Red North

1. I see a room with square black and white tiles on the floor and a deep red curtain on the other side. There’s a stage there, the barman tells me. Middle-aged, wears a moustache and while he speaks he cleans a glass. I stare into my own, at the clear liquid inside, silently savoring the warmth radiating down my throat.

Sometimes people come out from behind the curtain and do things, like sing a song or act, or something. He told me that, the bartender with his awkward monotonous voice that articulates each and every word in the same way. He probably told the same thing a hundred times before to a hundred other men and women staying in for the night because their car broke down conveniently close to the hotel. I grin into my drink and don’t care about any stage. The whole room is empty and dark, tables and chairs unoccupied yet ready to receive, musty odor of wood wax floating in the air, probably drenching all surfaces just like the counter I’m placing my empty glass upon.

2. I see my hands turning a cell phone off and throwing it in a corner of the car. My eyes stare back at me from the rear view mirror and they look brown and angry and… No, that was before. Before this, before coming here… Here I can wrap a whole city and the life there into a small device I can turn off. A device like the aforementioned phone, now staying on the nightstand close to the bed, just laying there in silence, no backlight, no yelling voice coming out, no anything. That was before.

3. I see a face. Long and white and sad; I see a young man playing at a drum in front of the red curtain. The lights are all on him, three white circles merged into one, piercing the dim room with the vacant places, and his eyes are closed, his mouth half open, his muscles strained and yet flexible, pushing his hands in all directions. He hits the drums and time seems to divide in sequences of four, going slower, harder, and then faster, through bass, snare and hi-hat. Someone plays a piano in the corner somewhere, out of tune, and maybe, maybe there are other voices too but all lights rest on this boy the bartender calls Rob and I can’t see who else is there. I don’t really care either, can’t really see anything else than this person in front of the red curtain.

Rattling cymbals end it and my palms hit against each other in a frantic applause. He looks at me through the dark and empty room and for a while I can feel the stifling aroma of waxed pine parquet up in my brain. All I see is the perpetual glowing in the edge of a moving cymbal, the small glitter it spreads on his face and how he holds his drumsticks close to his body. It frames him, that red curtain, a round halo around him that seems to ripple sluggishly.

Then, he blinks, turns around and leaves and I can breathe again.

4. I see his face closer and think his pores might be tiny, for I can’t see any on his lean white face as I touch my lips to his. He bents under me, so pliable, like paper, moans softly and his whole body seems to flow under me, a liquid silk through my fingers, sliding everywhere. And my hands don’t get used to the length of his limbs and lithe, almost skinny frame, and my palms don’t get used with running over warm skin that keeps trembling slightly, and my face doesn’t get used to being touched by his fingers and lips and lashes. And in the middle of all heat and never-ending gasps and me in him, my mind doesn’t get used to this new idea and continuous talking in my head, that makes me move and move and move and clutch to the wooden bedpost so hard until he screams, and I scream, and all I need, all I want is to take him away from this place, away with me.

5. I see his eyes look down at the golden valley as I say this to him one day and see his mouth move to speak, and then my ears know and my brain knows and I…

He’s not fine. He’s not happy here. He just says it so.

6. I see the floor as he says he’d wish I could stay here with him, and, after a while, he turns his head to the side like he did that first time together and whispers ‘I fell in love with you’.

For a while, only the transparent curtain makes a noise, slowly dancing into the noon breeze.

I watch the bed we shared a while ago, trying to decrypt an answer there, then the door he left thru and I think I could love him, and I think I could stay here for a while. Then the curtain moves and I see the trees shedding leaves and already feel this thing inside my brain, close to madness, close to love…

7. I see my car in the empty parking lot and it has red leaves and dirt on the windows and the doors. My wristwatch tells me it’s been months since I love this boy every night. And for a while, it’s ok.

I don’t ask myself why my cell phone doesn’t work, or why there’s no news on the radio. I go back inside the hotel and watch him play. His eyes are closed. I don’t need anything else.

8. I see snowflakes outside the window, then his naked body close to mine, and my fingers go walking in a landscape of white skin and bluish veins, tracing the deep line between his shoulder-blades, over ribs, down his spine and lower, in between legs, under white sheets.

I see long, long lashes on half closed eyelids and my mouth follows the trail left by my fingers, and through the blur I see a bony hip that tastes like skin and salt and shivers under my touch.

It goes slow, slow like drowsy, heavy snow falling outside and I forget and shiver when his tongue fills my palm. And he doesn’t have to whisper cause I know.

Feel him on and over and all around me, and while his hand parts my knees, my mind keeps me where he keeps me, in a simple sentenced madness that goes back and forth, rocking infinitely.

When I open my eyes again he’s eye-closed, a gentle weight on top of me, and the snow is high on the windowsill.

9. I see a corridor, long and dim, with doors on both sides and a flickering light at the end, sparkling in the dark like a distant lighthouse. I don’t know why I like that analogy so much lately. A while ago, I would have asked someone to change the damn bulb, now I just seem to lack the will to remember to tell it to the barman, or the interest. I faintly hear voices behind the numbered panes and think I can’t really remember the faces of the other guests either, or seeing them at all, then I think I spend all of my time in bed or around the hotel, or... Nobody comes out when it snows anyway, and it snowed for weeks now.

10. I see the white landscape before me, warped between the vapors from my coffee. Snow and snow and snow and trees in the distance and a road that goes down, down a valley, on the edge of a precipice. But I can’t see them now. All I see is snow and his face and he smiles, his cheeks flushed from the cold morning air and the warm coffee in his hands. I press my own harder to the hot mug and forget to say I need to go back.

11. I see his hands over his ears and the way he moves his head from left to right over and over again as I mutter the words I keep forgetting lately. I tell him I want to take him away from here, that the city is beautiful and he will be a famous drummer. I tell him I need him and all he says is no, no, no, no, no.

12. I see a white valley and a white sky, it snows, and for a while, I think the snow touches the sky.

It poured red leaves for weeks and in his sleep he always held on to me, now it’s pouring snow and blood from a breach in the sewer down the valley. The water runs down the creek through edges of transparent ice, but it pours warm blood from the concrete sewer and the snow is soaking red.

13. I see his face as he sleeps and I keep my face pressed at the back of his neck, where the scent of wood and dust and velvet that fills this room and all the others never reaches, there where it only smells like him and tastes like him and feels like him. I watch his shoulder lift and lower itself slowly and my mind wants to kiss away the goose bumps on his skin.

I didn’t tell him I fixed my car and packed most of my things. I didn’t tell him I packed some of his things in a bag. I didn’t tell him anything.

When I press my eyes shut, I can’t fall asleep.

14. I see the end of the corridor and I walk down the stairs to the restaurant. The red curtain is immobile as ever, folded in countless heavy waves hanging down from the ceiling, and I think it must be smelling like a fog of tobacco and dust and the bartender fails to see me as I walk towards the stage to bury my hands in it. No light points here now and it seems almost black, the curtain, and there’s no drum to shimmer, and the piano sits quiet in a corner, chords tired and loose, dormant in the ebony carcass. My hands run over the almost furry surface, and it makes a noise, this crimson curtain, that ripples heavily like black petroleum waves over a barren shore, a ruffled noise while brushing over the wood under my feet, a muted noise that sounds like grit, like raking forks and I drop it from my hands as I realize the sound is not of fabric but of metal. The room is unlighted, a halo surrounding the bar in the distance over the empty tables and there is nobody here eating anything, but as I stay there, I realize all the while the sound comes not from the room, nor the curtain, but from behind it.

15. I see a room with no windows and a long table with people on both sides talking and laughing and eating and I see him between them all, as he stares down at his plate. I feel the curtain slip heavy from my fingers and it ripples to the left and to the right and, for a moment, I think I feel it pushing at my back. When I look back at the table, I see them all eating, almost ignorant at my presence and part of me wants to leave, but then a woman in a long dress gasps, and says, well, mister Delson, we’ve been expecting you eventually.

16. I see his face as I sit down next to him and I look away at the thing in my plate. Same as in his, in the woman’s, and in everybody else’s. They don’t seem to mind my looking, or my presence, for that matter, and I don’t feel well, nor right, just watch them with their silver forks and silver knives, dissecting that thing that looks like meat. They all eat and eat and eat and I… I cannot touch my fork. Then a man raises his own silver dish with yellow fingers and in the light I think his nails look yellow too. With the fork raised, he declares to the oblivious audience, ‘Chili con carne’ then looks at me and everyone suddenly laughs for some reason. To my left I see Rob and he’s not laughing, not looking at anyone at all, not eating, just squeezing his index between thumb and middle-finger. He stares at the tablecloth and I stare at the tablecloth and see a red stain soaking the fabric. I numbly start scratching at it and the woman in front of me follows my motions then says in a low voice, “Beet soup. I always tell him to be careful when eating. Red stains are hard to get out.” Then she smiles, looks at him, then at me and says nothing. Her eyes look back to her plate and I think she has long, long lashes, just like his. She lifts her eyes again and her smile is small but warm. Under the table, his fingers look sore from all the squeezing and pulling.

‘I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well’, I say and on my way out, I think I see the woman look to me then to him and back to me. I think she’s smiling.

17. I see blood pouring from the sewer and there are other cars in the parking, roof bending under the snow, but no one goes out to clean them. Nobody goes out when it snows. There’s an empty space next to my car, and I remember a man parking his car there days ago, before the snowstorm. There’s no car there now and they say all the roads are closed till February.

I see my own fingers as they grab the remaining clothes and pack them all to leave. I walked through the snow yesterday and the road… I remember asking the bartender and Rob where that man went and they both said he left the next day. It stormed that day.

I remember the food in that strange room for some reason and suddenly feel the need to throw up.

18. I see a needle follow book antiqua numbers in a perfect arc, from right to left as the small elevator reaches the basement. I push the door with cast iron flowers aside and stare into the darkness of what seems a garage. There are things everywhere, on the floor, stacked along the walls, hung up. For a moment I think I never seen so many tires in one place, and then I realize I haven’t, and on one table I see a box with car signs, Chevy, Lincoln, Ford, all kinds of signs and emblems, then metallic doors in one corner and in the farther end of the room I see a car wrapped in a gray fabric. I let my feet drag me to that spot and try to make my mind stop all the thinking and the talking, and in the haze of thought and the darkness of the room I see my hand pulling the fabric down and I have to put my hand over my mouth not to scream. I look at the man’s car in front of me, windshield full of blood.

19. I see doors rushing past me, numbers descending as I speed down the corridor. I think I hear glimpses of conversations behind them as I run, but the words are scattered, disjointed and have no logic in my brain.

I see the door to my own room and then his face as I burst in, curious and surprised, even more so as I grab him by his elbow. I ignore his slightly narrowed eyes and raised brows, I ignore the small sound he makes as my grip hardens and I drag him to the car. He follows reluctantly but doesn’t say a word, still says nothing when I put the bag of clothes, his, and mine in the back seat. Speaks slowly only when the doors are shut and I start the engine. He asks, where are we going, but I say nothing, not when it takes so long to get the car to move and not until I can get rid of the mirrored image of the hotel behind me.

20. I see the trees never-ending on my left and on my right, as I drive down the mountain, and I briefly think that all the curves and turns look just the same. I hear him whisper and my mind has trouble telling my heart to slow down, as it fails to tell my foot to not press on the acceleration so hard anymore. He whispers again, and the words reach my ears, muted by the noise of the engine, rendered unintelligible by it and all I hear is a mumbling. Snow makes the car slow down and then I understand what he’s saying, sense connecting with sound, finally articulating, and I hear, I want to go back, please, let’s go back. I say nothing. I know nothing. All I know is I can’t go back there and I’m not letting him return to that place either.

21. I see him, curled against the door and I’ve been seeing him like this for half an hour already thru the corner of my eye. From time to time he whispers the same words. Let’s go back.

I’m not going back, I think, as he quiets down suddenly, and while the snow is thick and the road a continuous white plane guarded by trees I think how his hands hold the drumsticks and how he smiles and I can’t see that in him now. All I see is a broken doll that reaches for the door, then everything happens too sudden and I hear it click open and the storm rush in beating at my face and through half cracked eyes I briefly see his shape fall out of the running car. No, not running car, snailing car, snailing through the snow. Then he’s gone and the door shuts down with a loud sound pushed by the wind. I stop the car and rush out to the dark pack of clothes and limbs rolling in pain in the snow. It’s my mind that fails to understand, fails to react, and it’s my voice that keeps screaming, shouting out, what are you doing, while his face has tears streaming down his red cheeks. He clings at my arm and all he says is, I want to go back. Let’s go back. Please. Let us go back. Please.

All I can do is mutter, I can’t.

22. I see his face next to me on the spread out seats in the car and wonder how his lashes are so long and I feel my heart hurt to see him so miserable. And while I kiss his lips, I wonder if I had tasted from that stale blood when making love to him and suddenly I don’t care anymore. I don’t care that I know he’s somehow connected to that place, that he’s part of the horror that happens there, I don’t care and I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know. He’s here with me, I think and cling to him while his breath is on my face and he lies next to me and I say nothing and he repeats ‘let me go back’ and I still say nothing, just trace my fingers through his dark hair. Sometimes it seems the cold creeps out of here. Most times it just creeps in.

23. I see his mouth gasp open and my fingers touching his lips, and my mind knows this is madness and the road has no end, and there’s no going back - I need to touch the warmth of his skin I faintly remember from back there. Bury myself into him while he moans my name, and I move slowly, and think I hear the snow rapping at the windows and the glass starting to sweat under the cold, while his breath is warm and hitched, and his cheek cold under my mouth and his fingers slithering cold under my clothes. He whispers ‘let me go’ and I feel a gap everywhere our bodies meet.

Then I lay down next to him and he goes up and I tell him stories, little stories about the city and how I’m going to make him famous and he just stares into space at the snow.

I turn the radiator on till I can’t turn anymore, but my fingers keep freezing under the warm gush.

I love you, he says, and I look at him and he says, I can’t leave, I must go back, please bring me back. Please let us stay there. We can stay there together. He grabs my wrist; I see the hair sticking to his forehead, and the clouds coming out of his mouth and he says, please let us go back.

24. I see his face while I say no, and, I can’t, and see him wrap his clothes around himself, then his arms around himself, and he turns away. I say, come here, and see his body rocking gently back and forth, and I say, it’s warm here, we’ll stay warm ‘til morning and we’ll see how to get out of the snow. A while nothing moves but the snowflakes outside the damp windows and vapors from our mouths and it’s cold, it’s still cold, and I whisper, come here, but he doesn’t, shouts, let me go, so loud I feel my head hitting against something, and it probably does, for I see him push me down, and his frame not so thin anymore, and I think, he’s beautiful, and something is pouring down at my nape and then I think…

No, I don’t think anything anymore.

25. I see nothing and it has no color, similar to black, but deeper, emptier, lacking any power, just a pulse somewhere behind my head. There’s a wailing sound and in the dark I grab a cold hand and it goes, I love you, and, why, why, why, why, and, I love you. I love you.

I love you too.

Then it’s cold and I think I feel my body dragged through the snow, and then it stops, the dragging and all, and for a while snow falls on my face.

Nothing has no color. Like white, and I see white everywhere. Feel a slow, slow breath at my neck, hear teeth that chatter, and it’s cold and white and there’s almost no air and I think I have a blanket over me, a blanket made of him and snow.

So much snow, so much white here, so, so much white and I clutch his hand, or he clutches mine and…

There’s only white left after nothing. I see white and numbly think that it must be sad far away in the precipices.

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A.N.: Written to the 'Hail to the thief' album by Radiohead, therefore works well on that music. May be mixed with music from Amnesiac also by Radiohead. Took 4 months to write. 3867 words.