devindisaster

::Transfixion::

A cigarette hung from his pursed pale lips, a soft white cylinder decorated with faint grey lines and a burning tip that flared with faint ashes amongst every inhale, taking in that distasteful smoke and putrefying his lungs slowly. Expelling the smoke into the air he looked all around him, strands of thin black dropping onto the face that belonged to those pale lips, the hair decorated with the essence of night tracing his chin, his ears, resting on his shoulders that were bare ivory; hair like ink.

The walls were red, as were his hands. They were both stained with crimson that ran in and out and sunk into each crack, each crevice, each small hole and completely covered them both. He gave this an almost concerned look but in the same instant that it showed itself upon his cool face, it traced with the faint glisten of sweat, he cast it aside like a cheap rug.

The furniture, those few pieces that were in his bedroom, were covered with thin sheets of white and splattered with that maddening red. He let out a silent sigh, a disenchanted lullaby filling his skull and his heart, his mind; his mouth sang along with a faint hum as his fingers grasped the butt of the withered cigarette from his lips and flicked it away as burning butterflies of changing colours caressed the air with their fluttering wings before they collapsed, dead, onto the cold hardwood floor.

Clammy feet collided with the floor as he began to rush around the room and strip the furniture of its ghastly robes with red hand prints now littered all over, discarding them onto the ground, one on top of the other, until it appeared to be covering something (or someone?). The creases were sharp and the skeletons buried underneath cried from their blood red trap.

His fingers traced his own frame, another sigh made his chest rise with air, and they accented his bones with the colour of insomnia and he smiled at his work, hazel eyes glanced at everything as the fumes that he had been trapped with burned his nose and made him feel sick, even if the window was open. He wrapped his hand around the cold door knob which lead him into this fortress, this room of his where he could build up his own walls, tear them down, and make all of the rules. A turn of the wrist and the silver knob let him free and stepped inside his living room which remained pure; untainted by the red and still decorated with his minimalistic paintings and obscure furniture that made up his humble abode.

It felt nice to be free from the smell, from the miasma filled air circulating throughout desecrated sleeping quarters. His movements were slow and smooth, his body drifting like a specter through the skeleton which he called home, feet moving against the off-white tile, washed and scrubbed and still reeking of bleach. But his mind was elsewhere. He made his way into the kitchen – it was separated from the living room by great walls that reached the ceiling, white towering things that were cut open to make way for doors and a single counter. It was the same there as everywhere else in his home, black and white. The contrasts battled each other for control of his eyes and he liked that, liked them competing for him.

The lever of his silver faucet was lifted gently and a gush of clear water pouring from its spout. He stuck his hands underneath and saw as it too became tainted, became flushed with clouds of red as it swirled into the underbelly of the sink and was taken away forever to be processed, a pollutant to be purged once more from the water that danced over his digits. Even his soap was pure white and as he grabbed it he cherished the irony of it all, it was so pure. All of it… all of it except his room, in which he had made his own display of colour. A shrine even, to get away from the combatants that ruled his life.

The soap frothed on his hands and he made sure they were spotless, pink suds washing away to reveal smooth white skin that was taken care of and silver rings that were decorated with Gothic designs that pleased him so. His hand slithered over the towel that dangled from the corner of a drawer, wiping away the water that clung to him before he wrapped his fingers in his own hair, pulling on it, running them through and feeling the strands rub against them like black silk.

A shirt that he had left on the back of his raven black chair, the only one at the table itself, was slid off the back with little effort and it grazed against his skin as he pulled it on over his head, a black collared shirt with some design belonging to the company who made it stitched just above the breast. He flicked up the collar and the ends brushed against his soft face, the corners of his mouth turning upward into a suave smile. He slipped his keys around and finger and made his way to the exit, paying no mind to the red that splattered against his jeans from earlier, slipping his wiggling toes into his black and white shoes. First the right, then the left, and like before he twisted the door knob and in turn it exchanged the living area with a whole new sight, the hallway of his apartment building.

Faint echoes resonated from the hallway and he turned to look at another tenant, a cute girl around his age who was still in college. She wanted to be a psychologist. Beautiful blond hair cascaded against her fair skin that hinted at a tan and a smile that broke hearts. Her voice was so pleasant on his ears so he stopped to listen to her speak, heard her say

“Swallow, did you finish painting?”

to which he replied

“Yes, in fact, that red came out perfectly.”

Swallow smiled at her and began on his way, feet falls echoing through the small stairwell as he began his trot down three stories. His name, the one that girl had called him, the girl with the lush lips and the beautiful body; was nothing more than a nickname. She thought he was like a bird, a caged bird that was trying everything in its power to fly free like it was born to do. If only he had, if only she hadn’t been right maybe something lurking within his brain wouldn’t be there. If only he had tried so much harder.

His real name was Taylor Lynn, though he never introduced himself as such. It was a boring name, yet he wasn’t a boring person. In fact he believed he was quite the opposite, a party man. The star of the show.

He lit up another cigarette as he pushed the doors at the bottom open, the glass cold against his palms and it reminded him of his wood floors, of his crimson room that he had painted this evening and how glad he was to escape the fumes and get some fresh air. Some well deserved fresh air. Somewhere above him he could hear the chortling noise of a bird and when his eyes turned upward he caught a glimpse of it, the red underneath its head blazing against the blue sky it flew against, stood out against the concrete buildings and the concrete souls that lived here.

He realized.

That he truly liked.

The colour red.

Something I’m working on.