In between three unknown cups of coffee of a brand that should be forbidden, especially and definitely when poured into a midnight of any day of the week he changed his tone and pace of speaking. “Can I ask you something?” Our hearts skipped a beat, it felt as if we had been driving through France forrests for six hours, and he decided to change gears to splash through water.
“What’s with the scars on your arm?” He said he noticed them earlier, but felt uncomfortable, not sure if the feeling was supposed to cleave to me or to him. I felt grateful. This is what children do, I thought, I like it. They blurt. But then he wrapped it in a little adult paper signed by ‘postpone your gratification for curiosity and save any face’. Should we get out of the car and talk about this? Shall we just stay here and never go home again? Thank you for your honesty, I said, there are but few people who ask. Looking at my arm it was like I glanced at something that is a part of me and also isn’t. Not a dead limb that forgot to fall off, but also not my body that I would sign the release form for, claiming it’s mine. It felt home and alien at the same time, the same way you can move house, but always leave the memories at the door. They just don’t fit. How many blackout addresses have I left already? Why are my memories in the visibility of my skin coming alive when someone looks at them, calling them to life again. Can’t the dead bury their own dead? This is the reason I don’t attend school reunions. I suddenly got an image of me sitting in the addict at my parents’ place, flipping through some old report cards. It’s attic, someone said. You were never bound to that place, you moved.
Did I just meet my twin? Even his pretend-anger resembles mine. His inability slash unwillingness to trust or be lead. His openness. His accent. When he talks, I feel pain oozing out from his heart. It’s almost palpable, I notice how my breathing reacts to the change in air pressure. These drops of hurt force their way out of him. Blob.. Am I the only one hearing this? Blob.. blob.. I wanted to ask: ‘Who is it that hurt you so much?’ Instead, I said nothing and answered him asking me the same, when he looked at my scars.
Ah yea, this is the marriage that I forgot to divorce, don’t mind the husband of the past taggin along on this ride, sorry, if you don’t mention him, he will never bother us, nor take your seat. He is the one who scarred me, but I am not defined -bound- by the products that are left behind while awake. What can I tell this person in my car, this was unncessary violence, or me doing a really bad job at life? Can I call it skin marks of the surface of my book of life, dog-eared, so you will, because sheep-eared don’t make you think of the same? Others leave ink on paper, I left blood on skin. I am not damaged, just folded, stuck in between two papers that are glued tight. I can tell him all about me, but he will end up right there where I take him: knowing about me. He will not find me there, tho. I am not present in the story of my life. That’s just the book I wrote for him, or I saw myself forced to write, taking him on a tour to an annihilation camp, where at the end of the barrak he finds himself abandoned, changed forever. Talking to him is like a ctrl-alt-del of the present, I am not sure if I even want to be in that car. Even his addiction resembles mine.
It’s attic, the voice said again.