fragments, scatter # 4:

My/His weary legs finally dragged us to my/his room. I had to tolerate her constant complaints about how they are gonna fall away from my body. And the sad little fact that she changed the way she addressed this body from 'us' to 'him', as if it didn't belong to her. If this body was mine it wouldn't be this way. Things would've been different. I wouldn't have to struggle to merely make a step. I wouldn't have to worry about what was I gonna think about. Worrying about what to talk about when things are normal is already hard enough. Especially this one who analyses almost every single thing but fails to do so when I want him to do so.

This one? Am I just another one that you can just simply disregard?
More or less.

I would've looked away. I would've remained in silence. I would've hoped that he was sensitive enough to know what my reactions meant. But I had already answered him before I could do something about it. Naturally but involuntarily. Keeping the mouth shut and keeping the mind shut are two very different things. This was awfully awkward. If this was a phone call, I would've find a way to end the conversation as soon as possible and proceed to occupy my mind with some random activities. All the memories that I have shared with her came to me like a kaleidoscope, immaturely denying the impulsively honest reply her mind gave. My sense of denial was so strong I begged her pardon although I was pretty certain of what she replied.

Another one? Simply disregard?
You want me to rephrase the 'more or less' into a simple 'yes'?

I thought of how she used to rest her chin on one of the side of my shoulders (usually left) whenever we would encounter a mirror to practise our compability in terms of appearance. Oh, so? I thought of how she used to bite MY fingernails instead of her own when she had a manicure and still couldn't shake off that unbreakable habit of hers. You enjoyed it too didn't you? I thought of the uncountable number of clothes she would pick just to try on before purchasing anything to let the shopping attendants eye me with sympathy for being very patient. So you can't really wait?

I can.

The effect was bizzare. It was as if someone threw coins at you. It hits hard. It hurts, in a heartwarming way. This one usually says things that are music to my ears. I used to think that they were fabricated just to please me. I have to admit that I'm a horrible adoration junkie so I artistically provoke victims to compliment me, regardless of the sincerity. Of course, I would prefer them to sound authentic, intellectual, humorous, confident, etc. But this, this two simple words, "I can" sunk into me even if i wanted to doubt it, like food too good to be digested.

But really, so what if you are the most patient person in this world? It doesn't change the fact that i'm stuck here, with you, seeing ghosts everywhere.

I was propelled into a state of shock. Her lack of appreciation sent my self-esteem into a downhill slide. That childish and selfish part of me wanted to deny truth but what I've heard, or received was written in her mind. The childish and selfish part of me persisted to futilely convince myself that the voice projecting in my head wasn't actually Xyren's. Or at least, the Xyren that I knew.

Then, this, is the Xyren that you don't know.

......

A long silence ensued. It was disturbing for awhile for it being the first silence we had encountered since I woke up with her voice in my head/the cemetery. Even the most timid person in the world should have something going on in his mind in the state of sobriety. Or maybe it felt long, because there wasn't a time that our minds were put to rest since we both were brought into this mess.

You make sense.
You said this to make me feel better, to feel less guilty about yourself didn't you?
What?

For a tiny speck of moment, I thought that we could still.. work. Why did he had to spoil it all with that statement? Why couldn't he just grab hold of the truth and accept it? Why did he had to doubt?

At least you still wanted us to work.
Argh. Did you just ignored everything else that isn't pleasant to your ears?

I couldn't stand this. I wanted him out. Or to put it in a less harsher way, I wanted myself out. He's overreacting too much that it creepy. To think that he had to witness what I felt first hand. And to think that we couldn't seemingly do anything about it. There must be something, right? There must be something we could do. There must be something I could do.

Do you think a witch, or a shaman, or some lady with mystical powers could help us with our current state?
So you hate it that we are completely honest with each other? What about the promise we made to each other about being never lying to each other?
Stop being such a whiney pussy! I bet that you're not enjoying it much either.
Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes, no. I don't know!

Seeking for a diversion from this dreadful topic, I looked around. Two figures stood by a blank wide side of the wall, facing away from us. There were so many ghost encounters along the journey back here that these two no longer terrify or surprise us anymore. Their hands seemed to be pre-occupied with doing something... like rubbing the wall with their hands/to the pictures?

Pictures?

An instant flash of memory images of those pictures of Xyren that I've unskillfully but diligently drew popped into my mind. How could I forget those while coming in? I wanted to impress her. I wanted to surprise her. All along. It was dark. We didn't turn on the lights while limping in. But I could read his memory like its mine. I could project the many, many 'pictures-of-me'-s around; which piece was based on which picture and where it was taken, which piece was innovated out of his imagination, which piece he was proud of and which piece that he wanted to throw away.

I gasped.

Are they... me? The fact itself was so hard to believe, but it wasn't something that science couldn't explain. Unlike the situation now. Are they really me? His obsession towards me was scary, in a diabetically sweet kind of way, but still, enough to frighten the hell out of me. It was like a serial murderer that pins up pictures and newspaper articles of his victims on the wall and all his victims are.. essentially me. Are they really really me? Oh Blinkey.. you don't really have to do this.. Can I turn on the lights to see clearer? You don't really need to do this.. Why would you want to draw me? How much time did you spend on everything? Oh the effort.. Why didn't you show me earlier?

It's not completed yet.

I remembered the portrait(s) of her that I've tried to fully draw it with only red. The overall red isn't dark enough to be the outlines so the inadequate contrast of the shading red used to represent the shadows made the picture look like she's crying and growing moustache. The more presentable ones are pinned to the walls to see which part of her that I've properly drew in order to be implemented in future attempts. I remembered the first portrait that I did, it was drawn till her abdomen, which is my second favourite picture among my works. The subsequent pictures of the similiar manner couldn't replace the impression I had on the first picture. However, the proportion of the boobs seemed out. No matter how many times I corrected the right one it would either look like its bigger or smaller than the left one. I finally settled for the right one being bigger, only slightly though. Haha you underestimated them. My favourite one, is a fantasy depiction of an angel of her. Aw... that's so sweet.. but your sense of fashion sucks! Everything was just recited in the mind, his mind so I still needed to see the whole thing with my my own eyes to achieve a higher satisfactory level.

We switched on the lights.

The two ghostly figures gestured us to look at my masterpiece/the wallpaper of me like cinema ushers. My memory served me well. Obviously though, since I see it everyday. Somehow the ghosts didn't strike me as disturbing at all. Rather, their cooperation with my intentions seemed like something that I wanted, although not expected, to see. It was as if something too good to be true came true. A mirage turned reality. They say seeing is believing, but this case defied the saying. I wanted to smile. I wanted to laugh. My heart raced. Well, not exactly mine. It is. Aw.. I wanted to cry. And then I want to laugh again. Nobody would do such a thing for me. This is too much. I felt guilty but happy. I felt responsible but irresponsible. I felt weird but I kinda welcomed the feeling. I felt orgasm but not sexually. Probably due to the absence of female hormones.

Oh, that's right. I'm already dead.

Tears, that neither of us were sure whose or why, began to wet our cheeks. I began to wonder if dying had brought me to my own heaven. Or if this was the so-called white light or the image phase I'm supposed to see when I am dead. I touched our face to check if it was ethereal. It was physical, and we weren't even sure to react positively or negatively towards it. I wanted to lie, to tell her that everything's fine, that everything's gonna be alright. I wanted to dry the tears, but i'm contributing to them both physically and mentally. I wanted to be her shoulder to cry on but we are crying together and we share the same shoulders now. At least, I'm crying when she's crying.

What the fuck? Lame, but it did made me smile. The slight movement of the lips wasn't mine.

And i'm smiling when you're smiling too.