Death by text at The Fancy Hotel.

Its been 3days since I did it.  It was brutal.  Insults like filthy blood sprayed everywhere. Spit was flying.  Tears were rolling.  The reality of screams cracked through fantasy like a judges gavel.  Let the guilty verdict fall on me.  Id do it, again with no remorse, just the same.

I kicked in the front door of the hotel, swinging my machete to protect my personal space.  As people came close, attempting to defuse and restrain me, I was not to be entertained with even the thought of it.  I had been tempering and sharpening this blade for about a year.  I forged it from metal of the sword that cut me and forked my tongue when I was a young child.  So, it sliced through living flesh as though it were phantom.

I could hear men yelling and women gasping tears as I passed the elevator and headed towards the stairs.  The 9th floor?  Sure, sounds 'bout right.  I dont know why I chose the 9th floor.  I figured it to be divine guidance becuz I heard her voice as soon as I stepped into the hall. Such a beautiful laugh, like bells and chiming harmonies.  Talking and chatting, her story fluttered down the hall like a wandering pixie.

If I was ever sure, it was in those moments.  This is not the first time I have heard her romantic candor being conveyed to another, besides myself.  Once apon a time, I told her I was in love with her.  I figured from the beginning, she didnt really want to know.  But, I told her, anyway.  Selfish, I know.  Careless.  Eventually, the destined day would come and any hostages would have to die along with one of us.

My Darling, she really could be such a wonderful woman.  I offered.  I even put the knife to my chest for her.  She said she would.  But, she never finished anything she ever started.  However, I should not have asked her to fix my mistake.  Once again, months had passed since she vowed to twist the blade deeply secure into the middle of the suffering pain and make the ultimate cut.    Instead, she dragged it with her to this hotel room.  Hanged by a thread over the balcony, it swung between a tease and a threat.  

I huffed and I puffed and I blew open the hotelroom door.  I charged like a bullet with a mission towards the balcony.  Again, swinging my machete, it came down on the metal railing with a striking spark and severed that thread.  She was behind me in the room, already nursing a flesh wound her company had received in the confusion of my sudden entry. While I watched it fall 9storeys and then splatter on the sidewalk below like a grape tomato, the display of  her loving attention for her company  was confirmation that it was, in fact, finally dead.  If it ever was alive, I think not.

As I turned to clamly walk out, I set fire to the curtains.  The bed sheets, towels, fuckin lampshades.  Even the god damn bible in the nightstand drawer.  It all caught aflame so easily.  A blaze set for ashes was raging just behind me already as I left the building.  I waited around the corner long enuff to make sure they both made it out.  I blew my nose on the murder scene as though tossing a rose onto its coffin.  Although, no need for a funeral.  I will not be returning for memorial.

Memory Lane, aka Commercial Drive

I went for a walk through East Van.  Sunshine beamed down from the blue sky and cut the crisp autumn air.  Trees were changing into their fall colors all around me.  Birds were chirping and visiting and fluttering in and out of the sun and tree-shade above me.  I looked up and saw dancing freckles on the cheeks of the warmest sparkling smile.

Our initials are still clearly etched on a square of sidewalk between The Movie Theater and Dollar Grocer.

I ordered a small americano from JJBean and walked up the hill to our old house.  I made SO much music in that front window.  I listened to the song we made together for the art gallery.  I have it on my ipod.  Sitar and flute.

I stood outside Havana Restaurant and lit a cigarette while watching the comings and goings of the kitchen, the hustle and bustle of the bar.  I crossed the street and finished my cigarette outside Bkiram.

It felt like my life.  Natural.  A continuous reality.  Looking into the past to gain some sense of the future.  I walked along these same streets a few days before and my focus left my imagination cloudy and vague.  However, during this stroll, everything felt so clear.  My imagination busted wide open and I thought I saw blonde pixies peeking up from behind shrubs, again.

In the beginning...

I went to The Templeton on Granville St.  After my meal, I stood half a block up the street where she first warned me.

I walked home along Thurlow St and crossed Barclay St.  I stopped and stood at the pay phone where I first saw her cry.

I went and got wasted drunk @ The Cambie, where she had introduced herself to me.  I sat @ the table where she first kissed me.

I walked up and down Commercial Drive and ate gelato.  I bought a gala apple from dollar grocer and picked a little bouquet of wild flowers.

It feels like some other life.  A parallel reality.  Some kind of weird dream.  A time when I could still pretend.

Just what the doctor ordered

"What in the hell has she done to you?", she asks.  "Well, you see...", I proceed to explain only to be immediately interupted with an obvious and factual tone, "Lookit, we have been closest friends since we were teenagers, you can tell me, you know that."  I begin to reply, "Its kinda hard to explain, but...".  she continues, "You special, wonderful man.  Im here, now.  You're safe and can share with me, without fear."  Im getting the feeling I may not be able to finish a sentence while she is being this emotional.  I dont think there are words to really describe it, anyway.

So, I lift up my shirt to show my closest friend the scar down the middle of my chest.  The look on her face says it all.  But, she asks with horror, anyway, "And... you let her do this?"  "Yup, I sure did.", I reply, sadly.  "She told me she knew what she was doing.".  I continue, "She told me she had been practicing the procedure since she was eight years old... if not her entire life.".

"Is this why I haven't heard from you in awhile?", she whispers while softly putting her hand to the mark on my chest.  With a teardrop rolling down her cheek, she asks, "Does it still hurt?"  I explain, "Yes. It hurts alot, rite now.  In fact, you are the first person to actually touch it and... it still hurts, alot."  She removes her hand, instantly.  But, only to pull me closer and hug me and kiss me.  I can taste her salty tears.

Love, cigarettes and other dirty habits.

Loving me is like smoking a cigarette. It could kill you. But, you just cant help yourself. You swear you arent going to, anymore. But, for the rest of your god-damned life, you will fight the craving.

You try to convince yourself it is a bad habit, dirty and harmful.  You try every alternative to stop.  Gum, patches, will-power, lies and cheating on me with your boss.  But still, nothing gives comfort and satisfaction like a good ol fashioned tailor-made king-sized Yanko.  I mean... cigarette.

Sure, you may think it makes you look soo cool.  Even though your parents warn you not to, you dont listen.  But after awhile, you will question how (and why) you ever started to begin with.  Some of the best advice I could ever give is to never start... smoking.