LPfiction

Category Linkin Park

You never wash up after yourself by Rhea

You never wash up after yourself



One finger in my mouth, teeth struggle to detach one piece of nail, rip it apart. Frustration hits in, as I don’t succeed in taking a corner out of the flesh. Makes me happy to see my finger bleed… welcome the slightly sharp pain in said finger… suck at it greedily, let the blood die out. Disappear… Your shirt, black striped white shirt, lies on the floor one sleeve under the bed. Under my pillow there’s a ripped bracelet you left some nights ago. My left hand moves under the cover, lifts it up… so many of your thin curled black hair in my bed… the pillow smells of smoke and you.


It’s always the same. You come, we fuck, you go, I gather the remnants.


You go… you smile and I can't help myself, curse myself in my head and smile back. I could end this. Resist it and go back to my boring empty life. Succumb into endless hours of practice and go to sleep alone. Go back to silence. Go back to a ‘normal’ life. Take the straight path in life. Right... I always smile back.


Junkie…


You leave a trail of you on everything you touch. On me, my bed, my room, my pillow. Impregnate everything with your presence and leave me to wash up after you. Clean the wounds, stop them from bleeding, wash the sheets for they’ll stick to me, entrap me in your scent, glue themselves to me and I’ll suffocate.

You never wash up afterwards, just get up, get dressed and leave like you want to keep a stain of me, a proof that you owned this body, that this body, this mind gave itself up freely.


This is a hotel room. My hotel room. The one I share with one of our friends. You don’t seem to mind though. Leave your traces everywhere, like you want them to know, let everyone know who’s screaming your name over and over and over again in the night, on the bed, on the chair, holding on to the wall… who keeps doing this when he’s alone and without you. When he finds all the traces you left behind and gathers them up. Who keeps stuffing things into the bathtub and lets water over them, so not even the maid knows what’s on them… cold water that washes the stains of white and red from the thin fabric.


My mouth bears the taste of nicotine, but I don’t smoke. I smoke from you, from your lips. We do this sometimes. You smoke your cigarette and I lean over your lips, inhale the smoke from your lungs and exhale so you inhale it back. And the circle goes on and on till there’s no cigarette left.


But I don’t smoke …


You always leave stubs behind and I have to crawl through the room to gather them all up, let my roommate not know. Our fellow band mate cannot know. And I know you sometimes want him and the others to know. Get over with this big secret we live with for such a long time. You do all this with this exact purpose. You once put a stub in Joe’s shoe so he’d find it and question, one under his pillow as we brought the beds together once. I don’t know what made me do that that day. What made me push my bed against Joe’s to make out with you through his sheets.


I had to wash the whole damned bed afterwards. It all smelled of me and you and sex.


You keep leaving all those little clues for someone’s later detective work. I can almost see them with their little inquiring eyes peering at me telling me how this is all bad, oh so bad for the band, for us, for them, for everyone and everything. Almost…


I won’t let that happen.


There’s another reason for why I’m doing this too. Cleaning all those traces carefully, wiping them away keeps me from screaming your name constantly, from biting my nails out of my flesh, from accidentally cutting myself when I shave


… from not going crazy.


Yes, me. The quiet, boring, calm and rational one can’t hold it together. Lash out at my drums for hours trying to still all this goddamned everything you leave upon me each time. Try to erase all traces of insanity around me. The hairs, the blood stains, the scattered clothes, the images that come back constantly… Close my eyes and see all those things you do to me. All those things I do to you and we do to each other. Remember a shower, a mirror on the other side, cold tiles on my back and you and I moving into a wild rhythm. And I drown into the pornography of that mirrored image of legs tangled around your waist mixing with your white skin in the twisted pain-lust filled sensation between my legs, in the shrieking sound of my own voice screaming your name in your hair.


Remember those times we did it on the floor. “Hard” you say. “Fuck that” I say and you grin at me, put your hand between my legs and just do it right and there on the parquet floor… That night you stayed motionless over me for hours…said nothing... just lay there breathing in the crook of my neck. And I felt my knees tremble and your hand on my hip and you said, “Who would have thought? … Who? …”


And no one answered anything…


Remember the first time ... that first time this madness had started. When we shared the same room as we always did in the past, and it was dark and I had a dream and crawled up next to you cause I wanted to talk, not to remember that damned nightmare. We said nothing and I thought you were asleep… but you said suddenly you forgot to lock the door


… just that,” you forgot to lock the door” - only you didn’t get up to close it …


You took my head between your palms and kissed my forehead, then my cheek, then you kissed me on the mouth, and I’m sure I thought something rational, found you an excuse, blamed it on the late hour and not really minded… We hugged and you held me tight and then my body passed the border that had always separated us and I thought, “What am I doing? God, what am I doing?”… You moved slowly and heavy and I think I was trembling.


No. I know I was trembling.


You had your eyes closed all the time… it scared me to see you like this, your face like this, like I had never seen it before… I heard you breathing, long and soft, saw your opened mouth and even if we knew each other for years and years and had spent so many nights in each other’s presence, you just seemed like a stranger to me. Like a total stranger… I remember laying on my back, naked, totally exposed… I thought, “Do it. Do it. Oh god, do it. Just do it and let me get through this in one piece”… and I know how your hand parted my thighs, and you slipped between them and I thought this is it, this is the end and I’ll just die.


Then we slept together…


This is where it all began. When rational turned to irrational, when real turned to surreal.

It all began when I woke up early the next morning, close to your body, nose between your shoulder blades, my hand on your warm member. You were still sleeping, mouth slightly open… I looked at your sleeping face. Your long nose, strong dark brows, your dark eyelashes slightly trembling and I bent over to feel your breath. It went trough me like electricity. Saw myself for a moment like from a distance; like I stood there in the corner of that room and watched our entangled bodies and I thought, this is not real, this is a movie. This is fucked-up. All will change. And I realized that in that very second; almost saw everything that had happened since and I should have known.


Should have walked away …


Instead, I closed my eyes and forgot everything about my previous realization…


And it started. And no, nothing went the same again. Or it did. On the outside. No one knew, no one knows still, but it changed everything between us. It changed everything about our lives.


I never bit my nails before. I picked that after those first weeks. When I started to be unable to breathe in your absence. When we had to room with others cause it would have been too obvious otherwise. You didn’t care; you seemed not to care about it. Wanted everyone to know. Marked our presence everywhere. Then you did care … Sometimes you did. But you still left little marks around us. Marks of our dirty behavior.


I wince at the sudden pain in my finger. I tore a cuticle. There’s blood again.


… Once we argued, got into a fight and half beat half fucked each other ‘til the sheets were full of red stains… I couldn’t sit straight at the drums for about a week… you had a purple bruise next to your left eye, graced by a small cut, and Mike asked what happened… you just shrugged and said you hit yourself with the guitar. “Red-Ibanez-bruise” you said. And Mike laughed …


I kissed that bruise every night ‘til it healed...


That week we didn’t sleep together, we just lay there motionless breathing in each other’s hair…





… I have to get out these days. Breathe fresh air. Drum some more. Practice. Try to live a normal life. Try to not break into hysterics. That’s so far from what I used to be.


My limbs are so heavy; I stretch and get up the bed, head to the door slowly. But first… I have to clean up the remnants. Ours.


You never wash up after yourself.



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