[PART FIVE] Whore

        

High Lining

"WHORE"

by Jacob Beam

          Flutes were humming a soft chorus the first night we had sex. She was an Indian girl that may have been Chinese but I never asked. Questioning of the race someone ran was never a thought of mine. She often smiled when we finished. She told me of the pleasures of the past and pain of the moment. Scratching my leg, down my back, she never broke skin. I lost my soul in those Arabian eyes. I was found in her. My hand in her hair and the heiress was free. But she would leave me.

        Sometimes I lay on the ground staring at my apartment ceiling. Why can’t I see the stars? Tiny holes in the panels play the role of gassy light. I let the creation of the world play nature in my mind. I was lost in my head, in the moment.

        “Hello Self.” I always intiated.

         “Hello again.”

         “Tell me a story Self.” Almost begging.

          “What would you like to hear about?”

           “Choice.” I lobbied.

           “That is a long story indeed my friend.” Self was sometimes dodgy.

           “Tell me about the first choice.” I begged.

             The moment of silence that followed ruined my day. Self left the conversation. Self left me.

           Pushing myself off the wooden floor I realized that lack of strength my arms carried. My mind was strong, however.

            “Fuck it.” I left the apartment for a walk.

          The sun was bright and moist. My shoes were moist, as well, but I kept walking. I walked to my local watering hole and knelt down in that house. I partook of the poison and let it fall down my throat, down then deeper.

         “Save some for the rest of us.” A female’s voice broke the silence.

         She was dressed for Sunday church. She talked like the preacher on Sunday morning. But less of the bullshit and more of the real world happenings that mattered.

“What are you even doing in this place?” I was confused.

“I’m here to save the locals.” She said boastfully.

“Look elsewhere.” Grumbling.

“Actually, Elsewhere sent me here to you.” 

“I don’t need saving, my dear.” Sometimes, I’ve found that introducing uncommon language into particularly common vernacular scares people off. My forte.

“I’m fine with talking to you.” She just kept on.

“Why?” I said.

“Because you are the only person who has yet to ask for my name, or phone number for that matter. They don’t even want to know names anymore. If you have a vagina that’s all they need to know, apparently.”

“I don’t want your name, number or vagina. I just want to be left alone.” Demanding some space.

“You can’t be saved if you’re alone.” She stated simply.

“I can’t be saved.” I stated simply.

She kept on talking. And I kept listening. She talked her way into my heart that night, and into my bed, but only after I asked for her name.

I do, I did.

We spin in the moment, the blurred world circling behind us.

Nothing matters.

All the feelings burying themselves in my soul.

Fleeting moments captured forever by others.

Those moments now growing in the eyes of another.

I feel myself in her.

Finally standing for something.

The anthem never ending.

The eruption of my bad into something good.

She is something of worth.


I received my education from The University of Texas-Tyler. I dig art, green tea and traveling. I live in Austin, Texas. I'm really enjoying the freedom from the terrifyingly backward thinking that only East Texas can bring.