Pulchritude (iv)

BATTERIES: DEAD

The green line of text kept flashing in front of me. I observed my surroundings and discovered a cable lying by my feet. I struggled to pick it up. Whenever I moved there would be sharp tingly pain in every ounce of muscle in my body. There seemed to be no female end for the cord to plug into.

A red dot lit up on my 149th count of the flashing green text, which was faster than before. The next few then appeared with the rhythm of the flashing and drew a curved dotted line from the text to my left temple. I raised my hand to feel the metallic ring that had been placed to hold a hole in my head in place.

Slowly I brought the cable up against my temple and braced myself for the penetration. I inhaled deeply and hoped that it would at least be painless. I applied as much force as I could muster without hurting myself. The quarter-inch jack sparked as it met its counterpart. I pushed it in halfway before I realized the agonizing pain and the massive migraine it presented.

The word DEAD was now flickering.

I gave myself a moment to recover from the situation knowing that I had to plug the cable all the way in. I took another deep breath and hoped that twisting it in would do less damage. I was right. I exhaled as I wiped the tears and snot off my face to find the green text, which no longer flashed, now read BATTERIES: CHARGING.

 

Pulchritude (iii)

‘The Lord help us!’ he soliloquised in an undertone of peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime, in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no reference to my unexpected advent.

The silence brought my recent favourite paragraph from Wuthering Heights into mind. I constructed the images in my head and was suddenly disappointed by thinking that this delicately described scene might not have made it into the movie. I believe in the power of the words as much as I believe that a picture is worth a thousand words. Yet it is a fascinating exercise to challenge myself to use as little words as possible to describe the image in my head when I write.

I repeated the paragraph thoroughly in my head and took notice of every word Bronte chose to paint her world. The combinations of the words were simply incredible; perhaps it’s too vast of an idea for me to grasp anytime soon. My brain retreated to its cabin and hid under the comfortable covers of the bed.

 

Pulchritude (ii)

The phone rang and woke me from my meditation. I searched for the phone and found it vibrating on top of the piano. I watched it move from a distance and wondered what it is that made me despise the communication tool. I leaned my head back, closed my eyes and tried to block it out.

The repeated sound makes its way from my ears to the brain like a constantly nagging child, the less fortunate begging at your feet, the kid who plays with your ponytail everyday in class, or the mosquito looking for some fresh blood on a hot night. There’s only so much tolerance for the things which annoy us that eventually it requires our attention and so deservedly receives a good smacking.

I shot the phone an angry glance, hoped it would sense my agitation. It finally stopped ringing and I secretly prided myself on the ability of my mind power to control technology from a mile away. I laid my head back and again closed my eyes to concentrate in the silence.

 

Pulchritude (i)

I had a drink that night. The night when I realized that maybe —just maybe— I don’t know myself in the least bit.

It had been a while since my last drink. I promised myself I wouldn’t touch another drop of alcohol after that last wild binge. Yet when the time comes it is the only satisfying release. Perhaps it was to make up for not drinking earlier at the surprise birthday party. The impromptu yet carefully calibrated small get-together with the closest of friends who could be there in less than one-day’s notice. It was heart-warming and cheery. But somehow it was the loneliest I’ve felt in a long time, even more so than when I was hanging out by myself.

On the drive home I turned off the radio and listened to the silence. It calmed me as I sped away from the people I love. There’s something about the starry dark night that I love. Tranquility, emptiness and solidarity all combined to make a time so rare to come by. My brain kicked its gears in shift as the tunes died off. It was going to be a satisfying night.

I swirled the glass in my hand and took another sip of my vodka. The ice had made the scent of alcohol barely traceable, though it was fairly tasteless to begin with. I plump on the couch and leaned my head back. I stared at the blank, white ceiling wishing I could be in the same blank, white state to start my life anew. I closed my eyes. It was only days into the new year, and I hadn’t found any reason to be happy yet.