The 8 on my arm turned in my head. Chapter of despair.

The day after, I still acted like a psycho. As if I had fallen for a far-fetched, existence-threatening conspiracy and not just been considered disgusting to a woman. I babbled her words out loud and looked for the mistake. I let it all out. I cried until my own misfortune made me laugh. I laughed that I had to accept that the two of them could be together forever.
I laughed at that, even if they separated tomorrow, it didn’t mean that we both got a chance at all. In the end, I lost the laughter because I started to think it was not fair.
It wasn’t fair to think that way. Her happiness was her thing and weighing her down with mine as if she was all that was missing was emotional blackmail. I knew that. I knew that. My rational side wanted to endure stoically, but my heart is a sick bastard and my feelings are more important to him than those of all the others.
It used to be quiet at my emotional core. It wasn’t the first time some guy was preferred to me. It was only the first time that I felt for more than a short time, hurt pride and subsequent speech diarrhea. I didn’t have anything to say. What I felt now was enough of the bad words.
Further, I didn’t do anything else that day.
The second day I pretended I didn’t give a shit. Like it always didn’t matter, and I only got involved because I wanted to. Indifference was something I could rely on and fob with everyone. When the night came, I went out with the rats, scratching the remains of the sidewalk. I didn’t know her name and left before the light forced me to memorize it.
The third day I was deeply sad. I burned my cigarette into my left forearm. What I tried to accomplish with that, you might know all too well. I imagined myself feeling no pain. In fact, I was just overcome with grief. She filled me out, so I didn’t know in what angle of my brain to hide in. It was the same everywhere. Everything was an answer to the question of whether I ever wanted to see her again. The embers left a pink burn on my skin. It swelled red and over the course of one day, a brownish blister formed which rose from the pink skin. I sat there, rolling around on the bathroom floor, crying and laughing, alternating and lining up, smoking two and a half packs, 50 cigarettes that day and when I was done yelling at myself in the mirror late at night, I fell asleep on an empty stomach.
On the fourth day, the growl woke me. I went out, bought myself a sausage roll, for now, three frozen pizzas for later and six cups of pudding, half vanilla, half chocolate. The salesman, a Turk, made a funny remark at the cash desk. The disposable joke was good because I laughed about it, but I can’t remember. Something about Hitler and a pineapple that was forcefully injected into him.
At home, I was scanning the rest of my supplies. I rolled as many joints as there were left. I smoked, ate, watched TV. In the stoned state, I promised to start tomorrow to improve my life a bit.
On the fifth day, I found some leftovers. I rolled myself the last one and smoked it in the bathroom. I was lying in the shower/bathtub combination while flunking the ash into the sink. I liked the water extra hot. My body felt generally very cold and it had the advantage, that by the water vaporizing the smoke and the smell moved faster with the gas state water out the window. A friend had been caught once during the accidental inspection of a staircase. The cops smelled the marijuana coming from his flat. I smoked my last one and then it went downhill. I was sweating. Let me go, run, fall. I fell down a dark shaft and survived the impact. Laying in the dark alone for hours was worse than dying.
Bored at the bottom of the pit, I burned an 8 in my left forearm with a lighter and a needle. I got self-destructive; so indifferent when it came to myself. I burned an 8 in my arm. The point I put the needle on where yesterday’s brand was, used as the centerpiece at which both circles meet. It didn’t hurt after the first contact with the skin. It didn’t hurt. Adrenaline contaminated garbage. Why didn’t it hurt?
The top layer of skin melted. The hot needle dissolved the meat with a sizzle. The first contact hurt, then it was surprisingly painless. Not entirely, but only a fraction of how you imagine it to be. I pulled the 8. The meat stinks, the needle became black, skin cells clumped and stuck as a black paste on the top of the needle.
I pulled the needle along my skin until the eight was done and only when I held my forearm under running water, I felt the burning.”Fuuuuckkkk” I called out loud several times and then I couldn’t feel the spot anymore. The pain had overpowered my senses. But I could move my fingers too. Everything was fine. The crust that molted, I later removed like an adhesive tape. The brown and yellow crust. Again and again, I pulled it out. In some places it was easier, in others it was attached to the meat and it bled when I ripped it out. I sat down on my balcony and stared into the night sky with a pulsating left arm
On the sixth day, I bought wine. In a box. That’s all I could afford. I hid my new ornament under a hoodie. The Turk laughed when I entered the store. It was the same one who cheered me up with the joke days ago. His name was Emre. He was a good boy, though a bad cashier. I liked him. I drank with him out of the tetra pack on his break. He was talking about the girls he’d met. He talked about love and why he never felt it. I agreed with him. We exchanged numbers. At home, I continued drinking. I wrote her a letter that I burned after an hour resting on my table. After that, the days are blurred in my head.

1500x500_bg_white< Previous Chapter: No new messages
> Next Chapter: No strategy. No plans. Laying in bed, sad, until chance rings me up.


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