:m a g n u s:
His hand on my mouth shocked me a little bit, and the words instantly caught in my throat. Silently I thanked him, but I also really wanted to bite him. Besides that, it didn't occur to me until years later, but he probably used that hand to.... I mean, not recently, no. He had been home with the kids, and I know that Monika would never do anything like that while they were around... or at least while they were awake.... I don't know, I just didn't. I looked at him, and he was still himself, but he was... different. It was an uncomfortable feeling, and then again it was a sort of pride in accomplishment. I had known Monika for years, so I felt that I had influenced him in a way whether it be positively or negatively. Actually, we were bound to rub off on eachother somehow, and bad habits stick easier than good ones. I wonder what he'd picked up from me.... I know that I'd learned to be a little more accepting of people, and that I'd realized that fantasy was just fantasy and that it no longer appealled to me. If it didn't make any logical sense then it was difficult for me to get along with it, and I think I earned that by watching endless hours of National Geographic and Discovery Channel DVDs with him and his siblings. I actually remember walking in while they were watching Happy Feet and staring at the screen for a minute before telling them, and I quote, "This is stupid. Everyone knows penguins don't dance. They don't talk, either. And they don't sing Boogie Wonderland with carefully planned choreography or give their chicks Human names. Besides all that, Mumble is a retarded name for a penguin." I cannot even begin to explain to you what happened after that. Monika thinks it's a cute movie and that it's actually quite accurate; but I think that I'll actually be able to enjoy it if you go out and find me a penguin with a Spanish accent named Ramone. Then I will be happy.
Monika's reaction was so typically Monika that I actually sighed in relief. He took my hand to examine it before he declared that I had to see a doctor. But... with today's waiting lines... we could be there for hours, and then I'd miss work and I'd lose my job and I'd end up living on the streets (because God knows I refuse to move back in with my parents) and I wouldn't have enough money to support myself so I'd have to get a job as a maid in that house across the street with the big brick wall around it and the Ferrari in the driveway! Hyper-ventilation! Wow.... Breathe. Calm down.... At least I knew now that I'd broken my knuckle; it felt good to know that I'd done it on someone's face, too. "I can't go see a doctor now, Monika; I have a bar to tend in, like, three hours. Work comes before broken hands." I don't know if that logic made sense, and I could imagine my father agreeing with me readily that I had an obligation to my job. Then I could see my mother getting upset because I wouldn't let her tape on a finger splint because that meant that when I actually went to the hospital, they'd have to pull the tape off, which would move my finger around too much and then I'd be in pain. Seriously, though, don't tell Maman she can't do something because that just makes her want to do it all the more. It's kind of annoying, and I know there's a reason why I love her... I just don't know what it is. Just because she's my Maman doesn't mean I'm entitled to love her, you know.
Icing my knuckle was probably a good idea, even if I felt my hand go numb while I finished my soup off one-handedly. Even if my accomplishment made me feel good about myself, it didn't mean that I had to be happy about the situation. Part of me knew that if I tried to get up and leave, Monika would do everything in his power to bring me back so that I didn't end up hurting myself even more. Serious, who the fuck breaks their knuckle on someone else's face? How often does that actually happen? I didn't even punch him that hard, which meant that it was merely my dumb-ass luck acting up on me again. Nothing to worry about. I'd come to expect that I could never expect where it would strike next, and that if it didn't happen for a few days I was liable to break something â this right here was living, breathing (but not really, because broken fingers neither live nor breathe, though one could argue that, unless the finger is completely removed, it's still part of your body in which case it is, in every technicality, alive) proof of that. I couldn't help but stare at my hand, not wanting to look at Monika at all, listening to time tick away slowly. When I'd finished my soup, I rose to collect my dishes and deposit them in the sink to be rinsed, realized that my hand was really as broken as I thought it was, and dropped the bowl out of instinct. "Ah!" Now I looked up at Monika because I was pretty sure he was going to try to do something, and pulled my hand close to me. "It doesn't hurt," I protested weakly, gathering the bowl on top of the plate and carrying them both in one hand. I was cautious, though I attempted to hide it, because I was pretty sure that there was a good chance that I might actually drop something on the floor and have on of the pieces rebound just to lodge into my knee or manage by some freak feat of nature to sever my Achilles Tendon or something stupid like that. Yeah, it wasn't completely impossible considering the neon pink strip club carpet in my living room....
Now, staring out the closest window and into the dark of night, I did that thing I do because I'm stupid and don't pay attention to myself. Also, I sometimes have involentary muscle spasms, but that's just an excuse I made up to cover for my doing of stupid things. Abesnt-mindedly, I reached up and felt the swollen knuckle, halfways wondering where my ice had wandered off to. I poked at it gently, feeling a delicate sting, and then pressed down on it a little harder; the pain intensified in a small jolt. At that point, I ran my finger over it, feeling definite bone-on-bone contact and wincing at the sound I imagined â like nails on a chalkboard. I looked down to watch it in curiousity, which was a bad idea; it was definitely broken and with the adreniline having disappeared completely, it burned. It wasn't even the pleasant kind of burn either, the kind that any man who plans on bottoming will have need to experience (yeah I went there); it was the burning kind of burning, like pressing your whole hand to a stove element. The kind of burning that makes you jump up, yelp, and then shake your hand like it's going to help. Luckily I saved myself from shaking my hand around wildly, which definitely would have made it worse, and decided that for once in my life I had to admit that I was wrong.
"Okay. Fucking ow. Just let me call Seth to tell him that I'm not coming in tonight so that he can scramble around looking for a replacement for the next two and a half hours." I looked up at the clock, then back at Monika, and very slowly offered my hand to him. "Hold this. Make sure I don't do anything too retarded, okay?"
His hand on my mouth shocked me a little bit, and the words instantly caught in my throat. Silently I thanked him, but I also really wanted to bite him. Besides that, it didn't occur to me until years later, but he probably used that hand to.... I mean, not recently, no. He had been home with the kids, and I know that Monika would never do anything like that while they were around... or at least while they were awake.... I don't know, I just didn't. I looked at him, and he was still himself, but he was... different. It was an uncomfortable feeling, and then again it was a sort of pride in accomplishment. I had known Monika for years, so I felt that I had influenced him in a way whether it be positively or negatively. Actually, we were bound to rub off on eachother somehow, and bad habits stick easier than good ones. I wonder what he'd picked up from me.... I know that I'd learned to be a little more accepting of people, and that I'd realized that fantasy was just fantasy and that it no longer appealled to me. If it didn't make any logical sense then it was difficult for me to get along with it, and I think I earned that by watching endless hours of National Geographic and Discovery Channel DVDs with him and his siblings. I actually remember walking in while they were watching Happy Feet and staring at the screen for a minute before telling them, and I quote, "This is stupid. Everyone knows penguins don't dance. They don't talk, either. And they don't sing Boogie Wonderland with carefully planned choreography or give their chicks Human names. Besides all that, Mumble is a retarded name for a penguin." I cannot even begin to explain to you what happened after that. Monika thinks it's a cute movie and that it's actually quite accurate; but I think that I'll actually be able to enjoy it if you go out and find me a penguin with a Spanish accent named Ramone. Then I will be happy.
Monika's reaction was so typically Monika that I actually sighed in relief. He took my hand to examine it before he declared that I had to see a doctor. But... with today's waiting lines... we could be there for hours, and then I'd miss work and I'd lose my job and I'd end up living on the streets (because God knows I refuse to move back in with my parents) and I wouldn't have enough money to support myself so I'd have to get a job as a maid in that house across the street with the big brick wall around it and the Ferrari in the driveway! Hyper-ventilation! Wow.... Breathe. Calm down.... At least I knew now that I'd broken my knuckle; it felt good to know that I'd done it on someone's face, too. "I can't go see a doctor now, Monika; I have a bar to tend in, like, three hours. Work comes before broken hands." I don't know if that logic made sense, and I could imagine my father agreeing with me readily that I had an obligation to my job. Then I could see my mother getting upset because I wouldn't let her tape on a finger splint because that meant that when I actually went to the hospital, they'd have to pull the tape off, which would move my finger around too much and then I'd be in pain. Seriously, though, don't tell Maman she can't do something because that just makes her want to do it all the more. It's kind of annoying, and I know there's a reason why I love her... I just don't know what it is. Just because she's my Maman doesn't mean I'm entitled to love her, you know.
Icing my knuckle was probably a good idea, even if I felt my hand go numb while I finished my soup off one-handedly. Even if my accomplishment made me feel good about myself, it didn't mean that I had to be happy about the situation. Part of me knew that if I tried to get up and leave, Monika would do everything in his power to bring me back so that I didn't end up hurting myself even more. Serious, who the fuck breaks their knuckle on someone else's face? How often does that actually happen? I didn't even punch him that hard, which meant that it was merely my dumb-ass luck acting up on me again. Nothing to worry about. I'd come to expect that I could never expect where it would strike next, and that if it didn't happen for a few days I was liable to break something â this right here was living, breathing (but not really, because broken fingers neither live nor breathe, though one could argue that, unless the finger is completely removed, it's still part of your body in which case it is, in every technicality, alive) proof of that. I couldn't help but stare at my hand, not wanting to look at Monika at all, listening to time tick away slowly. When I'd finished my soup, I rose to collect my dishes and deposit them in the sink to be rinsed, realized that my hand was really as broken as I thought it was, and dropped the bowl out of instinct. "Ah!" Now I looked up at Monika because I was pretty sure he was going to try to do something, and pulled my hand close to me. "It doesn't hurt," I protested weakly, gathering the bowl on top of the plate and carrying them both in one hand. I was cautious, though I attempted to hide it, because I was pretty sure that there was a good chance that I might actually drop something on the floor and have on of the pieces rebound just to lodge into my knee or manage by some freak feat of nature to sever my Achilles Tendon or something stupid like that. Yeah, it wasn't completely impossible considering the neon pink strip club carpet in my living room....
Now, staring out the closest window and into the dark of night, I did that thing I do because I'm stupid and don't pay attention to myself. Also, I sometimes have involentary muscle spasms, but that's just an excuse I made up to cover for my doing of stupid things. Abesnt-mindedly, I reached up and felt the swollen knuckle, halfways wondering where my ice had wandered off to. I poked at it gently, feeling a delicate sting, and then pressed down on it a little harder; the pain intensified in a small jolt. At that point, I ran my finger over it, feeling definite bone-on-bone contact and wincing at the sound I imagined â like nails on a chalkboard. I looked down to watch it in curiousity, which was a bad idea; it was definitely broken and with the adreniline having disappeared completely, it burned. It wasn't even the pleasant kind of burn either, the kind that any man who plans on bottoming will have need to experience (yeah I went there); it was the burning kind of burning, like pressing your whole hand to a stove element. The kind of burning that makes you jump up, yelp, and then shake your hand like it's going to help. Luckily I saved myself from shaking my hand around wildly, which definitely would have made it worse, and decided that for once in my life I had to admit that I was wrong.
"Okay. Fucking ow. Just let me call Seth to tell him that I'm not coming in tonight so that he can scramble around looking for a replacement for the next two and a half hours." I looked up at the clock, then back at Monika, and very slowly offered my hand to him. "Hold this. Make sure I don't do anything too retarded, okay?"