Author S. K. Nicholas

Crumpled pieces of paper with your name written on them and sketches of your half-smile that fill up several notepads I keep under my bed in a suitcase. Don’t get any ideas about reading them, there’s a lock on the thing, and the key is well hidden, much like my feelings regarding you in general. There’s a can of beer in my hand and the image of a Mexican thief having his arms and legs broken with a metal pole. As the beer slides down my throat, the thief’s skull is crushed with a rock and the crowd that surround him wail and cheer like the dogs they are, and dogs we all are, whether you like it or not. Transfixed by the blood pouring from his wounds, I take a leak and whisper your name as my legs almost buckle beneath me. Spilling piss over the floor, I wipe it up with some tissue and watch my next-door neighbour through the open window. He’s trying to dig out the stump of a tree while smoking a cigarette. He’s not having much luck, but the worst thing is that he’s wearing flip flops. Flip flops! If I had my way, every fucker caught wearing them, or sandals for that matter, would be shot. No questions asked. No regrets. Humans are bad enough as it is without them showing off their manky feet for everyone to see. Although it has to be said, a nice pair of feet on a good-looking woman never did any harm. In fact, there were times when such a sight drove me into a frenzy. I remember on several occasions when me and X were fucking and I couldn’t help but grab her tootsies as they kicked my arse. She resisted the best she could, and yet my fingers kept seeking out her little piggies because it turned me on and made things that more interesting. A creep for sure, but we are what we are. The old boy outside sits himself down on a wall and sucks on his cancer-stick while I close my eyes and picture her body. Squeezing them tight, I breathe her in and travel through time. Choking on her scent, there are visions of mountains and giraffes running through parking lots and cheerleaders gyrating on the decks of The Titanic as it slowly sinks into oblivion. And there’s a memory of her crying into my arms while asking me at what point in life things get better. I think my response was a lie. But it was a good lie, y’know?

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com