Old Habits
Joey’s hands look older than his face. Nicotine-yellow fingers rolling a cigarette that I have to accept, because that’s how our relationship works. He provides me with roll-ups and I smoke them to keep him company. The kick is not the same as it used to be though. To have something between my lips that Joey has touched is something I take for granted.
I like the fact that we have to go outside; it brings a change of atmosphere and our conversation usually gets more physical. Joey lights up and holds me tight, breathing smoke past my face. Tonight I don’t mind November; don’t mind the dark and damp. Standing in the pub courtyard with Joey is what I do, what I’ve done every Monday and Tuesday for years. None of Joey’s other friends go out before Wednesday.
I inhale the smoke so deep my lungs hurt; I never liked cigarettes in the first place. Joey forced them on me, a seal for our friendship back in the days when I was nineteen and he was…at least ten years older than me; I still don’t know his age. He’s got one of these clean-shaven baby faces and a look of pure innocence that make non-smoking women ask him for a drag. But I’m different from those women; Joey was the one who approached me—on a night when he’d run out of matches.
There are better ways to spend Monday and Tuesday nights, but Joey’s roll-ups are part of my life now. That one time I refused a cigarette, because of a sore throat, Joey told me he only sleeps with me to be kind. When people ask me if I smoke, I say I’m a part-timer, but would happily go full time if Joey loved me after Wednesday.
It’s Raining Blood
Another self-harm session has started in heaven. The sea is red again. Drops big as dogs hit people on earth. They look up, shaking their heads.
The only people who end up in heaven are the suicidals. It’s their punishment for messing with fate. Hell closed long ago.
The ones who die in war or of natural causes, like rotten livers and broken hearts
will be reborn in a new body. The suicidals end up in heaven only to find out the apple trees have been cut down, and their job is to serve God with news from the earth.
God lost interest in creating when humans became more clever than him. But he feasts on gossip, wants to know who is making war with whom.
The suicidals have a big job as the earth is a busy place. This unpaid labour makes them so blue they want to kill themselves again, but in heaven there are no deep lakes or high cliffs, no ropes, pills or weapons. All they have to hurt themselves with are childproof scissors and butter knifes.
It’s enough for them to bleed though and that’s why the sea is red again. Drops big as dogs hit people on earth. They look up, shaking their heads.
Now, when most of us know where suicidals end up, we prefer to wait for a natural cause or an accident. God will know, thanks to his spies, if you drink with intention to kill your organs or if you step out in the street, not bothering to look right, left and right again.
Louise Halvardsson was born on a cold winter’s day in Sweden in 1982. When she was old enough she escaped to Brighton, UK, where she learned about life, love and literature. Her debut novel, (“Punk influenced hard rocker with attitude”),was published in Sweden in 2007 and won an award for the Best Newcomer in Young Adult Fiction. She has just completed her first novel in English, and has signed up with an agent. To get a break from the novel work she writes short fiction and performs poetry under the name Lou Ice. |
 |