By: Ryan Betz
Pickering College

For the Pretty Things


I struggle with the lock to open the door.  Finally, it hails to and I push it clear, limping myself in.  Behind, the heavy door closes itself, key still intact.  I hardly settle in, when an old taste slides upwards through my throat.  I put my hands in front of my mouth, trying to discourage it from going any further.  By no means of mine, I fail at this attempt.  And so I vomit, right onto the wooden floor.  The set of my mind, made nonchalant by the drink, distances my shame.  With what I have left of me, I head towards a couch in the middle of the room.  There, I fall in a hurry, and so does my mind like a fragile jewel that will eventually shatter.

I am unaware of it, but time continues.

I lie in a listless state, not sleeping; sleep could never comfort me tonight.  Ignorant of any surroundings, I remain awake.  Thoughts arise to the surface of my mind, never staying longer than a couple seconds.  Usually, they are questions; concerning the past and the current. But before answers can take form, they halt, sinking back into sub-consciousness.  They are lost.

I am lost.

No longer do I trust my judgment, as my sense of time is gone.  I find myself on a borderline, calmed by a feeling of detachment.  As illusions come to shape my flesh, truth holds onto another, not I.

A sound travels through the air; it finds me.  My eyes open and adjust to the darkness.  I come to realize I am on the floor (having fallen off the couch).  The sound continues; it’s coming from the cell placed to my side.  She is ringing me, at what moment?  I move slowly, changing to kneel.  Three more rings come to pass and then stop.  In a moment, they return.  This time I do not ignore the sound.  She will not hesitate to ring a third time.  Reaching my hand out, I pick the cell up off the cold wood.  I push ‘Talk.’

“Alice, I thought -”

“Why did you tell Mahj?”

“I meant to level with you.”

“And now she’s germinating your words…  You really are apathetic?”

“Speech from a giving sinner always seems hypocritical.  But then again, who would ever think that you were a saint?  I think I’ll keep my own sins.  And lest you forget, dissolve yours from mine.”

"I am not ignoring my actions, but neither should I ignore your malcontent -" Her voice becomes hoarse.  "I am coming over.” 

Before I can answer, she hangs up.  She has given me no consent over this affair.  Her anger justifies my treason, as our relationship will remain because of this dispute.  She manipulates those around her, although not necessarily in the nature I have coaxed her to be.  Rather, her true nature is composed of callous intentions.  She’ll provoke me; I’ll instigate her; we both want something from the other.  These kinds of relations impose a false sense of assurance, enticing us to abuse each other until either of us becomes incapacitated.  We are cruel, she more than I.

Though I feel something familiar to love, I hate him.  I loathe his hostility, yet I crave his company.  This love between us is an eternal winter that ceases to experience spring, even though the year has gone through.  It freezes our hearts, to a beauty of distorted desires, deaths and pseudo imaginations.  Although it has ended, I still yet feel it closest to others than he.

At the mentioning of his name, I am instantly nauseated; it is ill will that follows such a calling.  Even now, walking down these streets, I can hear it as if the people I pass by are whispering his name, all the while getting louder as I near our encounter.  Its uneasiness sends me to fall.  Passers-by stop to help me up.  I refuse; they rebuke me.  Finally, I end up on my two feet.  In the end, I give no thanks, I did not ask for this help.  Yet this passer-by says, "You’re welcome," leaving with a contented ego and dispute over my mannerism.  Probably, I think to myself, I have the tendency to make a person prejudiced against my well being.

I come to an intersection; the traffic lights are red in the direction I am headed.  A cigarette - I reach into my coat pocket, taking a single one from the carton, and a lighter.  Bringing it forth to my mouth, I light it up.  My breath drags in the fumes, which engulf my body in warmth, compared to the cold temperature.  The feeling, like tepid tea sliding down one’s throat, is soothing and weightless.  Smoke exits through my nose.  Our liaison is nothing greater than this.  It is a physical relationship, stringed together with a psychological addiction.  Eventually, it will burn out and we will discard of each other; but, at this time, we only dwell in our wisps of smoke.

Damn, this red light is holding long.  I browse the streets; neither direction is busy, so I start to walk across.  Regret becomes of this choice.  A speeding car advances, halts in a single motion.  Momentarily, I transcend into a plane of confusion.  It barely hits me.  The driver curses some foreign word my way.  I give mouth and a pugnacious eying back, struggling not to kick the bumper in.  Running through my brain is the thought: Idiots speeding will end themselves with a fatal accident.  Put off, I walk on with my catch of wind stolen from me.

I take a drag again, but deeper.  There was a time I did not hate him.  A time when I felt the first stringing of love, but the vibrations of the sound loosen over use, making it essential to string harder to get that same envious note.  Eventually, the effort became inert and our emotions out of tune.

When I approach the outside of his apartment building, I pause.  Something has moved inside. It pushes into my gut.  This bravado has fled; no longer do I wish to confront him.  I stand lost in time, yet the people around me move neither slower nor faster.  I continue walking.  He can wait.

The cigarette expires; I drop it and crush it beneath classic high heels.

I lie sprawled out on the floor of the bathroom.  I pop the lid and swallow the pills; I cross the verge of choice.

I desire to fall from within given to my own void, as to give a moment where I could slip through your grasp, to relinquish you of your doting and me of my doubting.

This baneful infatuation seeps into my veins, soothing my heart, halting its pulse.  My thoughts taint to a destructive demeanour devouring that little voice of warning.  I’ve become distraught.  My composure is broken, the result of craving a falsehood that I need not.  Yet the desire stirs a rage in me, knowing that it means I am to suffer a pernicious pleasure.  These emotions create an estranging bond to him that I mistake for pure.  In contrast, my reason revolts in the moments afterwards.  Roused in its repugnance, it tries to conceive of the vice that composed these emotions.  It fails to comprehend how I could care for a corrupted character.

I shift phases; my reason delivers me unto a livid mood.  Contempt consumes the clemency that I held before him, conducting my feelings to constrain my circulation.  My blood clots and flowing into my heart, they, my feelings, rupture it from within.

A melancholic smile appears on my face, as I lose energy in this anger and stray to sorrow.

My thoughts begin to disperse escaping from my mind one after another.  I cannot hold on to them.  In the end, I find myself only able to grasp one.
If I loved you, I told you, but you’ll never hear it again.
It flees.


You’ll Never Hear It Again

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