Kid Against The World: Three

Chapter Three

And now is as good a time to say that my life is beyond ‘nice’ or pleasant. I live in a horrible apartment with my mother, who I know is trying her best to support us in all the ways she can. And I don’t judge her for what she does. The world is a mess up a place, nothing is ever right, so I don’t expect our family to be an exception from all the mess up tings the world lays on the human race.

And to whoever have the indecency of hurting my mother, my first country, my home, my life, I will break them. I will kill them. I will torment them. I would not think twice. I will eat the person’s soul who dares to hurt my mother.

I wake up at eleven thirty six at night. I can hear my mother in the next room banging her bed with the company she brought back, a customer perhaps, my mother never brings a guy home because she loves their company, my mother loves no man. She acts like she do, but she doesn’t and that’s why these guys keep coming back for her service. She make it seem Heaven is a place between her legs.

It seems her shift ended early tonight.

I can’t stop hearing her moans and the thought of what this man is doing to her. I want to kill them, the men who goes to my mother, but we need their money to eat. And I need to eat, my mother needs to eat. I can’t judge her.

Nobody should judge her, and if they do, I will piss on their dead bodies that I personally put to sleep.

I get it, you can say a lot about my mother, about how she is a wreck and what a horrible parent she is, but they can never know, the trouble and pain she goes through a day. The amount of horse dung she has to endure, you’d be surprised and be inspired how strong she is. An average person would drown in five seconds wearing her shoes, being in her skin is no walk in a park.

I walk pass her door. Still the noises bugs me, with his screams, her moaning, and the bed rocking, it’s disgusting and foul. “Oh God, Lievre. You’re so good. Don’t stop. Don’t stop for God’s sake. Keep going. Oh God! God!”

Every person believes in God right before an orgasm is about to burst out, right before the load releases itself.

I walk out the house, I turn to close the door behind me and still, I can hear the man chanting to God like he is a priest molesting a child on a rainy Sunday evening. I want to rip out his voice-box and shove it to his behind.

I lit a cigarette, riffle with my lighter and then the voices behind me become but barely a blur and hushed static noises of nothingness because the most stunning looking girl in this rubble blitz of trash call Block F is sitting before me, still wearing the same clothes the afternoon we talked.

“You look fit for somebody who smokes all day,” she says this and I realize that I am half naked, only wearing my ripped jeans and sock.

“Smoking is a good exercise routine,” I say trying to be cynical and at the same showcase my intelligent sense of humour, which I have none. She bursts out laughing and I stare her like a crow. Even her teeth were white and shining. She must have brushed them daily.

“So,” she says this as she gets up from her side and walks to my side, and then drops herself, sitting next to me with all smiles and lovey doves in her eyes that it makes me want to pluck out my heart with my fist and present it to her as a gratification act to show I am so deeply infatuated. “Let’s exercise together.”

Exercise to death is what this smoking routine will get to us. To death and beyond.

I take a drag so hard and long, I can hear my lungs cursing at me, giving me the finger, and then I place it between Sybilla’s fingers, her index and middle finger. “Cool,” she says and then place it between her orifices. With both hands free, she pushes back her hair to clear her face, while still smoking the damn stick of decease. With her hair pushed back, I can see her face is bruised up, it looks like somebody slapped the glow out of her. It wasn’t there when we talked in the afternoon after I got back from the movies. Her left cheek have the same colour the outer spaces had in science text books.

“What happened?” I intrude, not caring if it is way too abrasive. 

She knows what I am talking about. Obviously, she knows.

She thinks about it, if I should be acquainted with the cause of the bruise, if it is appropriate for someone like me to know something that is clearly a personal matter. I wonder about her injury, and I think of myself, how self-absorb tis I am: if somebody hurt me like this would I want them to let me know? How would I go about in answering this dumb question I have presented to her? Oh, you know somebody hit me. Would that be suffice? Do you want a clear detail? This person, who hit me, used his right back hand and slap me so hard it was like a shotgun shot to the stomach. It was so hard, upon impact, I can see through the future and how pure cow faeces it all is. Is that good enough for you? No, it’s not good enough. It’s never good enough because it wasn’t me who felt the hit, it was her.

I look at her and how her hands were shaky like she is playing air keyboard, the way her ear twitches in tremble, and the way she bites her lower lip in deep concentration, preparing to let the words come out and answer this dumb question I gave to her and as I regard this beauty in front of me, the star inside me explodes becoming a supernova of stardust and within instance a black hole formed. Instead of sucking in everything, this is a negative black hole, it spits out stardust and all the sorts that creates the universe, I want so bad to melt by her side and embed myself unto her skin.

“Some people are sick and wrong, and those people aren’t right. You can’t say you love somebody when there is more crying than smiling,” she left it just at that for me to unscramble the words, but there’s no point. I know why the reason she answered so cryptically, because it’s hard to say it as it is.

She slightly opens her mouth, just enough for me to feel her breath that is warmer than the South-Eastern Asian air and then rain starts to fall down as she say to me, “A lot of young people have to only worry about impressing each other, homework, and acne, while kids like us have to worry that and how to get food the next day,” she passes me the cigarette, I don’t smoke it just yet, I want to hear what she has to say till she is finish, it seems important or at least significant. “I’m just exaggerating, I know. I know. Well me? I have to worry about not getting myself hurt, but I always do. It sucks getting hurt especially to a certain kind of people.”

I think a girl like Sybilla have seen a lot of pain and endure it personally. I think if you don’t know the feeling, then you have no right to talk about it, all you have to do is listen to the other person. So, I shush myself and pay attention.

“Hey,” she says this as if she is about to change the topic. “Do you believe in God?”

“I don’t know,” I say timidly, sounding so frail and weak like the politicians in this country. “I want to believe, I guess, I just don’t see the whole point in believing. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing to believe either. People can go believe a God if they want to. It’s none of my business. How about you?”

Truth is I cannot believe in a God who demands me to be a slave, and condemns me to a burning hell if I break this chain of slavery, and instead be my own person.

“Me? I think we’re the same. I mean I want to believe in a God,” she says this as she took the burning cigarette from my hand, which I haven’t smoked yet after she passed it to me, and then takes a long drag. “I can’t afford to believe in a God.”

She looks empty when she finishes.

It’s sad actually. That as a living being, we are so full of things inside us. We have a pair of lungs, a brain, a beating heart, and an infinite abundance amount of cells coursing through our body, forming our organs and yet, even with all that fullness, humans are still empty. She is empty. I am still empty.

She tells me about her beliefs and how religion is expensive for her. She is very smart, smarter than me clearly and most of the people in school. She tells me that her life can’t be saved simply by believing and praying to God. Pray, and pray and pray she did once when she was innocent and younger, when she was fresh and pure, untouched by the world. Bu that changed quickly, she tells me this like a hurricane hits a barn, like in the movies. As she says this, she takes drags of my cigarette almost finishing it, inhaling it as she is.

I take it away from her hand, “Don’t burn yourself,” I say.

Like everything in this world, we are slowly decomposing. We will become nothing; this is what I used to think. However Batman once said, nothing ever disappears, they just transform into something else. I guess we are decomposing into dungs and faeces. That’s close to nothing, maybe. Perhaps I’m wrong.

“Don’t you just hate it when teachers ask you where do you see yourselves in five years time?”

“Yeah, kind of,” I reply to her sudden statement.

I wrap my beating pulsating heart with my veins.

I think how the universe came up with a beauty like Sybilla.

The first rule of the universe is that it doesn’t make sense.

“I mean what do you want us kids to answer? We don’t know where we are going to be in five years time. We probably be dead in a ditch or working, that’s the only answer. It’s frustrating.”

She is a freaking flower, with petals and all that sort to comprise a flower, while I am just a freaking weed. A weed! A pest, a nuisance. She is a flower that bloomed in a dark room.

“Yeah,” I say in this stupid obligatory tone of voice.

I turn to see her lips, she is licking them, tasting the blood that is coming out. Her upper lip has a cut, I want so bad to kiss her. But she is she, and I is me, and I am trash, so she won’t let me have the pleasure of that sensation.

Less becomes more, warm is too levy. The way she is hurting is alright. It’s alright. She throws me off to the far away end of the galaxy’s edges and let me drown alone, suffocating to my imploding bursting death.

Please think about me. Please take me away to your pain and hate me so I can punch them to oblivion. Hate the words that I say, NO! Love them, love me. Be infatuated as much as I am to you.

“Let’s go somewhere. Just anywhere right now, do you have a ride? A car? A motorcycle? Anything. I just really want to go,” she burst out demanding.

Her voice isn’t the sound of an angel singing when she said that, it was like a roaring dragon from high above a mountain who set any to those, who dare tick her off on fire.

The human mind is by itself its own world, in this world, there is heaven and hell, angels and demons, and we are the Gods.

“Okay, but wait. Let me check if my mom has her keys with her,” I reply after few seconds or so. It was only seconds but it felt like a millennia ago.

“Okay, I’ll wait here. You go on inside, I’ll be here. But uh, give me a smoke first,” I give her my last cigarette, I was hoping to save this, but this is her, so I didn’t think twice. I lit it and then open the door behind us.

In my house, my mother and this man, I know this man, he is a regular here and they are sitting on the couch doing drugs on the sad excuse of a coffee table, “Hey Kid,” this skinny man name Pabil says to me, trying to strike up a conversation and the first thing I see are not these two, but the man’s car keys on the floor next to his pants.

“Hey Pabil,” I return the greeting. I turn to my mom who is half baked already, being possess by the narcotics. “Mom, I’m going out.”

She nods, barely listening.

“You going out, Kid?” Pabil taking his wallet out from his pants, his car keys remains on our dirty carpet-less floor, he takes out some money from his wallet and then hands them to me, he is still sitting though, so I have to go to him. “Here, have some money. Go have fun. Be wild,” and then he laughs till he knocks himself out.

I take his keys immediately from the floor and then head to my room to put on a t shirt and my boots on. Once I find myself prepared, I head out, leaving these two ‘adults’ to their slumber.

As I got out, I can see her nipples prickle on the fabric, and notice she already puts on her sneakers.

She stands there waiting for me, her left hand on her hip, with a lit smoke between her edges as the incisions of galaxies forming the outer space are swinging forlornly in her digits and I swear I can’t breathe, I am barely balancing myself as I gaze upon this vision scorching the ruins of my wildest imagination.

Painful and slow.

“I was kind of hoping you could rip my clothes off me, sport,” she says this sarcastically because she discerns that I am staring very perversely.

One day you are seventeen and you stumble upon someone you can’t seem to stop mesmerize about, you’re going to think rainbows shoots out from this person’s butthole.

If she enters my soul she will find that nothing is in there. She will be confused and frustrated. I will not be happy. “Why is there nothing?” she would ask.

“Because I am not real. There is nothing in this box I call my soul because I am negative, I am not a real person.”

“Will it always be empty?”

“Yes. Probably because I am an illusion.”

She will feel lost at this point of the tour in my soul.

“Is there anything I can do to fill in this room?”

“Kiss me, show me your skin, and let me have my way with your body.”

“No,” she would say.

I will feel angry and start screaming, and she will feel guilty. My soul, this room still remains blank.

“Sorry,” I walk closer to her. “Are you ready? I got the keys for a car.”

“A car?”

“Yeah.”

“Your mom’s car? Or your own car?”

I want to lie, but what’s the point to it anyway, “No, some other guy’s car.”

“Cool,” she smiles.