gordon brandon

Sojourn

Typing the first word is hell, so I turn off the computer and lay down to caress the cat. She's a weird cat. It´s impossible to approach her if I´m standing up. However, when I'm in bed I even get to kiss her belly. If I move, she´ll go away, so I caress the cat and think. Overthinking makes me remember the pain of what happened ages ago, but I believe I can now recognize a stabber really well.

Everyone is a stabber.

“Come on,” I tell myself, “not everyone´s the same.” That makes me feel brave enough to put myself out there again, and I share I like writing.

“Cool,” he says. I check him out and decide to give him a chance. He won´t ever read a single word I write, but I believe he´s a nice person. It feels good to put myself out there. My body enjoys it, and everyone around me enjoys witnessing it.

“See? I bet it feels good to be out there,” they say.

We start hanging in my apartment. He soon criticizes the crazy cat, and I make a joke in order to pretend it did not upset me. It starts getting a bit messy out there, and I remember how I enjoy being by myself with the perfectly fine cat. Also, I'm no one´s maid, but I really enjoy the way he takes me in his arms. The apartment also gets dirty when it´s empty.

I walk toward him with outstretched arms. Our eyes meet, but his remain crossed. No one is perfect, so I get his hands and make him hug me. As I feel his body against mine, something hurts: there's a knife in my chest, and I can´t hug no more.

“Don't touch me, I'm tired!” He has to go because I have to work and see a doctor because this headache is killing me. I lay down with the cat. Her paws are close to my nose, and I remember I like her funny smell. Sometimes it´s really bad, but most of the times it´s funny, but I like it. I remember I also like writing.

I kiss the cat on the belly and turn on the computer. I believe somethings are worth reading, and if I had some guidance, there would be more. I start typing, but my fingers miss touching his. I focus and struggle and write a couple of sentences. I suppose I´ve never written a single thing worth reading in my entire life and burst into tears. The cat gets scared and runs away, and then I cry harder for not having the cat, neither his hug, nor my writing. Maybe I just believe I like writing. Many nights I dream I´m flying, with actual wings above tall trees. I wake up and am aware I can't fly, but I really like flying.

He calls in worried; it´s only been a couple of days but he already misses my shower and my body. He asks me how I am, but I don´t get a chance to answer. He does it on my behalf (“the problem is that you think too much”) and tries to get me out of my clothes. I push him away and the knife in my chest goes a bit deeper. He grabs my right arm and puts it around his body, so I use my left hand to remove the knife from my chest. He tries to get me out of my clothes again, even with all the blood and tears, and I cut him deep. I was planning to just let go, but then he insisted, and I had to stab him.

He´s dead, and I feel quite okay.

It´ll be a while before I clean the apartment again. The cat´s still hiding, and I enjoy the silence. My hands miss typing. They like to pretend they're playing the piano as they type. I don't know how to play the piano, but it feels really nice. It´s nice to stay inside. People are out there, and someday I´ll write something so nice that I´ll find someone to read me.

I then think I'm not just different, but special. I write on. I tell my friends “I´m sorry I can't make it, but next time count me in.” I count the words that I write. If I had some guidance there would be more, and maybe even some worth reading. I really like writing, but I turn off the computer. My hands miss his, but they caress the cat that decided to show up, and then I blow my nose. I´ve never really liked my nose, but I´ve always liked cats.

A shower helps me to calm down, and my body enjoys it. I go to bed determined that tomorrow I'll work hard on my writing. That makes me feel good, but my brain doesn´t sleep. I think too much, especially when I have to write, because once you start you´re good to go, but typing the first word is hell.