You Hit Me Once, I Hit You Back. You Gave A Kick, I Gave A Slap.
Listen to me while reading.
WHO: Sindre and Søren
WHEN: The late afternoon of October 29th
WHERE: Søren's apartment
WHAT: You smashed a plate over my head.
Apparently something had crawled up Sindre's ass and he'd felt the need to ignore Søren for a solid fucking week.
Well, Christ! Forgive a guy for not wanting to spill his guts over some stupid fucking dream! But hell, someone always felt the need to psychoanalyze the hell out of everything until Søren felt twisted and confused and twitchy, like he'd done something wrong or needed to be committed to a ward for the mentally fucked up.
But--you know, he'd fucking swallowed his pride and left Sindre a voicemail, saying he'd go along with this touchy-feely feelings and 'why do you think...', 'why do you do...' bullshit.
And the asshole ignored him. All fucking week. Didn't return the call (which normally wouldn't be a big fucking deal, but it was Sindre and he was anal-retentive (ha, Freud) enough to always return calls he received), didn't answer any text messages. Fuck him. If he wanted to be a dick about the whole thing and pretend Søren didn't exist for however long it took him to get over his prissy hissyfit, Søren would just have to yell louder.
His foul mood had chased Kai from the apartment hours ago, letting him curl up fetally on the sofa and broil under the weight of his worsening temper, rage going darker and more volatile. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck it all--
The alarm on his wristwatch beeped as a tacit reminder-- time to take the paroxetine, time for Sindre to come home. He stared at the curtains fluttering in the slight breeze coming through the open balcony door, considering considering...
...fuck it. He was fucking sick how unattached he felt to his own pulse when he took it. Like he was just passing through his own body--
He stood and snatched the pill bottle off the coffee table, haphazardly sweeping the pills spilled out on the table back into the small plastic jar and recapping it. He drew his arm back and threw the bottle, watching it clear the door and balcony, laughing at the irony of it as he heard it bounce off the rail of Sindre's balcony and continue its descent like that boy who had flown too close to the sun, despite all warnings.
And he laughed as he kicked the coffee table, laughed at the loud protesting shriek it gave as it scraped raw wounds open across the floor.
How much louder?
How much louder did he need to be?
How much louder did he need to be to get your attention?
Søren laughed, feeling more lucid and more himself at every scream of wood against wood, bearing down heavy and loud and intrusive through the air vents and echoing through the thin floor and do I have your attention now, do I have it now, are you going to keep ignoring me and how can you?
WHO: Sindre and Søren
WHEN: The late afternoon of October 29th
WHERE: Søren's apartment
WHAT: You smashed a plate over my head.
Apparently something had crawled up Sindre's ass and he'd felt the need to ignore Søren for a solid fucking week.
Well, Christ! Forgive a guy for not wanting to spill his guts over some stupid fucking dream! But hell, someone always felt the need to psychoanalyze the hell out of everything until Søren felt twisted and confused and twitchy, like he'd done something wrong or needed to be committed to a ward for the mentally fucked up.
But--you know, he'd fucking swallowed his pride and left Sindre a voicemail, saying he'd go along with this touchy-feely feelings and 'why do you think...', 'why do you do...' bullshit.
And the asshole ignored him. All fucking week. Didn't return the call (which normally wouldn't be a big fucking deal, but it was Sindre and he was anal-retentive (ha, Freud) enough to always return calls he received), didn't answer any text messages. Fuck him. If he wanted to be a dick about the whole thing and pretend Søren didn't exist for however long it took him to get over his prissy hissyfit, Søren would just have to yell louder.
His foul mood had chased Kai from the apartment hours ago, letting him curl up fetally on the sofa and broil under the weight of his worsening temper, rage going darker and more volatile. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck it all--
The alarm on his wristwatch beeped as a tacit reminder-- time to take the paroxetine, time for Sindre to come home. He stared at the curtains fluttering in the slight breeze coming through the open balcony door, considering considering...
...fuck it. He was fucking sick how unattached he felt to his own pulse when he took it. Like he was just passing through his own body--
He stood and snatched the pill bottle off the coffee table, haphazardly sweeping the pills spilled out on the table back into the small plastic jar and recapping it. He drew his arm back and threw the bottle, watching it clear the door and balcony, laughing at the irony of it as he heard it bounce off the rail of Sindre's balcony and continue its descent like that boy who had flown too close to the sun, despite all warnings.
And he laughed as he kicked the coffee table, laughed at the loud protesting shriek it gave as it scraped raw wounds open across the floor.
How much louder?
How much louder did he need to be?
How much louder did he need to be to get your attention?
Søren laughed, feeling more lucid and more himself at every scream of wood against wood, bearing down heavy and loud and intrusive through the air vents and echoing through the thin floor and do I have your attention now, do I have it now, are you going to keep ignoring me and how can you?