Sta.sh
Paul -bemused and inexplicably mortified after the event of which he still bore the stubborn stains on his clothes- remembered that awkward, unnaturally childlike, constantly trembling and blank faced classmate of his, who had very tactlessly been nicknamed 'vomit'.
Poking ruthless fun at Vomit was everyone's guilty pleasure, but Paul was a sort of silent misfit fringe-monkey type in the school environment, and openly but not loudly objected to the common practice while keeping a safe compassionate distance. In the hidden depths of his shaky adolescent soul Paul feared that Vomit was contagious and that due to his lack of any firm membership he also lacked the immunity to fatal playground diseases. When in the 11th grade Vomit began barking at people, biting his books and tripping over himself, Paul had felt a dark raw discontent with his self – he felt his heart slow with every one of Vomit's downfalls- , but had kept to himself and watched Vomit's despair from his own alcove of self-doubt and half-illuminated dreaminess.
What are the dreams of boys? Paul was not certain he could remember. At most he could remember the words to the dreams but not the dreams per se. Some of them felt like stabs. Those he could recall almost fully. Perhaps one of them was barking at people. Maybe another one was falling from the sky into the deep wide ocean like a human bullet, no parachutes, no nothing. Or maybe a woman, harsh like hunger or meaninglessness, a faceless absolutely enveloping and devouring sea of palpitating, voluptuous flesh -not in the vulgar dehumanised sense, but in the god-awful paralyzing way of divine pleasure- searching a face and not finding one to blame- lost in a labyrinth.
But what had Vomit and these stains which acquired an ominous quality as he scrutinized them with growing panic and sudden nausea to do with all this? Vomit was surely not irrelevant at all. The disgusting pitiful stains! The disgusting pitiful HIM-Paul!
Himhimtickhimhimtickhimhimhimhimclickhihihihimmmmhimhiclick.Paul realized that the hum and buzz was not in his head. And it progressed from the infinitesimal rhythmic nuisance it began as into an ambient hoarse whisper of terrible secrets, of the world's tacit knowledge spitting him brutally in the face- suggesting mission or madness, he couldn't be sure. But as he doubled over the sink he was surely enough revisited by the possession, the abysmal exhilaration of his sky-falling stabbing dreams.
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Thanks for the fav!! Good luck!!!
