The Girl that Time Forgot


  The room was a smorgasbord of his time on earth, filled seemingly with carefully selected samples – relics, even – of his twenty three years of existence. The Girl walked slowly, as if she were treading through a delicately crafted museum piece, making sure not to touch the various exhibits. Unframed photos were tacked haphazardly to the drywall, showcasing the various figures that peopled his life – supporting actors, if you will, to his lead role.
  Before continuing on the tour, – the Freddie McPhearson experience, if you will – she quickly walked to the bedroom door and peered inside. He was still in bed, sleeping soundlessly. Every movement verged on imperceptible, so much so that for a second The Girl thought perhaps he had died. She waited, irrational fear creeping slowly upon her, letting her think that somehow she had done it, even though she was sure her unique talents didn’t extend to fucking someone to death. Sure enough he rolled onto his side after a minute, and – relieved – she went back to the study.
   The desk failed to provide back-story to the man she had kept company for the evening. A pair of expensive headphones sat in the centre of the workspace, their innards spewing forth from one ear, the tools of their dismemberment still tangled up in their guts. A dark and modest monitor sat behind this work, the tower to which it ran nowhere in immediate sight.
  There was a banality to it all, she thought, devoid of the purpose that pumped through every facet of her own reality. Compared to her own sense of direction this boy was veritably lost. She envied him. This whole night had been about losing herself a little. Coming back down. She slipped her hand into the pocket of her cardigan and fingered the timepiece that sat comfortably in there, contemplating her mission. Her choices. If she stopped and listened very intently, she could hear it’s soft and repetitious tick, therapeutic and terrifying at once. 
  She pulled open a drawer, her inquisitive nature bordering now on impolite. Inside there were two notebooks, both with grey and tatty labels unsticking themselves slowly from the covers. One was titled Lies, the other, Truth. She opened the former and recognized it all, every word. Her heart sank. She dared not open the latter. A little choked, she looked around at his apartment, wishing to exact vengeance on something but finding nothing suitable. Instead she decided to sit on the floor, between a stack of books and a playstation, and cry a little. She patted down the frumpy frills of her skirt and wondered where the evening had gone wrong.


~ by Joseph Blame on July 8, 2010.

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