YOU TOO CAN BE A WASTE OF TIME | ✓

▬ 22: SKIN AND BONE

            With no fire to fill my bones and no ice to keep them sturdy, I wither like a decayed fruit. Eaten from the inside until it disintegrates into a cloud of gnats at the lightest touch.

When I arrived at Alexandra Park hours ago, I sat on the ground between three ash trees instead of a bench to avoid being disturbed. At some point, I sunk, too tired to resist gravity, to lie on my back and haven't moved since. If someone walks past, they'll think I'm a dead body. They wouldn't be wrong.

The snow dampening my clothes has numbed me. My arms are too heavy to swat away Beewolf, who buzzes excitedly around my head; he claims sovereignty. Ironically, it's my surrender to him that makes Beewolf quiet. Its voice dwindles to become one of the many that whisper over my shoulder, background noise that's easy enough to ignore. I can't even bother to get high. Maybe Nicolás were right and smoking were making it worse.

For years, I left forest fires in my wake and never cared, but now, the inferno has eaten everything. With nowt to sustain it, it too dies, and I have to face the consequences: this land is barren. Nowt will grow here again. Not even fire.

There's no space for anger in my shame.

The Earth don't breathe around me. All I can find in the ashes is my own death, silent in scorched roots, ready to grow into me like a fungus and ferment my skeleton. In the absence of fire, I'm forced to confront the gnarled and rotting corpse which is all to remain of me. The maggots feed until there's nowt left. Insatiable, they must eat each other next. With elastic skin that won't burn or tear or shatter, there's no getting rid of them.

My phone vibrates against my thigh.

With numb fingers, I fumble it out of my pocket and press it to my ear without checking the caller-ID. 'Yeah?'

A foreign voice speaks from the other end, their tone seeped with confusion at my less–than–polite monotone answer. 'Cecilio Velez Agudelo?'

I hum.

'This is Christopher Vu from the admissions office at Stellatus Preparatory School of Expressive Arts.'

I fly upright. "Yeah"? Seriously? Who answers the phone with "yeah"?

'Hiya. I mean, hello. Yes, that's me— them. Sir.'

'I'm ringing in regard to your application.' Christopher has the mercy to forgive my first impression. At least their voice remains cordial. I hold my breath as they speak. 'We don't usually contact applicants directly, but I wanted to tell you on behalf of myself and the rest of the visual arts staff here how impressed we were with your portfolio. I actually had been following you online for a short while prior to your application.'

Excitement shatters my kneecaps. A hot flush has me sweating through my numb skin and I tug at the collar of my ski jacket, try to unzip it with only one hand.

'Thank you, sir. I'm... glad—' the word comes out as a question and I grimace '—to hear that.'

'Lots of people have skill, Cecilio, but few people have vision. Especially in the era of the internet where it's so easy to plagiarise art and claim it as your own, but I won't continue into that tangent.' A short laugh interjects before Christopher returns to their diplomatic voice. 'My point is that the creativity you have is worth pursuing.'

I clamp my free hand over my mouth to muffle the laughter and squeals pumped out by my drumming heart. The jitters in my knees radiate; my legs can't stay still.

'However, we've been in touch with staff at your current college— or past college, should I say?'

My heart calcifies and falls heavy against sunken lungs.

My hand slips from my mouth as the tickling at the soles of my feet turns sharp. Why did I let myself get excited? Hollow bones are much more miserable after a temporary mirage of potential.

'We have a firm anti-violence policy at Stellatus and I'm afraid that despite your merits, due to your record of behavioural difficulties, we're unable to offer you a place to study with us.'

I nod only to realise they can't see me and force sound from my vocal cords. 'I understand.' It comes out like a clump of hair from the shower drain.

'I wanted to contact you directly to let you know you'd have been among our top choices for admission with a full scholarship if your record was less incriminating. This rejection isn't a sign you don't have what it takes to pursue a career in the arts because I firmly believe you do. Perhaps, if you work on cleaning up your reputation and find convincing recommendations, you can reapply next year.'

Christopher offers their encouragement as seeds but they mutate into toxic granules when I sow them: I had a chance.

'Right.' My tone sinks back to monotonicity. 'Thank you for the call, I... appreciate your time.'

'Alright. Best of luck. I hope to see more from you.'

Phone in a loose grip, I slump into the snow and stare at the overcast. My mind drowns in the pools of my psyche.

I actually had a chance.

Useless fucking waste of space, waste of time. I wasted all my own time and now the only way for me to stay alive is to waste the time of anyone I can get my hands on. And it's never enough. And I never say thank you. And I never give owt back. I'm a parasite. A moral life is one of balance and the scales of mine have legions of bones on one side and a single butterfly on the other.

Do I have to spoil everything? I've spoiled everything: any chance I had to finish school, to have a future, the only friendship I've ever had in my life, my last chance at family. And for what?

I've dug a churchyard of graves. ‎‏‏‎The only question is which one to bury myself in.