Author S. K. Nicholas

x and i: a novel

a journal for damned lovers vol 1-3

Dead Air

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Parked by the side of the road, flesh slides from my bones as a cigarette is lit. It burns and shines in the rearview mirror, and despite it being such a dirty habit, it looks so pretty in the dark of this lonesome hour. In my mouth, there are voices that don’t belong to me, and on the back of my hand, a stress rash that reminds me of how ill I am. Pressing my belly button, the area feels tender, and so I conclude it’s cancer. Then my throat hurts, so it must be that the cancer is spreading. This is followed by a headache, which means it’s in my brain, and that I’ve only got a matter of weeks until it’s all over. How dreadful. Breathing in dead air as some brunette pouts her lips while admiring her reflection in the window of a chemist, I grab my balls and imagine what it would be like to kiss her after seeing her swallow my seed. On her knees, she’ll take what I’ve got, and then she’ll shower while singing a song that reminds her of being a child. In bars and clubs, the insects dance until they’re either too drunk or too tired to carry on. Momentary release while wagging tales for the benefit of others; it’s got me laid a few times, but it’s so empty it lost its appeal years ago. Prising off fingernails to the delicate sound of rain, absence helps to ease my woes, and the sight of all those trees is calming for the soul. Each and every streetlight is an angel, and as they float in the darkness, they make me feel less afraid of what lies beyond. A bus journey while hungover and on the verge of death, followed by a trawl through a supermarket unable to string together simple sentences. Carrying plastic bags up several flights of stairs, I urinate through someone’s letterbox before placing my mouth upon her breast. With her eyes wide open while facing the ceiling, my fingers glide through her hair and come to rest at the base of her skull. Crying as she remembers what he did to her, I build us a boat and together we float downstream until all that’s left is the scent of burnt paper and pine needles.

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