His Nepenthe | complete

21. Destroyed

D E S T R O Y E D M E M O R I E S

*

I ran my fingers over the dents in the walls. Walls that shouldn't have been touched for years. They were all apart from one another in texture and depth, all unique and colourful.

These walls had been touched when they shouldn't have. They'd been repainted. They'd been scarred by knives, by fists. By fucking hammers with so much undiscovered wrath. Axes of pure pain.

These walls should have remained a mark of childlike innocence, a world before pain was cherished by the walls like gossip hungry socialites finding new word of someone they'd dare called 'friend'.

It was sickening to see.

Before the bruises, before the paint, the walls made themselves bearable. They stayed silent at day and let merely the wind whisper through them in the night. But then painters came in, stitching up wounds that had already scarred, letting them rip apart over one another to bleed out.

From there they started howling as my mother started her train of lies.

I had first hit the walls about a month after they'd been repainted such a dull grey. I smashed the walls with my fist until they'd bled. I had broken the new lights, kicked over the bedside table.

I screamed as the walls ached, and the pounding in my head wouldn't stop. The walls started whispering to me. Slowly but surely, their volume turning to a howl.

I was drunk that night, for the first time in my life, stumbling through the room that broke my heart. I bled on the walls as I beat myself down on something much stronger than my young fists.

A dull vibration in my back pocket released me slowly from my reverie. I took my phone, answering the call as I placed it to my ear, eyes still darting over the walls I hated.

"What's up?"

Brandy's voice rung through the line, slightly altered as it were, as if she were out somewhere, "I have a question."

"You're not one for taking the slow route in a conversation, I see," I commented, a fake laugh coming from her side.

"Easing into a conversation is far too wasteful of precious time," she spoke sarcastically.

The sound of a guitar being played softly hummed in the background of her call, murmurings of other people with her dulling my tone, "You're wasting time right now."

"Semantics, semantics," she teased in the same tone back to me, "I'm at a gig right now and I took a bet that we can't settle without someone who doesn't know me like the back of their hand."

I furrowed my brows in confusion at her statement, "You're playing a gig?"

"No, no. I'm watching one. The thing I tried to invite you to but you were so happy with saying no like a party pooper. My best mate is the singer of a band called Not Alice and they're actually kinda fun to watch because it isn't shit," She said offhandedly, an attempt to not make me feel bad about not showing up.

"You should be paid to do advertising for them," I muttered back sarcastically, eyes tired as they ran over broken walls.

"I know. But you're getting distracted," I could just imagine the cheeky grin on her lips as she blamed her distraction on me. The line fell silent to her voice for a second as she listened to someone speaking to her, before she finally spoke the question she wanted answered, "What's my 'thing'?"

"Your 'thing'?"

"Yeah, what is the thing that makes me unique in some way or another. I can't tell you the other answers because that would ruin the test."

A small smile reached my lips at her antics as I leant against the wall, "What sparked the question?"

"Well I'm at the gig, so obviously my mate's thing is his music and poetic lyrical talents, and Saoirse's thing is her sarcastic flavour that people either love or hate. Everyone knows them for that kind of thing. They both have their respective talents too. I don't know how to explain it right, but sometimes I feel like I'm just the dude that watches them be cool. But they said otherwise I guess, and Pierre's band mates said the same thing. I've known those guys since I was like eight, though, so that doesn't really count because we all think the same at this stage," She took a well-needed breath before continuing, "so I just wanted to know what you think my 'thing' is, if I even have one."

I thought over the question for a brief moment before answering with confidence I didn't know I had, "Your positivity. That's what I think is the most 'you' thing. You're almost too kind for your own sake but you're happy with that because you're an optimist."

As it was silent on the other line, I thought maybe I had said too much. Too much realness from a boy in a dead room.

"Really?" Brandy's quiet voice was almost more positive than i had ever heard it.

My hands ran over the bruises in the wall as I shrugged a shoulder she couldn't see, "I'm a dick, but I'm not much of a liar."

"Everyone else said my dance. But I've kind of broken up with dance, so I feel like I'm far too lackluster," a sigh left her nose, "Ballet will always be a part of me, but it's been far too toxic at times for me to be happy with that being my 'thing'. Positivity though, that's a nice 'thing' to have though, I think."

"Your dance is a thing you do, not the thing you are."

I was very conscious of her breath as she groaned, "I wish you would've come out tonight, instead of having to have dinner with your brother. Family's always good but I like talking to you."

I felt a pang in my gut at my ill truth. I felt terrible for lying to her, sure. But she was getting so close and I was learning too much and I was worried I was going to ruin it all if I stayed with her on a day where I wanted to bleed the most. That was far too dangerous for her to see.

I didn't want to be another bad thing for her, but I couldn't help my toxic mind.

"Have you had some drinks or something?"

"No, why?"

"No reason, just didn't think you'd say that sober."

The brunette let out a soft comforting laugh on the other line, "You're the one who doesn't want to be my friend, not the other way around, dummy."

"Cute," I mumbled mockingly, though it was a kind statement for her to say.

"I know," she commented back sarcastically. The sound of a drum falling over in the background almost made me jump, her laugh resonating over the line as she told someone they should get a taxi. Brandy's attention was back on me in a mere minute, "I have to go, but next time I invite you out, you'd better say yes or I'll cry."

"Cry me a river then."

"Oh, I will."

"Bye."

"See you later, gator," I could imagine her golden eyes giving me a wink as she bit her lip in a cheeky manor to show she was joking, but ultimately happy.

The silence of the line felt bare but welcomed as the sky filtered itself through thin curtains.

There were rips in walls that should have remained the same and all I wanted to do was strip back the paint to let it reach the sun again.