At the Best of TimesMature

I picked up the black t-shirt lying on the floor and buried my face in the black cloth. Its smell of cigarettes and alcohol suddenly brought back the pieces of last night; it was some sort of confirmation that the strange pictures that crawled back into my brain that very moment were more than just leftovers of the weird dreams I´d had. True, the clearness of my memories was disturbed by what was left of numerous bottles of beer circulating in my blood. However, the fragments and pictures arising before my inner eye felt real to me. Sort of surreal at the same time, though.   It was one of these mornings on which you get up, look into the mirror and your own face stares back at you like a mask; the eyes are swollen and your eyeliner is distributed over your cheek; last night´ s cigarettes are burning in your throat, your stomach is rioting and still… you feel good somehow. Your favourite song to which you danced like an addict last night is still running through your head. You sing along single lines of it and suddenly, they make sense, because this is the soundtrack of your life and it is so fucking true: Life is unkind at the best of times. Looks that have been exchanged, secret smiles, rolling eyes. One short touch on your arm, his hot breath on your face while he was screaming something into your ear. You didn´t hear it, though, since you were too busy to leave a normal impression and let nobody notice that you´ve blushed while your heart was beating like hell, you shivered, you got hot and you were about to suffocate. You were trying to hide what this does to you. How much it turns you on. I took a deep breath and stared back into the pale face in the mirror. My fingers grabbed the edge of the bathtub since I felt dizzy when I thought about the events that had followed. We drank to ourselves, over and over again. We had good reason to celebrate, after all. Later, weh ad all reached the point at which we lost control over ourselves, our emotions and our actions and things went their own way - their own, terrifying sickening way that created a numb feeling in our heads and made it easier for us to forget, afterwards.  Nevertheless, there were certain things I did remember. Words, gestures and touches that went far beyond what we regarded as normal behaviour among friends.  I could still feel the warmth of his hands, his skin, his breath: I still smelled him. His lips…  Why did I all the sudden know how they felt, what they tasted like? Was it a kiss among brothers? Could it be possible that this was just the result of my weird fantasy? Had I repeatedly let myself be cheated by my emotion? Suddenly, euphoria vanished faster than it had arose, and, considering the sad truth I had gradually  unveiled in the last few months, I drowned in the fatal stream of hangover and depression. Like a punch in my face I became aware of the fact that everything had been pure utopia, the sad dreams of the wrecked pervert I was – like a thousand times before. Furiously, I stared into my hollow eyes. I was sick of cheating myself and mad that I had repeatedly given up to him. This very moment, I realized what I had become. I was a small, pale freak wearing ridiculous make-up. The same make-up which in the night before had together with my tattoos, piercings and selected clothes created my cool and shiny mask, my shield, was now ruined and gave me the look of a crying transvestite. „Look at you“, I whispered towards the ridiculous clown in the mirror, „You´ re a fucking poof.”





































The End

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