Big Dump

Spur of the Moment 4

I know what others think, but I’m afraid of Jonny.
He sits there at night playing his music – his haunting music, while I’m reading something in the corner, and suddenly I find him staring at me. Not the friendly-winky stare, but a possessed, somewhat wicked stare. His jaw is taut and his eyes are glassy, and God knows what’s happening in his head, in his strange head. His piano cords still sound in my ears and I’m just tempted to climb upstairs in bury myself in the computer or, perhaps, turn the telli on and watch some funny programme. But his stare affects me like a most chilling nightmare – I’m afraid to move and even move my gaze from the page, scared by what might happen. He might snap at me or something. So I sit there, pretending not to notice.

He embraces me too tightly, sometimes, ‘till my ribs crack. Once in a while at night, when we are in bed, he pulls me to him, wrapping a hand around my belly, and he kisses my shoulders and neck for hours, it seems. He bites my skin and runs his lips over it, long enough to blister. If I try to loosen up the embrace he pulls me harder against him. I imagine his teeth are as sharp as razors and, again, I’m completely thrilled. He breaks my skin sometimes, not often, but still. He does it wordlessly, and when I try to turn around and reciprocate – he holds me in place. So I lie there while he devours me alive, and I imagine his oily eyes glistening in the dark.

When we are in public an evening can’t pass without him claiming me as his own somehow – having his arm around me, or sliding his fingers through my hair, or embracing my waist casually. He doesn’t say much, but he laughs, and when he kisses me – at times, I feel the desperate and scary something what’s going on between us. When I feel the skin of his damp back beneath my palms I imagine we are changing form, fusing together as boneless dough, and then, perhaps, disappearing. I wonder if he holds me so tightly because he wants to slowly diffuse into me. I wonder what’s going on in his strange head.

In the sick love we share it seems that Jonny holds the knowledge of what’s going to be next. Perhaps I’ll fall into pieces and he’ll reassemble me again, inch by inch. Perhaps he’ll take me away somewhere where we’ll busy ourselves pulling eternity out of each other. Perhaps he’ll make us disappear.