She looks familiar. Have I seen her before? I must have. There is a crowd of at least 100 in the room “moshing” to the beat of some immature rock band playing. “I donwannaknow I donwannaknow I donwannaknow” screams the lead singer with swollen blood vessels on his face ready to burst like a teenager’s pimples. “I donwannaknow I donwannaknow I donwannaknow” follows the crowd, swiftly rocking their heads back to front as if to nod an agreement with the singer from frustration. But I do want to know. I want to know who that brown woman with braids is in the far corner of the room. She looks puzzled, but comfortable and confident at the same time. Who is she? And why does she look so familiar? Would she know me if she saw me, I wonder. Fade up with the generously constant batter of sweaty elbows around me, I start pushing my way out of the pond of insane souls.
My trip from the middle of the room to the door took about ten minutes. My sweaty hand felt slippery as I held the door knob and turned it. Finally, I’m outside. The singing in the room sounded like a talking corpse in a coffin as I shut the door behind me. I sat on the stairs still holding my half drunk bottle of vodka. Before I knew it, I had smashed that bottle onto the ground. On a beautiful spring night, sipping in the cool scented air, a part of me was suffocating inside. It felt like somebody else was taking over. I tried picking up the shattered pieces of glass under my feet. As I picked up two pieces and sent my hand for another one, a shadow killed the sparkling lights that reflected off the sharp glass fragments. I looked up. There she was standing before me. She looked familiar, but I wasn’t expecting this. “Hi” she said with a soft disappointed voice.
“My name is not mine. I was born when I died.”
I squeezed the glass pieces in my hands. I felt them cut deep into my flesh. I dropped them with my jaw and wiped the blood on my dress. Then I saw her dress stain on the exact same spot. It was magical. She looked at me with tear filled eyes, as if to question ‘What are you doing here?’ Then she opened her hand and showed me a scar building on the exact same place I had just cut my hand. And she left. Left me in the dark with blood dripping off my hand. I replayed her words in my head.
Hi
My name is not mine. I was born when I died.
Published by May 26th, 2006 in Family and Social.
for the love of god (whichever one), please write more.
that was a beautiful read.
wow wow wow!! great peice really… betam arif…
Wow, really weird but so intersting. I wander if it was like an awakening or a warning. Writer what do u have to say?
glad you guys enjoyed it.
Fitz: i suppose it depends on the reader? one’s awakening could be a warning to another. so yeah, i think its just how it communicates to you personally. i hate restricting shyt to one narrow tunnel of meaning or whatever other word that I?m trying to think of (which by the way is not there) so yeah. that. now let me get back to my birth, or death. Whatever is waiting for me at the end of this journey. am i on a journey? i dunno. peace!
simply beautiful. i really enjoyed it! the public demands more of your writtings
very disturbing. reads like a suicidegirls.com entry (lol). i love it. yes, please do write more.
its funny that you know who suicidegirls are! lol
how could i have missed this one?????
the best creative writing to come out of bernos thus far.
doro mata, keep it comin.
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