Verrattomia
Berlin-based; fiction, non-fiction and poetry.
Verrattomia
Berlin-based; fiction, non-fiction and poetry.
Berlin-based; fiction, non-fiction and poetry.
Berlin-based; fiction, non-fiction and poetry.
You hear a lot of things when you're out in the streets jumping.
Bewilderment, colourful advice and well-meaning insults.
But that doesn't stop me - I know that the boys are out tonight.
When I arrive, training has begun.
They leap, chaotic herd of cats jumping from wall to wall, landing on small bars, vaulting over the void. You see four walls and a flight of stairs - they see endless possibilities.
The city is their playground. The streets are where they forge themselves. The concrete rips open their clothes and etches itself in their skin, the unholy stigmata turning into silver scars that they show their parents with repentance and their peers with pride.
And they fly, and they twist, and they fall, golden in the dimming sunlight and the certainty that they can outrun death.
The oldest just turned thirty, the youngest has barely learned to walk - youth is insolent and raucous, and it will fly unless you cut its wings. They teach me when I struggle just because that's what it means to be part of them, and others did it for them before. Humility is easy in the face of kindness.
Sweat drips down their bare skin, adorns the tattoos on their backs with beads, the display of their exertion is a big "fuck you" to anyone who can't even dream that bodies can move like that.
One of them jumps. It's a perfect arc over the crowd that is, in that moment, completey silent. As one, we hold our breath, and time suspends itself to see if the jumper will make it.
Here, the measure of virility is how much of yourself you give. In this world blood is a badge of honour, and the only failed jump is the one you did not dare to make.
Fear takes away agency, and the chance to get better. It slowly takes hold of your limbs and weaves its paralytic web around your throat until it closes up. So they battle it, they toss and turn for the right to keep breathing**.**
There is respect for those who succeed, because they pay the price of discipline - there is respect for those who fail, because they pay the price of commitment. Commitment, definition: to stop being tied down by what is or isn't possible.
Is it dangerous? Danger is a biblical beast that will aim for your gut if you flinch. Taming it is a miracle that the boys perform by religiously sharpening their skills, drilling their mouvements until they master them with the precision of watchmakers. They pray by spitting in their hands and rubbing them on the soles of their shoes - eliminating dust is eliminating the risk.
The jumper gets to the other side. The silence is broken by a joyful roar - he made it. I roar with them because I AM one of the boys - how do you call the opposite of toxic masculinity again?
And they fight, those golden boys, they fight for the right to keep the hold on that stupid, senseless, childish feeling of the concrete under their feet and the sky at their fingertips.
They fight for it because it cascades through their fingers like sand, every day bringing them closer to the ground so, of course they want to jump higher.
They are misfits, outcasts and weirdos, the kind who skips school and comes back with a broken arm to work once a month. They lost faith in everything that is not themselves because a lot of them never had a choice. Their cathedral of concrete has heard all their anger and all their frustration for a world that urges them to grow up. When you ask them what they want to be, they say “pffff… famous?”.
They're a pack of young wolves who prey on freedom on the daily - but they’re only scary because they hunt the gods and it seems that, if you let them, they could eat the sun.
The boys are out tonight in their torn trousers and bruised skin. They are out in their youth and their burning dreams. And they are. Stupidly. Beautiful.
"This is too dangerous.""You're gonna hurt yourself."
"Stop that nonsense before you end up in the hospital, or worse, hurt someone else."
"Get out of here, it's private property."
"Go get a job instead of jumping like a child. You'll end up paralysed."
"You're damaging the wall. It's so disrespectful."
"Did he really do that?"
Can you keep a secret? You hear a lot of things when you're out in the streets jumping. Bewilderment, colourful advice and well-meaning insults But that doesn't stop me - I know that the boys are out tonight.
When I arrive, training has begun. They leap, chaotic herd of cats jumping from wall to wall, landing on small bars, vaulting over the void. You see four walls and a flight of stairs - they see endless possibilities. The city is their playground. The streets are where they forge themselves. The concrete rips open their clothes and etches itself in their skin, the holy stigmata turning into silver scars that they show their parents with repentance and their peers with pride. And they fly, and they twist, and they fall, golden in the dimming sunlight and the certainty that they can outrun death. The oldest are in their thirties, the youngest have barely learned to walk - youth is insolent and raucous, and it will fly unless you cut its wings. They teach me when I struggle just because that's what it means to be part of them, and others did it for them before. Humility is easy in the face of kindness. The sweat drips down their bared skin, adorns the tattoos on their backs with beads, the beauty of exertion is a big "fuck you" to anyone who can't dream that bodies cannot move like that. One of them jumps. It's a perfect arc that overlooks the crowd that is, in that moment, perfectly silent. As one, we hold your breath to see if he will make the jump.
Here, the measure of virility is how much of yourself you give. In this world blood is a badge of honour. The only failed jump is the one you did not dare to make, because fear is the real danger. Fear takes away the risk and the chance to get better. It slowly takes hold of your limbs and weaves its paralytic web around your throat until it closes it up. So they battle it, they toss and turn for the right to keep breathing. There is respect for those who succeed, because they pay the price of discipline - there is respect for those who fail, because they pay the price of commitment. Commitment to stop being tied down by what is or isn't possible. And they master their mouvements with the precision of highly trained watchmakers. Risk is a wild animal, a biblical beast that will aim for your throat if you only flinch. Taming it is a miracle that the boys perform daily. It's a strenuous and rewarding prayer that takes the form of spitting in your hands and rubbing them on the soles of your shoes - eliminating dust because they are so sure that their muscles will wrestle the beast. The silence is broken by a joyful roar - he made the jump. The danger magnifies it, but it is not what makes the moment sublime - it is what it means to face the danger.!!!!!
And they fight, those golden boys, they fight for the right to keep the hold on that stupid, senseless, childish feeling of the concrete under their feet and the sky at their fingertips. They fight for it because they can sense it passing through their fingers like sand, every day bringing them closer to the ground so, of course they would want to jump higher. They are misfits, outcasts and weirdos, the kind who skips school and comes back with a broken arm to work once a month. They lost faith in everything that is not themselves because a lot of them never had a choice. Their cathedral of concrete has heard all their anger and all their frustration in a world that urges them to grow up. They're a pack of young wolves who outrun freedom on the daily - their light shines so bright because they are desperate to control something and they scare the passerby because they are gods.
I have grown to be the golden child
Always perfect, never needy, never faltering
A savant bird in a silver cage that I weaved myself
To keep away the critics and the doubts.
I rose to the bullies and built myself an Olympus
Of books and art and friends that would flatter my intellect
And considered that “growing”
Moved overseas, and called it “learning”.
Today I look back on my empire of rust
My crown torn in half
And I am scared of the violence I harbour
Scared of becoming the bully.
Dear all,
I am hereby extending to you an invitation for my final farewell party. As it turns out, the global environmental crisis, the political climate and the perspective of a Third World War have tipped the scales enough for me to want to retreat from society in an indefinite manner.
That’s it! I have had enough! I am renouncing my name, address, citizenship, and plan to go live as a feral recluse, half- man and half-animal, in the few pockets of untouched nature than may exist on this fucked up planet.
I have no interest for anything but surviving to the best of my meagre abilities and forget about taxes, presidents, bus tickets and politeness. This is not only a decision that will critically improve my mental health, but also yours, as I am aware that the past few months and years have not been easy on all of you because of my deep -rooted issues.
In these dark, uncertain times, you have all been beacons of joy and hope - and I would love the pleasure of raising my glass in your honour one last time. I want to depart society with a bang, and feel the pale warmth of humanity one last time before giving myself over to my inner beast.
The party will be held at my apartment in Manhattan, at the corner of Park Avenue and 69th Street, on Halloween night. I want to appeal to your most basic instincts and celebrate, honour and desecrate the life I have lived so far. THE PLACE MUST BE DESTROYED. It is a mandatory step in my transition, and one that I would love all of you to take with me. Bring any painting, markers, food, hammers, tools that you can think of to tear apart the prison that has been constricting me all these years.
Although destructive in nature, do not think that this event is not primarily aimed at reminiscing about our many memories. Do come as you are, as we have know each other, and let me salute the life we have shared - bring objects that are tied to a memory of us, and let us build a shrine to the wonders of human connection, a temporary altar for both you and me and a way to say goodbye with a proper setting.
I care for you all, and had I been a stronger man we would not have to part. But I am not that strong, and the only way for me to keep sane is to do what most people will consider a madness, or a folly - but deep down I know that all of you will eventually realise that this is my only way to not turn crazy.
Feel free to record anything you like, bring anything or anyone you like, and do anything you want as long as you do not hurt each other for the kick of it - I am sick and tired of the hurt humankind is constantly putting each other through, and I would like to avoid making any sort of contribution to that.
As odd as that letter may seem, I mostly want to add that I love you deeply, even if I was never able to tell you in those words, and that I would love to count on you for this final send-off before I am finally free.
Yours,
L
Terrence Arceneaux parked his unmarked car a little off-campus. He had been called all the way from the 5th precinct down in Bywaters - which was rather unusual. He passed the PJ’s before the clock hit 9 o’clock, the flocks of students in need of their morning caffeine fix still encircling the place.
Terry hurried towards the Newcomb Quad, the smaller lawn on the West of the Tulane University campus. A group of students and teachers was massed around the visible “police, do not cross” ribbons. Terry hated the demonstrations of shock and excitement that these situations provoked in people. It made him sick, because he knew what he was about to find.
He made his way through the crowd and one of the uniforms let him in the closed off building. Newcomb Hall was a majestic brick and stucco building, with a triangular tympanum supported by 4 columns. Terry thought the whole Greek temple aesthetic to be a bit over the top, but the architectural feats were sought after - Tulane was no Ivy League, but it was still the Harvard of the South.
In the main hall, he saw Millard, who waved him to come closer.
“Eric - I got the call fifteen minutes ago. What else do you know?”
“Female, nineteen, Afro-American, found dead this morning by the cleaning guy. She was identified as Toni Clark, an English Major. Gunshot wound to the temple. Prints match. It was the class she was in for Creative Writing, so she knew the place.”
“How did she get the gun?”
“Ruger Blackhawk, .44, belongs to an uncle down in Lafayette. We’re in touch with the local PD to give him the news and bring him in for questioning, but I don’t really know what else we can do here. It’s clearly suicide.”
“Note?”
“Not that we’ve found.”
We arrived at the classroom door, guarded by another agent. The team was waiting to collect samples, so I just had a couple minutes before they would storm the scene.
The smell was horrid. The girl’s body was sprawled across the teacher’s desk. She’d been sitting down and she had collapsed sideways and forward, her face turned, showing the gaping wound on the right side of her head. Blood had splattered the desk, the walls and ceiling, and had been dripping down her lifeless arm onto the dark linoleum floor. The pink and brownish mass in her hair had coagulated, making it obvious that she’d been here a while.
“Tsk, a damn shame.” Millard did not cross the threshold.
Terry stepped in, his shoes covered in sterile cloth. He did his best to avoid all the splatters. She was wearing sweatpants, trainers, a short- sleeved hoodie.
“Did she have a bag?”
“No bag in the room - her keys and phone were in her jacket, phone turned off. Otherwise she had the gun and that’s it.”
“How did she bring in the gun without a bag?”
“Probably concealed it under her clothes. Forensics might be able to tell but I doubt it.”
Terry kneeled closer. He could now see her back under the matted black kinky hair. Her eyes were open. Glassy.
On the underside of her arms, he saw a tattoo.
“Did you see this?”
Eric nodded no.
“It’s fresh. And it looks weirdly familiar.”
Terry could not put his finger on it.
“Alright. Let me know when toxicology is done. And get the team in.”
“Due diligence, yeah? Poor kid.”
Terry stepped outside. This drawing on her arm, that kept bothering him. He went down with Millard, who offered to go with him tell the family. Not far from Holy Cross, where Teddy lived.
They followed Saint Charles Avenue, and Loyola. It was when they passed the cemetery that Terry realised.
“Eric - the symbol on her arm. I think it might be voodoo.”
Millard glanced at him.
“Bad taste for a tattoo.”
“That’s what I think as well. Not a thing you want on your skin.”
“Unless you’re an idealistic college student who needs to find an identity by using symbols she barely understands.”
“Or unless it wasn’t a tattoo she got.”
“What are you saying?”
“That she was marked. And if she was marked, she was murdered.”
I see you try
You beautiful idiot.
I know the effort you put it
In making the world a place worth living in.
I feel you care, and worry, and act irrationally
Your mistakes forever etched in your soft skin
And you’re still my hero
A fragile colossus
A damned brave little girl
A kick-ass mess.
She gave a hint of a grin before turning around, and walked purposefully into the crowd. What a little… I was taken aback by her speed and ran after her. Damnit, she was fast despite her short legs; I struggled to keep pace, unintentionally bumping into angry villagers.
“Right. So… Excuse-me sir… Oops, sorry Ma’m… so where are your parents?”
She did not even deign to look at me, her stride unaltered. But she answered nonetheless.
“Under the purple tent, on the other side of the field. Mom is telling fortunes tonight, and she doesn’t want me sticking around and scaring clients away. She says I talk too much. But I think it’s not true. If she’d only let me perform my tricks, we would have tons of people coming in, of course. But I’m not going to wait around until she makes up her mind. It would be much more fun to go on the ride, wouldn’t it? It’s so easy to get free tickets. I say that my parents work here and I look all sad and lost, and in most cases I’ll win a ride and a lollipop. My favorite flavor is raspberry. The problem is that they don’t let people under eighteen go on the carrousel on their own and they are all working. I needed you to come with me. You are old, right? Careful, there is ice-cream on your jacket.”
Overwhelmed and awe-struck by the flow of words coming from such a small person, I had not noticed that a toddler had taken advantage of his caretaker’s inattention to reach out from his stroller and apply a generous coating of melted vanilla ice-cream on my left sleeve. With a sigh I wiped it off; when I looked up again, she had disappeared.
“If you keep being so slow I will have to ask someone else.”
I jumped in fright. She was standing right beside me with the sole purpose of scaring me off, obviously. Very happy with herself for startling me, she did not wait for an answer to set off again. I mumbled some things that should probably not be said near a thirteen year-old girl, or boy for that matter, and resumed following her.
I found her strapped into an open carriage mimicking a section of a gigantic fire-breathing purple snake, furiously waving at me so that I would sit next to her. We were the last car that made up this fantastic animal, and I noticed the staff member looking in our direction to check, so it seemed, that she was indeed escorted by an adult. On the big TV screen on the wall, a forty-something blond woman wearing a purple lizard costume mechanically delivered a speech about security aboard the ride that no one really seemed to care about, her included. The girl next to me was growing restless, fighting against the straps to turn and look around expectantly.
“Hey, by the way, I’m Salim. What’s your…”
“Mathilda. Why aren’t we starting? We’ve been waiting for hours already!”
And suddenly we felt the carriage move off. Mathilda had immediately stopped making a fuss and sat there, her eyes like saucers as if she were in shock. Then, slowly, as we picked up more and more speed, a fantastic smile bloomed on her face. The extraordinary creature began twirling around at high speed, following an intricate system of rails that seemed way too delicate for that kind of heavy work, and I felt the pressure of the centrifugal force on my whole body. The increasing speed blurred my vision, and all I could see now were swirling sporadic lights passing me by, and in shadows the back the person sitting on the carriage in front of me. Rushing on the tracks, all I could hear at first were the clunks of metal and the wind in my ears, but in this noise chaos another sound stood out, a laugh so bold and unashamed, freed from anything but the thrill of the moment, rising above the earthly turmoils of the Carnival and lifting me up with it: Mathilda.
I was staring at a colorful Ferris wheel, proudly raised against the sky. Around me, a growing number of people attending the Carnival, taking turns on the bumper-cars or eating cotton-candy. There were families tearing themselves apart over which child would get to keep the giant purple teddy bear, couples awkwardly sharing toffee apples, the famous “Pommes d’Amour” as they called them, and groups of friends daring each other to go into the haunted house. I couldn’t recall ever tasting a toffee apple. They did not have those in the South. The clouds were fading away and the puddles that remained on the field’s patchy grass reflected the beautiful orange glow of the setting sun.
As darkness settled, I observed the lanterns and neon lights creating repetitive scintillating patterns. Eerily, the strangers all around turned to distorted, hypnotising silhouettes. I leaned against a metal fence, losing myself in the contemplation of an old-fashioned carousel, the kind you see on children’s books - although, here, the kids’ features were deformed by the playful dance of lights and shadows that swapped monstrous masks for angelic faces.
I was so absorbed in the revolutions of the white and golden petrified horses that the high-pitched authoritative voice startled me.
“Are you on your own?”
I turned around to find a set of big black eyes staring at me with deadly seriousness. I was so stupefied I could not utter a word.
“Hello. Will you come with me?”
The eyebrows above those eyes sunk in frustration at me and the stupor that I could not seem to shake.
“Come. With me. I have two tickets.”
The voice belonged to what appeared to be a 13-year-old girl. As I came to my senses, I noticed that she wore dark clothes on a Peter Pan-like figure, and her black hair was tucked under a rust-colored wooly hat. She was staring intently at me, waiting for me to say something. Her spiteful gaze was so unsettling that I wondered if she could even blink.
“So?”
She seemed determined. I had no choice but to say yes. I had nothing to lose.
“Well, okay, why not.”
No. How could they have let it happen.
I am stumbling in the corridor to my apartments, wailing, barely seeing where I’m going through the curtains of tears covering my eyes. I trip and almost fall - I don’t feel it. Hands trying to help me up, push me forward, hold me back - I don’t feel them either. I can’t hear it, and I won’t hear it. Just a few more steps to the main door.
I slam it shut behind me and stand, trying to remember how to breathe. Everything feels heavy. Slowly, I slide down to the ground, because whatever energy was holding me together is pouring out through my every pore.
Horatian killed him. The scream that rips through my throat now does so little to soothe me. My brother killed the man I love.
I had told them. I had told them all, that this fight was inept, stupid, and destructive. That this was the only possible outcome and it ended up signing my death as well. I had warned Curiatius, I knew he and his brothers would be outdone by Horatius - dense proto-warrior that he is, relying on his dumb little sword to establish his worth and impress his pears. Curiatius was too kind-hearted, too sensitive, and they should never have sent him to war.
Rome can fall. I could not care any less. It gave me the choice to take either my brother or my lover, no, it didn’t even give me a choice, it made me watch them leave knowing one of them would die. The gods, the people of this city, Horatius himself - they burned me for honour, for their entertainment, for settling ancient quarrels that I did not start.
My eyes stop on a shelf near my bed. A small statue my brother made for me when we were children. A delicate wooden horse he had carved himself. Its simple presence disgusts me now. I stand, wobbly, on my dead legs. Use my meagre strengths to throw it on the marble floor, use my feet to reduce it to dust. It doesn’t alleviate much.
I turn to the wardrobe. Still making guttural sounds, I feverishly open it and take out what I am looking for: my wedding gown. I had dreamed of that day. I had imagined it the pinnacle of harmony, the solution to the war, my way of honouring Rome. The small dagger under my pillow shone bright In my hands. The precious fabric ripped with faint sounds that echoed my screams.
I curse them all. I curse my brother, I curse the gods, and above all, I curse Rome. In the reflection of my copper mirror, I appear as I am: puffy eyes, ragged breath, tears-covered cheeks, dishevelled, emerging from a pile of priceless linen rags, the dagger sparkling in my hands.