly, like an automatic apology. He can see red and only red.
"Oh what?" Roman berates in disbelief, withdrawing from his espial over Pia. "That's what you're going to do? You're going to hit me?" After his expression faltered in fear for his first reaction, he composes himself into a second reaction; his expression dulls into a throbbing poker face. "I guess it's a good thing that you kissed your knuckles first."
Pia grabs hold of Roman's shirt, his aim calibrating where his lips had touched his knuckles. "If you didn't introduce this stupid fucking game, none of this would've happened," Pia growls. Roman grabs hold of of Pia's hand with both his hands to secure his losing balance. Pia's strong hold wrinkles the soft material of his shirt—he squeezes the ball, silk oozing though his fingers like he's squeezing fruit.
In a moment of corrupted fury, Pia shoves the boy backwards, like a pebble in the direction of the ocean. Fear marks over Roman's face like freckles. He grips Pia's wrists instead, trying to haul himself towards the boy instead of away, but Pia watches his balance crumble.
Of course Roman won't fall to his death or towards the water—hell, Roman would be lucky if he tripped over the bannister and landed safely on his ass. There is still something quite eerie in the mortal way this phobia etches into Roman's skin like the chilling gaze of Medusa. How his grip hardened around Pia's wrist, how his mouth begs for Pia to please stop. How he turned from a stable, sophisticated boy with a lot of status to a feeble child with muffled words and tearful eyes.
One cannot be this afraid of something as simple as heights if you haven't had a bad experience with it.
Pia is not wicked. He does not seek revenge. He feels regret far too instantaneously to mutilate someone's life with wrath. And he does not hate Roman. As a matter of fact, he likes Roman far too much to cause him any harm.
He pulls the boy up and shoves him away from the bannister, refusing to meet his glassy eyes. And Pia feels nothing. Not a single fucking care.
Angered by this sudden empty bout in his heart, his fist beats into the bannister, his bones crunching into nothing but blood infused pulp before he falls to his knees. He stares at the artistic handiwork braiding over his knuckles—how the blood looks like net in the groves of his skin.
"I refuse to cry," Pia whispers to himself, moving his busted hand to remind himself that he is in more physical pain than he is emotionally. "I refuse to cry," he repeats, whispering the mantra to himself over and over again.
"Cry, you bastard," Roman growls from a distance.
"Boys don't cry," Pia whispers.
"Bullshit, only cowards don't cry."
Pia hadn't noticed the shakiness in Roman's voice until he answered into thick air, "Achilles, please come pick us up. I'm ill."