Confusion

It doesn't matter who you are, who I am, who they are. All around us... everybody, everybody you see around you. We all share something. Life. Experience. Not just life, but how we live it. As far as I know, in the world I relate to, we're all alike. We're born. We grow up. We turn into teenagers. We come of age. And then we are who we are forever.
But what's most important is all that fucked up confusion that makes you you. Me me. So on and so forth. We don't know who we are or will be when we're screaming our head off for our mother's tit as we burst out of her vagina. And then there are others who may never discover themselves. Either way, it doesn't matter who you are, we all go through the same shit to get there. When your parents say, "We've been there. We understand," believe it or not, they most likely have an inkling at the very least.
I know, right now in your head, you're saying, "That's bullshit. No way in hell they know what I'm going through." Well you're fucking wrong. Even if they personally did not go through your exact life path, their friends did the same shit you did and they saw it all which leads to their saying that. If you don't believe me, just give it a couple years. You'll think about me that day and the moment you heard this.
Let's get to the meat of this discussion, if you will. Humans; they tend to be different from other animals. "You don't fucking say!" you might answer. Well, hear me out. I'm going somewhere with this. They don't have emotions or feelings like we do. No thoughts like us. None of that shit. No etiquette or speech to tell me to stop cursing (which, by the way, will never happen, so fuck you. It's not like you never have). But really, these things come to a giant peak in the rollercoaster of our lives (please excuse the lousy, cliché metaphor) when we hit that turning point called adolescence. I promise, when you're twenty years old and look back at the past seven years, you'll think differently than when you were twelve. What dolphin can say that?
We grow up. Simple as that. More cliché for you. It's fun. Painful. Sad at times. Happy. Joyous. Enraging, depressing, frustrating. Delightful, sappy and dangerous. The world seems to be ending every other day- but don't worry at least you know tomorrow will be fucking awesome. Like I said, the details are fuzzy and blurry but we all collectively share that same story. They're probably the most important years of your life, I'd argue.
No good story comes without crying, laughing or serious moments. Awkward, embarassing moments are always haunting your every move. You'll watch your buddies get blasted, blazed and dry fucked at parties.
Then there are the break-ups, let downs and broken promises. Sorry, it's bound to happen. Even after these particular years. You'll catch your significant other of the moment kissing someone else from time to time if you're severely unfortunate and masochistic. There will be those who cut themselves or starve themselves and get thrown at a shrink by their overprotective parents. Don't be surprised if all of this happens to you. You'll experience it in some way, whether directly or vicariously. And it's okay, you'll always have at least one friend.
Seriously, from my experience, I've never met anyone who has not chosen to be friendless and is. Even if you have only one friend- fuck everybody else. You're still here right now, right? You didn't need them.
I guess this is the awkward transition where you see my face and I have to introduce myself like a narrator in a movie. Not that it's very important, my name is Ben Bailey. My parents apparently thought it would be cute to have "BB" as my initials. I don't know if it's supposed to sound like "baby" or what, but everytime they call me BB, I want to get a BB gun so I can shoot them. Ha-ha. I made a funny. That's another thing I've learned: we're all comedians when we're teenagers. I don't exactly know why, but we all can joke at least with our friends and know it'll be funny to someone.
I'm not too popular, but then again, I wouldn't want to be. It's scary, man. Having to be cautious of every step but somehow be awesome, or else be thrown to the wolves. It's the tightest tight rope one can balance on in life and you better be able to handle it. It's way easy to fall from that pedestal. The attention whores, though, they're addicted to that tightrope shit. Don't ask me why.
I also don't belong to a clique. I have friends in every group, but I'm not really an outsider either. Although I have felt like one a lot. Either way, I have no idea what folder to file myself in. But that's okay too. I'm a unique individual. Not a stoner, rocker, prep, jock, nerd, cheerleader, dancer, or band geek. Just me.
I can't say I've fallen in love yet, but we'll get further into that later. I probably got close once, but oh well. This is all retrospective, so if you can figure out who I am and if you know what category to put me in, let me know when you're done.
This would be the part where the hypothetical screen goes black and everyone's waiting to see how my story starts. I promise it's not that great, but at least I can tell you I discovered who I am. This is the story of Ben Bailey, ladies and germs.

She is Curious

Cyan eyed the box nervously. It's small and black velvet. She can only imagine what's inside. A ring? A necklace? Bracelet? The yearning within her killed the appetite she had at her lunch hour. All she wanted to know was what was inside. The problem was, she knew it was for her. That alone made her want to rip open the thing to see inside even more. Of course, it had to be Terry, her husband, and knowing that, there had to be more than meets the eye with this.
It was not her birthday nor their anniversary, although it would be fitting since he always forgot it. She had not recently gotten a promotion either. Only a small box of fuzzy night sky color with specks of starry dust. Nothing Van Gogh. Just specks littered. Did that mean he had had this laying around for a while and chose this random moment in time to slip it in her purse on her way out? Why today of all days?
She laughed at the irony. It was a box. Everyone always wonders what they would do if they receive a mysterious package. Everyone also convinces themselves that they'd open it no problem, whether it be a bomb or nothing. As easily as she could open it, she wouldn't. Not because she didn't want to. She just couldn't. She stared at it, hoping it would spontaneously combust open. Nothing.
She closed her eyes. In ten seconds, she would open her eyes. During those ten seconds, she would grab the box and open it. That was the plan. Terry couldn't fool her so easily this time. She could do it.
Cyan Colfax could not do it. She got to five and stopped. The fuzzy black box was in her hand. It was the size of her palm, just about, but it was thick. If it were flat, maybe she could take a better crack at guessing. She shook it. It sounded like nothing was inside. This was pure Terry.
She could not open the box. Her lunch hour was quickly and silently slipping away. She had but twenty minutes left. The first forty were spent discovering, touching and staring at the box. Her appetite was long gone. She had to open the box so she could eat. What did Terry do? Maybe he's guilty of something, so now he's trying to buy her back. Well, he can keep the little black box. She didn't care what he did. She didn't want any of his pity or whatever this was.
Then doubt set in. What if it wasn't Terry? Maybe it was a coworker that slipped it in while she wasn't paying attention. She discarded all previous thoughts and completely blanked her mind. She closed her eyes.
One...
Two...
Three...
She grabbed the velvet black box.
Four...
Five...
Six...
She opened it.
Seven...
Eight...
Nine...
Cyan opened her eyes. Inside was a piece of paper and in Terry's handwriting was the word: Ten.

Necklace

Every day I pass the jewellry shop when I walk to work. I recently moved to London from Cincinatti in response to job the Times put out for a foreign columnist. I'm not exactly how a writer from Ohio like me could get the job, but I did. I got a column on the third page as their only American on staff. I just found the cheap apartment, or flat as they call it, just a mile away from the Times building. Every time I passed the jewellry shop, I saw a middle-aged hobo staring into the shop.
I'd pass by and ask if he wanted something to eat. "You can never trust a hobo with money," my mother always said. I offered food some days, but he always declined. He had an upturned fedora with a few coins in it. It was obvious he wanted something inside that shop.
There was one day that I happened to be early for work and I stopped to ask him his name. He had the year-old beard thing going on with the dirty sunglasses and trench coat for the winters. He didn't roll around with shopping carts like the rest of the homeless people I've seen back in Cincinnati.
"Charlie," he croaked, as if using his voice for the first time in years. It sounded dry and weak. I didn't know what to say after that so I dropped my last nickel from Ohio into his fedora.
I started dropping coins every chance I could get. Charlie was always there, every day, my Old Faithful fogging up the glass. I walked in one day out of curiosity to see if the shopkeeper had anything to say about him. He was old, already completely bald. He mumbled with his British accent, as if deciphering the accent wasn't hard enough.
"Ah...yes, yes," was all I understood when he spoke. "He's been out there for as long as I can remember."
"He's always been this poor?"
"Yes, I'm afraid. He's been wanting to buy that string of pearls by the front glass for about thirty years."
"Thirty years? Why so long?"
"He wanted to work for that necklace, but he said his mum wouldn't let him. Now, the pound has inflated over the years just like the dollar- yes, I may have lost most of my hearing, but I can tell a Yank by the sound of him. Poor chap, the set got more and more expensive over the years making it harder and harder for him to catch up in his... less than satisfactory financial status."
"I see. Who are they for?"
"His mum, I reckon."
"Thanks," I said in finality. I was too used to interviews as a journalist.
I kept dropping coins.

Cry

On the corner of Peachtree Boulevard and Main Street was the old diner. It had kept its classic '50s style through the decades; including employee uniforms, vinyl records covering every inch of wall, and a working jukebox. Many teenagers still pranced in at night, before or after movies. Older folk trickled in throughout the day for their coffee fix. The menu had not changed since opening day.
Into the diner Clay Gibson went. The opening of the door pulled a string that rang some bells to announce his arrival. When the waitress approached, he asked for a booth. When she asked for the number of cutomers, he simply stated: "two".
He seated himself with a view to the parking lot. He wanted to make sure he was ready when he saw her dark blue Nissan Maxima roll in and park. He fixed his clothes, straightened his collar, and waited. He wanted to look presentable. It was early tuesday afternoon; they wanted to beat the afterschoolers.
The Maxima rolled in and Clay cleared his throat. He saw her slam the door and walk in. The bells rang as she entered. She looked to the left, then to her right. Clay waved her over when she spotted him.
-Hello, Sherry.
-Good afternoon, Clay. I'm sorry I'm late.
-Oh, thirteen minutes is nothing. You needn't worry.
He gave a warm smile to reassure her. She looked remarkable and elegant as she ever did. Even now, after so many years.
-So how are you, Clay?
-Things with me are okay these days. Got a good job. Great office. Got a new wife too. Practically a new life, you know, and the family's fine.
-We lost touch so long ago. You lost weight. I didn't know you could look so nice after so much time.
-Me? Have you looked in the mirror?
Sherry Duke smiled. The waitress arrived and they both ordered an espresso. She left. Clay asked her:
-Say, do you remember those days hanging out at the village green?
-Engineer boots, leather jackets and tight blue jeans.
She laughed and continued for him:
-We'd come here, drop a dime in the box afterschool and almost certainly get a song about New Orleans. Remember those teenage nights? Cold beer, hot lights, and romance.
-You remember Brenda and Eddie?
-How could I forget? They were the popular steadies. King and Queen of the prom.
-The lucky bastard had a convertible and they'd ride with the top down and the radio down.
-Yeah, but nobody looked any finer. They used to come here on their dates, to this same diner, remember?
-That's what we all wanted. What more can you get out of life?
She laughed and agreed with him. Clay had certainly aged well. They spoke as if no time had passed since their last meeting. The waitress returned with their coffees and asked what they'd like to eat. Sherry ordered an apple pie and Clay ordered his traditional Double Cheeseburger. Sherry continued the reminiscing gossip.
-They were still going steady in the summer of '75. They were married at the end of July, I think.
-Everyone said they were crazy.
-You're right. I told Brenda that she's much too lazy and Eddie could never afford to live that kind of life.
-And yet there we were waving Brenda and Eddie goodbye.
Clay though back and realized that must have been that last time he had seen Sherry. It was Brenda and Eddie's wedding. They were picking at their food as they spoke. His ears perked when he heard a Buddy Holly song come on. "Crying, Waiting and Hoping" it sounded like.
-They lived very nice for a while, or so I heard. But you know how it is. Always the same in the end.
-Oh? What happened?
-They were divorced of course. At least they parted the closest of friends. They went back to the green, but you know you can never go back there again.
-Can't go back to the greasers, that's for sure. The best thing they could do was pick up their pieces. They found a way to get by, I'm sure.
-Well, that's all I heard about Brenda and Eddie. Can't tell you more 'cause I told you already.
Clay hadn't even realized how much time had gone by. A quick glance at his wristwatch told him it was time to take his leave. They had been so caught up in old times, he was sorry for having to go.
-Well, unfortunately, I have to go, Sherry. I have to do a job at somebody's house. It was really nice seeing you, Sherry.
-Likewise Clay. We can meet here any time you want.
-I'll take you up on that.
He got up, paid the bill, and left.

Knife

Her scent was reminiscent of cool green apples. A smile flashed upon her face quickly and discreetly. Her lips stretched slighty; a hint only that disappeared as a soft breath escaped her lips. Naturally, they were a bright pink hue, but at the moment possessed a fierce bloodred wine color. They were open slightly, not a gleaming white tooth visible. Her cheekbones were prominently displayed and cast small shadows below them. At the end of each cheekbone were the tips of her jawbone on either side.
That is where he was; his lips just millimeters under her cheekbone, right beside her left ear. She could feel his warm, humid breath on that spot. A soft moan jumped through her vocal chords and out her parted lips. This gave him incentive to bring his lips onto her skin, gently sweeping them down her jawbone. From there he kissed down to her neck, which she exposed naturally.
It was the first time they shared this closeness, this intimacy. Never was a word spoken but both saw each other one day and understood. She waited for this moment to come, with a burning, exhilarating desperation she had never felt before, until finally the day came that they were in each other's presence once more. One look had sealed their fate.
The soft moan was the first sound of her voice he had heard from her. They had never conversed; they had never needed to.
It was a furious, ugly thing that bound them together, but accepted without question. Their wordless consent and action proved their indifference to their emotional catastrophe. It was everything they did -and did not- want.
He reached the left side of her collarbone that was modestly exposed by her black evening dress. It was modest by present standards; not revealing much of her lustful soft skin. But it did not matter what she wore- every part of her was still accentuated by anything she happened to wear. She relished the moment of physical weakness and submission she felt towards him, just as he knew and relished that she did. It was a mutual weakness coming into contact with one another in such a way.
His lips returned to her but did not touch them. Both were parted just a fraction, as if they were waiting for something to be said. They gazed into each other's eyes and saw fear mixed with an intensity of no proportion.
In a desperate move, she threw her arms around him, reducing the distance between their lips to nothing. It was a wildfire breeding, spreading, reproducing, and she could not find the power to control herself. She was tipped back onto her bed and she was aware of nothing but the pull of his lips keeping them intertwined as she fell back.
Her head hit the mattress and she opened her eyes. She saw her lover's face serene and pleased. He was hunched over her now. The black tips of his long hair almost grazed her forehead as they swayed side to side. She did not hear the door open.
She did not see her husband's face looking in; a face so reviled and twisted with horror, as if he were stabbed in his abdomen with a jagged, adulterated blade.

Ink/Beauty

What was that?
There it was again. Wonder when it'll flash again. It looked strangely familiar. Out window. Back to pad. Dab paintbrush, smear colors inside inky perimeter.
Dab, drip, smear.
Blue, purple, green.
Cool colors for drawing/painting. Woman with cool-colored dress. Three colors, all mixed. Purple is more pronounced in chest area; green by belly and blue at bottom. No heels, just bare feet.
Curly red hair, apricot face.
Dab, drip, smear.
Snack. Continue.
Dab, drip.
No, no more cool colors. Background. What to do for background? Her arms down sides; head and chin up, looking direct. Right foot forward, like pharoah. What background?
Ballroom. She's striding toward man to dance. There are others dancing around but are unimportant.
There it was again.
A speck. A light. What was it?
Continue brainstorming ballroom.
Gold, gold, gold. Marble floors. Stone columns. Frescoed arched ceilings. Chandeliers. Renaissance inspired? Yes.
Dab, drip, smear.
Gold, gold, gold.
Speck. Light. Two specks. Light. Three. Twinkling. Vision must be impaired but no alcohol. No sense.
Dab, drip, smear.
Dancers appear but blurry. Woman is center of attention. Show man about to take hand? No. No detraction from center.
Dab, drip, smear.
Marble floor appears. White, tan, brown mixed and swirled. Stone columns appear. Connect with arches. Ceiling like gridded dome frescoes. Details of frescoes blurry. No detraction from center.
Dab, drip, smear.
Finished. Done. Complete.
Woman looking direct in blue-green-purple dress. Brought out by inky pen origin that separates from rest of paint. Beautiful.
Sign name with black paint small-ly in bottom right corner.
Bathroom now. Open door. Enter. Use. Open door. Still drying hands with towel while walking out.
Room different. No easel, no pad, no paint.
Drop towel.
White-tan-brown swirly floor. Stone columns. Grid dome ceiling with arches. Blurry frescoes.
Step, step.
Blurry dancers dancing.
Rub eyes. Step, step.
Then see apricot feet. No heels. Blue dress that turns green then purple at top. Lovely breasts. Beautiful skin. Curly red hair.
She holds out hand.
Gulp. Rub eyes. Step, step. She pulls hand.
Suddenly twisting, turning and twirling woman following 3-4 music like waltz. Waltz not renaissance. Why waltz? Dance anyway. Twist, turn, twirl. Step, step, step.
Only focused person is woman because of inky perimeter. Everything else: unfocused and slighty blurry. No details. No details matter.
No detraction from center.
Stop dancing. She places hands on eyes. Black.
When see again, no paint on pad.
Only black ink on white pad.
Only woman.
Only beauty.

Envy

Mr Kessler opened the dark faded green attendance book. He took a sip from the mug of coffee beside the book. The mug left a brown ring on one of the student's answer sheets. When he saw it, he winced. He had to do the attendance, however, so he decided to deal with the issue later.
-Assad?
-Here.
-Brooks?
-Present.
-Cairn?
Spencer looked up and the teacher acknowledged his presence. He went back to listening to his friend's story. Leonard Harvey was about to continue when Mr Kessler called out for Chandler.
Spencer and another kid, Jack Weaver, both looked at Emily simultaneously. She said "here" and noticed Jack first. He smiled, and so did she in return. Before her eyes strayed in his direction, Spencer looked away.
-McAllister?
-Here.
Mr Kessler kept going through the routine of name calling. He ended by calling out "Weaver" to which Jack replied, smirking, "Here."
Spencer had long ago given up on trying to pay attention to Leonard's elaborate story from the weekend. He nodded his head and laughed at the appropriate times, but his mind was elsewhere. Leonard was talking, but all he heard as he stared at Leonard's face was noise.
-Alright everybody, pull out your Othello books. We're gonna start where we left off.
The class groaned.
-Oh, shut up. It's Shakespeare and you'll all end up loving him in the end, anyway, so quit whining.
Spencer pulled out his copy from his backpack but couldn't resist the urge to sneak a peek at Emily. Jack had moved a seat closer and was now right beside her. He saw a small paper handed to her from Jack. Spencer instantly scowled.
Molly McAllister read Iago's part, saying, "O! Beware my lord, of jealousy; it is the green ey'd monster which doth mock the meet it feeds on."
Spencer was so attuned to their passing notes that he didn't notice Liam Brooks seeing all that was happening. With a mischievous grin he blurted out, "I spy a green-eyed monster!"
Not having paid attention to the passage, Spencer was caught scowling at the pair across the room. When he finally noticed everyone looking at him, he removed the scowl for an emotion he did not know of. Emily looked over and laughed. The rest of the kids joined in and it took several threats from the impatient Mr Kessler.
After a moment, the room regained silence.
-Continue, please, Molly.
She continued. Spencer heard a sound to his right.
-Psst.
It was Leonard.
-You have to step up your game.
Spencer checked Kessler before whispering back, "I'm done."
-What? No! You've worked too hard!
-I said, 'I'm done.'
-I can't believe you're giving up. He's got nothing on you and you know it.
-You saw what just happened. It's over.
-Whatever, then.
Spencer stole one last glance at Emily. She happened to be looking at him gloomily. He could not tell whether she realized what happened or was just sorry that she shared in embarassing him. Spencer stayed resilient and looked away.
It took every ounce of willpower not to look back.