Feeling like he could be sick on the fucking bus at any moment, Charlie closed his eyes and tried to tame his stupid stomach. What a fucking disgrace it would be, and all thanks to the pills he took this morning. Fucking pills. Fucking teeth. The anesthesia could disguise the pain of ripping a vile tooth from the bone, but the feeling of ingrained uselessness remained.
What a fucking mess of mouth, the dentist must have thought. With a couple of stitches on the new crater, and a never-ending flow of blood to swallow, Charlie traversed through a sea of people on the smelly, noisy, disgusting bus station. As he sat down on a disease-ridden waiting room, where time wasn’t the only thing passing, he pulled the phone from his pocket.
Shit! The fucking loudspeaker is high as fuck. A drunk, or junkie?, is repeating it loud for everybody, like it was fucking needed. That won’t work your way into me giving you money, Charlie said to himself.
He could read something. But the stomach wouldn’t digest a word of it. Writing something, though… Maybe he could write a few sentences, somewhere. He had a phone. What could he blurt about?
Fucking loudspeaker! What’s their problem?
He could write, but not about this hellhole, or himself. Charlie doesnt’t like when art starts spiraling in itself. He can’t stand it. Like films about filmmakers, or shorts with abnoxious, intellectual, unintelligible smokers as protagonists. Books with pretty misunderstood lady bookworms as leads; plays about actors dilemmas or playwright’s drunken stupor, music about drugged musicians’ descent to madness.
Fighters fight. Fishermen fish. Builders build. We, Charlie defended, use what we know to tell stories.
Give him their look on others instead! Make them mirror life through their eyes, and not only their lives. Expand your horizons. Look for your next interest. Study something other than art and then make art. Apply your passion and knowledge on other crafts and then surprise him.
Take him to the far reaches of space. To the top of Kilimanjaro or the depth of a mining disaster. Show him a monk’s pilgrimage through the unknown. Give him a murder mistery. Sing stories and people you knew and heard of. Lullaby Charlie. Scare the shit out of him. Give him wonder and then rip it out, like the fucking tooth from Hell. Describe the love of your life to Charlie, and feel him dying inside. Our story isn’t ours. We are here to tell other stories. Someone, if you’re lucky and worth it, will tell your own.
But Charlie needed to vent, to unload all of his frustrations somewhere, and the boxing bag and gloves are many miles away. Maybe creating a character-form punching bag? With the first mediocre name that came to his mind. And- Fucking loudspeaker! SHUT UP! Shut up…
He could cry. Easily. Not much sleep. Being lonely and distant helps you lose your grip. Being a human being has its perks and its nuisances. Needing a hug is the easiest disease to cure, and the worst to leave unattended.
Why, asked Charlie, is he writing in English? Why another name? Why not himself? Why is he hiding? Does he need to hide? Who is he hiding from? Why all the camouflage?
A gipsy woman is asking for money. Shit music is playing. The smell of gas and perspiration could kill someone, let alone the actual urge to do it.
Why hide? Well. The skin is exposed. Blood is pouring out, leaving a salty taste on the half-brushed mouth, and a world of passengers and buses hurrying around him couldn’t care less.