Take Another Look











{August 30, 2009}   seeking repair in ruins

The room had a thick, heavy scent to it. Apprehending the platform of detectable odors sat more than one aroma, the sweet but stale odor of apple blossom trees overriding the other, less poignant whiffs. The clutter had a teenage feel to it, with a boot strewn across one part of the room, the satin golden bed covers half undone with the mattress part exposed.

Dark lingeré lay crumpled on the floor in a heap, as if to say, why go through the trouble? An impulsive surge of energy emanated from the way the mess was tossed, a conflicting sense of both somebody in a hurry, throwing things into a bag as fast as they can, mixed with the sense of somebody luxuriating in their own demons. Expensive mugs, some coffee-stained, littered the surrounding desks. Can’t come visit me in this hell-hole, it’s too inappropriate, the items seemed to warn. But the layout of the room had a warm feel to it, as if when things were put away, the potential was knock-out originality and genuine style without any deception or pose at all. There was no centerpiece to the room, which appeared splintered, but one was drawn to the use of a book propped up against a frame of Elizabeth Wurtzel, her eyes so doe-wide open they looked like they were still leaking tears, her stomach bare and her hair matted. It was a Russian book, Child 44 by Tom Rob Smith. The symbolism seemed to mean something, but what? A passage of the book was underlined.

-Your brother is dead. He’s been taken for food. Do you understand? Just as you hunted that cat, someone was hunting you. Do you understand?”

The back of the book explained the plot line was about a security officer working for Stalin who learns the truth about the government and flees to uncover the truth. Something about this book explained the identity of the person living here, but what?

There was no conceivable way of pigeonholing the person’s taste. They had rows of chess books, music books, crime books, identity-art books, memoirs, peppered with deft comics, some classics, social commentaries, but for the most part, it looked like whoever read through these books did so with a ferocious appetite. A carnivore in their reading tastes, that’s for sure, but maybe somebody who used to only read from a small selection?

The room looked like that of a that of a fugitive whose room had been tossed by feds, leaving the speculation hanging on one important thread. The transition from clean to mess happened in a state of transition, and it happened fast. Whoever lived here was half a criminal, half a guardian. Whichever side dominated that day took over. Meaning that the person’s interactions with others would be littered with idiosyncrasies, aloofness, as well as incredibly intricate but nevertheless obsessive patterns.

Looking at the drapes hanging at an odd angle, there was a strange pulse of crushing despondency. The danger lay in pushing this person too far with another. This person did not know safety. And if this particular agent felt let down after being introduced to safety, after thinking they had found it for the first time, they might not realize they had not quite escaped their own ejection seat. This person went to such lengths to refine themselves for others emotional needs- it was part of their own disease, that need to feel like they were always cooperating with someone else- that there was no telling how far they might go to hide undercover, bury themselves so deep there was no looking for traces of air. Once the person thought they were in charge, it could all go south. They would assume control, and the person in apartment 406 would only yield so far before retreating into weaponry. Only the glint of a broken bone masquerading around as a perfectly fine ankle to be walked on with all your weight would be the reminder of this incident because whoever lived here would walk for miles on broken glass, too focused on any hints of hope in their mind to stop.

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Nicole says:

Like I saw the future… it’s very sad indeed.



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