My Weird Short Stories
I also write short stories, believe it or not!
If you’re interested, go ahead and have a read!
When I first met him, he didn’t smell of airport, Mediterranean summer and Christmas. I didn’t think his body language spoke of someone who was highly educated, from a financially privileged and genetically exotic background. I just thought he was The Next Man, minus a tinge of suspicion that he seemed different from the rest in a way I couldn’t immediately identify.
I had my black and red four-inch rubber soled swear boots up on a chair in front of me in a cyberpunk bar in Islington. I was new to being 17 and didn’t really know how to sit with the idea. I was sitting on my own, breezer in left hand, dirty £10 note still in the other, mentally waving goodbye to 16 and physically repeating an intense squeeze and release motion on the plastic breezer bottle. Desperately, I tried to Look The Part and make hopefully make friends in doing so.
A girl next to me split the Mai Tai she bought seconds ago from the bar all down her fluorescent pink bustier in an amphetamine twitch and was laughing hysterically with her two equally unattractive, similarly dressed girlfriends.
It had congealed in her stubby mint green and bubblegum pink dreadlocks and was dripping onto the floor where it formed a cool pool of translucent pink in front of the rocket pod we were sharing as a seat. I looked down at it, in that silent, generic way in which people look at spilled drinks.
I looked up and met her disapproving face. I was wrong to note her accident. I looked away, in similar fashion to an out-stared cat.
I was bored and unengaged so I took the opportunity to seep into an abyss and as I fell deeper and deeper, their laughter became increasingly distant.
“Could you just shut the fuck up please? Her hair is so uber, and if you stranglehold her anymore, she’s not going to want to hang with us anymore”.
The door on the left hit my shoulder and ankle as it came crashing open, propelled by an obvious fit of rage.
As the girl waltzed straight over to the bar I frowned at her while rubbing my damaged goods intermediately.
Regardless of the overwhelming amount of traffic the bar was experiencing, her request for a double Jagermeister was swiftly met. She knocked it back and it quickly took up gastrointestinal residence with an hour old methamphetamine cocktail.
She seemed to have some kind of rapport with the two fluffy bunnies behind the bar.
For the few moments she was waiting to be served, her hair caught my attention as it glistened in the eerie tungsten glow of the dim bunker military emergency lights way above the bar area. It was silver and blood red like surgical steel and dripping raw gore.
She took her drinks, turned on a pivot and caught my curious gaze.
She almost literally growled at me.
“Ouch, sorry about that”, came in from the left. His words were far away and failed to register at first. Something along the lines of empathy for the knockings I just took, cause and effect whatnot.
He repeated his sentence, give or take a few words and a few rises in octave.
“Sorry, we hit you by accident. Are you ok?” I blinked hard and broke from her powerful scornful stare and turned to meet the face that spoke the cliché.
He pouted and raised one perfect chestnut brown Asian eyebrow ever so slightly. Suddenly, I had no idea what I was doing, what I thought or what I said or even felt, so I must have been in genuine shock. I had entered a slow-motion final cut edit. My arm was broken.
I didn’t think it was such a good idea running straight to casualty dressed the way we were. Accident and Emergency smelt of the transiently unfortunate, and now I was contributing to the fragrance.
We fervently avoided the horrific stares of the charred pigs in Nike and Reebok chic that were sporadically wheeled in and out passed us. Neither of us looked at them, but we knew they were there and every time one would happen to be wheeled past, we’d immediately break our conversation and look away as they were wheeled past, their stares boring into our cheek flesh.
All the strip lights flickered tungsten and the waiting area smelt of brown, Dettol and despair. Piped groans and screams reverberated down the most unlikely of areas around us.
It was the very same day Waipa entered the dictionary and Louis Brown scored two goals for England at the World Cup. We knew it; we saw it happen. We saw it live at 2am on the TV in the waiting room.
I lied, I said that I didn’t remember the first time we met, but the fact is I remember it at ‘The Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind’ level.