She takes the stairs two by two. The door is heavy. It creaks as it is opened. A cat scurries out of the bushes and towards the entrance to the house. “Hungry Pearls?” She greets the waddling ball of fur. The door closes behind them. The room is unnaturally bright. She turns left instinctively towards the sound of the guitar. These stairs she takes slower. One by One, taking in the sound. The clock on the wall reads 4:59. She pauses. 5:00. She opens the door and steps inside. She reaches down for the dagger. She knows exactly where it is. Taking it firmly in her hand she turns and thrusts it back in its place. A home-made door stop. Another step farther inside. They make no eye contact. She empties her pockets, placing each item in its designated place. Keys dropped into the compartment of erasers. Phone and drivers license go in with the pencil sharpener. Cigarettes? Those go with her old skateboard wheels.
With empty pockets she sits down on the chair. She spins in each direction. Slowly, surveying the room. The room is a time capsule of sorts. Her eye stops first at the headboard. The wood has many carvings in it. Mostly names of past girlfriends, many of which are quickly fading away. A few other acquaintances are scratched in as well. One in particular sticks out, “Fatty.” It is carved deeper and the lines are more rigid. It was the first. Knifes, daggers, swords and other similar weaponry is laid out precisely on top of the dresser. Ever since she has known this room they have been there. The walls are bare (egg shell white) except for one poster – a kitten nudging a puppy. The text above it reads, “getting to know you.” Its really rather cute and doesn’t fit in with the somewhat morbid vibe of the 12 by 8 cube – a would be decent sized room if it wasn’t so crammed with little trinkets. Drawings of various sinister scenes (spawning demons, bloody woman, and corpses hanging from trees to name a few) are piled throughout the room. He calls them ‘sketches,’ she calls them masterpieces. There is a blue beanbag in the middle of the floor. Covered in black band t-shirts and black jeans. She’s one of two who knows that its not only a pile of laundry. You wouldn’t know it existed if you hadn’t seen it exposed at one point.
The stereo is propped in front of the closet door. It sits slightly crooked due to (what appears to be) junk spread evenly throughout the room. Each piece has its own story. A mutilated doll – a dull night involving vodka and exacto knifes. Shattered pieces of what once was a disco ball that had been turned into a makeshift bomb using firecrackers and string. Crumpled drawings. Empty bottles (Bacardi, Absolut, Smirnoff, and some Jack) spanning a few years. An Easter basket from a few Easter’s back…still housing a few pieces of chocolate. A Hello Kitty mug and matching hat – gifts for his birthday. A few (actually a lot) of empty Marlboro Red 100 cigarette boxes are the top-most layer of garbage; a new habit. He says he’s not addicted. A Ramones poster crumpled on the ground, the tape no longer sticky, is used as a paint pallet. Paint splatters the floor where the wood is actually visible. The room is always dark. The lamp no longer gives off light. The only light in the room comes from two windows on the distant wall. In the far right corner is a broken TV – a reminder of a (fun but destructive) drunken night where the two got out of control. Sitting right in front of her on a TV dinner stand is a fluorescent green shot glass that has been put to good use. The stand is directly in between the two, an equal distance so that neither has to reach too far for the glass. Atop the television is a royal blue monster. It was hers as a child…her favorite toy. It was kidnapped from her bedroom one night and lived in his car for a month or two. Referred to as Franklin – he has matted hair, a mole infested green nose, and once white fangs have turned yellow. The room is a mess.
So why do you waste my time? Is the answer to the question on your mind. The phone she had recently taken out of her pocket starts ringing and is vibrating against the plastic compartment it had been put to rest in. She grunts, knowing exactly who it is. “That asshole is still calling you?” He says with a playful tone yet still half serious. His head drops and he grabs a-hold of the guitar once more. The ringing stops. She rarely takes phone calls when they are together. He plays the opening cords to “Daylight” by Aesop Rock, one of her favorites. They make small talk while he plays. She jokes as she picks up a dead rose, a gift from a girl who is a mere memory to them now, and begins reading the note that is attached. Words of true and everlasting love. Her eyes catch a glimpse of shining metal – an Exacto knife. She takes the knife in her hand and picks up one of many Coca-cola cans. She jabs into the metal and begins to cut. Shaping soda cans has become a hobby – they started off not looking like anything. She’s perfected her skill over the months – her most recent sculpture resembling an antique plane. Complete with mobile propellers. The plane is hanging in front of a window. The window. The window they climb in and out of several times a night – to smoke a cigarette, take a phone call, drink a beer, reminisce, or just to talk on the roof before she gets in her own car, goes to her own house, is greeted by her own cat, walks into her own room (a room she’s spent so little time in that it is almost unfamiliar to its own inhabitant) and crawls into her own bed.
The boy stays on his bed. Strumming away. The girl stays in her chair. Creating. His hair is neatly pulled back from his face, exposing his oversized earrings. Her hair is being wrangled by a beat up headband, and tucked behind her miniscule ears. An industrial barbell pierces his cartilage. She has a scar where an earring once was. He always wears black – small black t-shirts, skinny black jeans, and crisp black sneakers. Sometimes he’ll mix it up and wear his single pair of shorts, which are black as well. Her colors are more vibrant – yellows, reds, greens, and the occasional purple. Her jeans are blue, faded, and often torn (not the kind you buy torn, the kind of tears that come from crazy adventures and doing anything to get the right angle for her photos). She wears the same ratty sneakers everyday – blue and white Nike Air Force Ones. They picked them out together in 7th grade. Five years later they are still making their way into this room – daily. The tattoos on his chest and arms are visible. His left arm bears a burn, three actually. Three straight lines, each an inch and a half in length. She remembers the smell of burning flesh when she held the screw driver to his arm for him in 6th grade. They told his mother he fell into a heater. They have matching skin tones; pale. He’s skinny, not weighing more than 125 lbs. She hasn’t weighed herself in months, but is somewhere in the 140 range. His legs are exposed (the shorts are today’s choice)- an unusual sight – on the inside right calf is a tattoo that bears the same name as the headboard. On her right wrist is a black leather bracelet, “fatty” carved into it. His fingers (decorated with black nail polish) move quickly across the strings. Suddenly he stops. Looks up at her watching him and the room at the same time and makes a grimace. “It needs work, no?”
They quickly hop into conversation. Recounting the past nights events, laughing at their stupidity. A loud ringing fills her ears. She’s reminded once again that he’ll never give in and get a cell phone. For the first time since she arrived he hops off his pedestal, yells “I got it!” and dashes into his mothers bed room. Just from the bits of conversation she knows who the caller is. The conversation quickly turns serious after he says he’s busy. This isn’t new to either of them, relationships have never come between their friendship, just a problem for whoever they happen to be dating at the time. Jealousy is ugly. The phone slams and he comes wandering back into the room. She puts down her tool and final creation. Preparing to leave the room of memories behind. Without saying anything they each begin gathering what they will take, which consists only of one cell phone and a pack of cigarettes to share. Together they are everything they need and everything is enough. “Come on Fatty, lets go throw rocks.”