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i never lose, the dealers get cerebral hemorrhages. call me god if you want, i will flip it over and become a dog.
Aren’t You Happy That You Were Born?

yuqolilos:

Mind is pretty blank right now. Rue and I have been sitting in her bedroom since yesterday afternoon. She won’t move from her window. How nice of an autumn. Foliage dances with each other in circles. Little boys in warm coloured jumper cycles. She has been refusing meals all at once. Oh, don’t ask me why didn’t I persuade her or bring her food or make her some milk with honey or rooibos tea to calm her. Because I can’t. I am her hair. I’m her mere shoulder length frizzy auburn hair which tangles here and there. I can only try to comfort her by stroking her cheeks when the wind whispered begging me to dance.

Aren’t you happy that you were born? It is intriguing how that question is very easy of everyone to articulate. In front of the classroom, an English teacher asked while talking about a literary work I didn’t remember. In this bedroom, a friend tried to comfort Rue. With sugar coated, rose colour spectacled, flowery nonsenses. On the way home at those pavements this guy and Rue used to sit and drink cans of cola. Where his fingers would greet me in delight and swayed with me. Across the dining table while her mother lit a cigarette after bowls of bruine bonen soup. And it was only yesterday, we encountered those words again. ‘Aren’t you happy that you were born?’ bullshit. Sitting on its throne, seen by everyone, cheered by most; a billboard of some cheap bubble-gum pop music gig. It pisses me off.

“I would like immortality, I guess.” She mumbles under her breath as if I was yelling what I was thinking into her ears.

“I would like immortality. If I were to talk to my English teacher about my writings without having her wife interrupting us. Without going to their house and meet her, no, not after that one time they invited me to go fishing. Where he was waiting for a strike and I was to help her fix other things—oh dear lord what is this. She started to touch me here and there, tried to kiss me, and saying things that made me wanted to vomit. I was 13. Is there anything I could do about that now? Has already been 8 years, they live in content with their 5 years old daughter. Or should I tell him? And see if he would still be happy that he was born, that she was born, would still be happy that his daughter was born.

It is very easy for you my friend to say it. I’d say you didn’t understand anything about suffering—what is wrong with me, help me. What did you understand about getting dirty look everywhere you go with no reason? You have friends here and there. The beautiful, the rich, the popular with skin smooth and molars blink like street lights. The people that call me names. Life goes easy on you, you get everything you want and need. I know your father left your mother and live with her new family. But, at least you know where he is, you went out for movies or dinners quite often with him, he supports you. Aren’t you happy that you were born you asked me. Look at me. Be as undesirable, invincible, and unstable as I am. Be an outcast of society, have your father not know that you exist and live with a mother that is a mess. Oh, and your brother put a firecracker inside my dog’s mouth. Would you be happy that you were born?

That moment might be. For once I was happy that I was born. When you walk me home every afternoon, very naïve of me to think that y— Oh, to hell with him and his actual girlfriend. It still gets in my hair the way his fingers used to, that I was an affair. I’m not as mad about it now, but as if! He was even eating out of my money!

And mum, how dare she said that to me. I wasn’t born because I wanted to be born. If only I could choose, but instead, out of everyone I have this mess of a person to mother after me. How could I be happy that I was born? I was born because these two explosions of hormones cannot control themselves! Out of their minds, ‘we were crazy for each other’ bullshit! Unable to support a living being, any living being. How clumsy, crazy for each other now where is he, mother? Out there with some other woman, right? Hand in hand, celebrating their daughter’s graduation? Who’d know? Well, they deserve that sweet and fuzzy kind of life that you don’t. Since you’re a coward, an idiot. Why was it so hard for you to come up to him and said that you carry his baby? You can’t do that, can you? That was three months after your break up and he was already with his other prey, that was what you said. Prey. Don’t be silly, if you were not so stupid, there are huge chances you won’t be living this miserable kind of life. You could have gotten your degree and then it would be much easier for you to get a decent job. Could still be hand in hand with the love of your life—which wasn’t me. Could have had a full family dinner with proper meal you said you’d cook if life was not so miserable. You deserve these mess of a life. But I don’t. Damn right I should be more grateful of what we have mother, then we could be happy of the life we have. It was in fact easy to say. Those lips only move to justify everything you’ve done. Those ears of yours never were mine. I’m your own flesh and blood but you don’t know me. You don’t deserve me.” She ends it with a sigh.

This doesn’t happen often. But when it does her sludge leaks and over flows. It hurts me and scares me when she does this. The last time she put me into a bun and cut me, and I was blue. She still pulls harsh on me sometimes, on times she catches her own self being whinny. Now I’ll wait, what now.

“Everything that happens will happen anyway, today, in this very hour for sure.” She finally moved from her window.

We moved. I would write a long piece about our new place but I don’t see why that matters anymore. But I like this place as much as Rue does, it has been a long time since she laughs that way. Our dog too. We don’t have bedsheets yet, and Rue still dry me with her t-shirts. Not quite sure where it is, but it already feels like home.

I had a strange dream. The bicycling little boys cry, people coming from here and there. I’m red. I am red. There are chalk around us. Is that the old man from floor 12? We often took the lift together when Rue used to run every Saturday. His hair envied me. Strange, the last thing I remember was that I was flying. The wind was screaming, it was screaming straight to my ears. What are these flowers for? Everyone looks sad, everyone wears black. Oh.

But come, I’ll let you in on something big. None of these ever happened. Rue’s mother aborted her a week after the recognition. The-supposedly-mother sat in a coffee shop with a cappuccino that had run cold. She was weeping in relief. Isn’t that more settling?

F
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