(no subject)
There is a drawing on the tile in front of me. A long oval, fatter at the bottom than the top, with a circle in the middle. There is other graffiti around it, but this stands out to me. This is special. It must be a message.
It is drawn in red, while the other drawings are in other colours. Orange, blue, black...no other red patterns. This is significant.
I finish washing my hands and leave the bathroom. Outside, it is quiet. I come here now, at this time of day, when I know it will be quiet, when there will be few people around.
The girl in the black shirt walks past, carrying a cloth. She works here. She is not wearing her necktie today. That is part of her uniform too. I wonder if her boss was angry?
She’s not looking at me. She’s looking at the floor, under the tables to see if they need sweeping.
I was going to eat, but I am too busy thinking too be hungry. I leave.
There is a tree outside, near the front door. A silver birch. I read up and take a leaf. The leaf is oval, fatter at one end than the other. On the way home, I collect leaves, hundreds of leaves, stuffing them into my pockets. When I get home, I put them in my room and go out again. More leaves. The meaning will become clear when I have enough leaves.
It is night now. I can’t go out at night. Those are the rules. I know the rules.
I sleep surrounded by the crunch of leaves. Meaning comes to me in my dreams, but I forget it on waking. Nonetheless, I know it is not leaves. Something else, not leaves.
I walk out, in the watery early-morning sunlight. A bottle glints at me from the gutter, oval in shape, fatter at one end than the other. I pick it up, the weight of the glass heavy and pleasing in my hand. It fits into the pocket of my long coat. I pick up another that lies nearby. I find more, take them home, come out for me. Empty bottles in different colours.
When I get it right, something will happen.
I go back to the place, to the symbol. The bottom half is missing, along with the graffiti below it. I go home and smash the bottles. When I wake up, the marks are on my back. It is a sign that I am on the right track.
It is hard to walk across the room, to find my shoes. I put on my white shirt and it becomes red. My long coat hides it. I put my hands in the pockets and touch more glass.
I go back to the place again, sure that there will be another sign now I am on the right track. The symbol is smudged now, the red blurred. Like flames.
I see the wet floor sign in the corner, a flattened oval in shape, fatter at the bottom than at the top. I take a lighter from my pocket and hold it to one of the holes in the plastic. It does not catch immediatly, and it does not flare up like the symbol promised. I leave, worried that I have done wrong.
I do not go home that night. It is okay to be out in the dark on this night. This night is okay. Tomorrow and yesterday are always okay, but today never is. Except this one.
I do not go back to the symbol for a week. I am frightened that I have been displeasing.
When I gain the courage to go back, the symbol has changed. It is as fresh and bright as it was on the day when it first appeared.
I leave the bathroom again. Outside, the girl in the black shirt walks past me again, this time with her necktie on. It forms an oval shape below her neck, fatter at one end than the other. I read out and grab it, touch it, try to take it. She tries to make a noise, I think, but I put a hand over her mouth. I pull on the tie until she stops moving. They come and find me, afterwards, but it is okay. The symbol, the tie, is red now, like it should be.
It is drawn in red, while the other drawings are in other colours. Orange, blue, black...no other red patterns. This is significant.
I finish washing my hands and leave the bathroom. Outside, it is quiet. I come here now, at this time of day, when I know it will be quiet, when there will be few people around.
The girl in the black shirt walks past, carrying a cloth. She works here. She is not wearing her necktie today. That is part of her uniform too. I wonder if her boss was angry?
She’s not looking at me. She’s looking at the floor, under the tables to see if they need sweeping.
I was going to eat, but I am too busy thinking too be hungry. I leave.
There is a tree outside, near the front door. A silver birch. I read up and take a leaf. The leaf is oval, fatter at one end than the other. On the way home, I collect leaves, hundreds of leaves, stuffing them into my pockets. When I get home, I put them in my room and go out again. More leaves. The meaning will become clear when I have enough leaves.
It is night now. I can’t go out at night. Those are the rules. I know the rules.
I sleep surrounded by the crunch of leaves. Meaning comes to me in my dreams, but I forget it on waking. Nonetheless, I know it is not leaves. Something else, not leaves.
I walk out, in the watery early-morning sunlight. A bottle glints at me from the gutter, oval in shape, fatter at one end than the other. I pick it up, the weight of the glass heavy and pleasing in my hand. It fits into the pocket of my long coat. I pick up another that lies nearby. I find more, take them home, come out for me. Empty bottles in different colours.
When I get it right, something will happen.
I go back to the place, to the symbol. The bottom half is missing, along with the graffiti below it. I go home and smash the bottles. When I wake up, the marks are on my back. It is a sign that I am on the right track.
It is hard to walk across the room, to find my shoes. I put on my white shirt and it becomes red. My long coat hides it. I put my hands in the pockets and touch more glass.
I go back to the place again, sure that there will be another sign now I am on the right track. The symbol is smudged now, the red blurred. Like flames.
I see the wet floor sign in the corner, a flattened oval in shape, fatter at the bottom than at the top. I take a lighter from my pocket and hold it to one of the holes in the plastic. It does not catch immediatly, and it does not flare up like the symbol promised. I leave, worried that I have done wrong.
I do not go home that night. It is okay to be out in the dark on this night. This night is okay. Tomorrow and yesterday are always okay, but today never is. Except this one.
I do not go back to the symbol for a week. I am frightened that I have been displeasing.
When I gain the courage to go back, the symbol has changed. It is as fresh and bright as it was on the day when it first appeared.
I leave the bathroom again. Outside, the girl in the black shirt walks past me again, this time with her necktie on. It forms an oval shape below her neck, fatter at one end than the other. I read out and grab it, touch it, try to take it. She tries to make a noise, I think, but I put a hand over her mouth. I pull on the tie until she stops moving. They come and find me, afterwards, but it is okay. The symbol, the tie, is red now, like it should be.