Author S. K. Nicholas

I’m sat in a cafe where creation and banality are born in equal measure. The streets are busy, and all the pale sex machines walk by without even looking. Push up bras and black stockings. Empty heads and muscle machines. Suits and designer stubble, all of them swirling arm in arm like turds down a toilet. Holding my head in my hands, the hangover doesn’t get any better. Nauseating like childbirth with subtle tones of heartbreak, sunlight washes over me and picks away at my shame. I have no blood in my veins, only dust. Going to the bathroom, I immediately puke. When I’m done, I masturbate thinking of Mollie’s breasts. Holy shit, how I remember those sweet, pert breasts. Picturing her areola’s, I imagine chewing them before nailing her to death. When it’s over, the air in my lungs has almost returned. Feeling slightly alive, I apologise to Molly for such unspeakable acts then sit down at the table again. The tea is cold, so I order another, only I’m not thirsty, so I go outside and have a cigarette. A young girl scowls at me, and I’m afraid she doesn’t like my haircut. It’s the best I can do, though, so I turn my back on her and stare at some trash cans instead. People ignore each other and cling to the idea that they are not that way inclined. All those fears and doubts, screaming to be found in a world that’s blinded by a sense of self-worth. On the subway, I can’t breathe. Smothered by the damned, there’s no hope left, only then it’s my stop, and I escape just in time. Sweat trickling down my face, it drops from the tip of my nose to the asphalt beneath my feet. A dog barks at me before its owner pulls it back in disgust. Clenching my hands together until my fingernails draw blood, palpitations bring me to my knees. The horrors of a Wednesday afternoon, so superfluous yet as real as anything else. Not even Mollie’s body can save me this time. Clinging so cheaply to the idea of disappearing into her womb, a car crashes into a phone booth causing an old man to fall into the gutter. One minute it’s raining, the next it’s sunny. One minute you’re twenty, the next, thirty. And to think of all that sperm I’ve wasted. All those dead children that have met such undignified ends. With the sky turning sepia above my head, the distant glow of ages comes and blinds me with yet more perversion.