life makes you sometimes gifts. It lends you a pretty girl, or a job not too badly paid. Sometimes it offers children who love you. And unfortunately sometimes it puts you between the legs an evil twin.
-Come here.
Irving takes my chin in his hand and raises his head to me. I'm so wrong I'm not even quite aware of what is happening around me. He wipes his knife on the back of my pants, and ironically I notice it does not damage the fabric. Then he brandished in front of my face after the skin perfectly he just cut me away, which is one of the first tattoos I got done. He puts it on a wooden table next to us, and examines my chest, wondering aloud where he will pull next.
"I've never understood this mania that people get put stuff on them," he scoffs. It serves no purpose and it is super bad.
My head is spinning too much to think about an appropriate response, that is proud and mocking. I let him insult me by asking to live a little longer. When it falls on my tattoo scarred by a bullet hole, he explodes a hearty laughter, reading aloud "every day is golden."
"It's bad beginning," he argues. It
me that this one is going to let me because it is really too funny, before falling back on the tattoo that I got a few months ago on the thigh. He incised the skin all around with his scalpel, and I am making an effort not to scream too loudly, because it would probably bend and I find it disgusting. But in fact my head is in cotton, and I have no idea of the volume of my voice. I feel the blood throbbing in places where my flesh is raw and my ears buzz as after a violent concert. I pull so hard on my links my body leaves the ground to rise to the hook which I am suspended. Irving wonder if by chance I did not take muscle recently.
-I did a lot of traction.
-Stop forcing it, or it will be even worse.
I must admit he is right. Relax my arms and my feet found their support. I asked Irving what he needs to admit that torture me like that. Oddly, he ponders his answer by looking at my skin looking for a new memory to be cut.
- In fact, he reflected, nothing. Nothing essential. I wonder how you managed to make you do happen to me if it is only a few hours, but I think I'll assign it to the stupidity of my subordinates.
I did not even want to ask him why then he plays with his scalpel, but he seems to see the issue pass between two neurons. Or maybe I'm so struck that I think aloud. Sancho pushed a door, and goes straight to sit on a stool in a corner of the room to watch us with a glassy eye. Irving is not paying attention, and resumed his speech: "I
doing you a favor," he proclaims. If you want to look like it is first necessary take away your fucking tattoos, do not you think?
With these words, he starts to cut me when I slip in passing that he already knows everything about me, although I find it hard to believe. Sancho dig into my clothes and found the novel I just wrote. He began to read quietly for Irving task.
I fainted several times, and lose track of time. Whenever I open my eyes, the revolutionary has traveled more pages of my manuscript, and his interest seemed to increase. When he finished, and he puts it on the wooden table, Irving has finished to take away my tattoos.
"It is you who wrote that? Sancho wonder.
I nod quietly for Irving gets rid of his scalpel. My whole body is like a gigantic beating heart pounding. I want to die now.
"It's not bad," says Sancho, pointing to my novel.
Irving throws him a black look, as the revolutionary claims. The two men embark on a kind of mute dialogue that I do not understand. Irving eventually shrug and detach myself. Just release my bonds, I collapse face against the ground, and I must draw my last strength to get up.
Quietly, the two men make me my clothes, and I suffer martyrdom in threading them. I do not get it. They make me escort outside an underling, and I see the embarrassment in the last look that I address, as if for the first time shame on their own savagery.
Outside the sun attack me, and warms my skin like never before. My clothes are wet with blood, and stick to my raw flesh. I should go naked, because I'll be removing them juggle.
It's over, and I lost. The urge to fight and protest against this inevitable future has completely disappeared. I dragged its feet on the street, taking care to stay in the shade, and I fled as a shameful traitor to his country.
I push up from Martine, presumably to try once more to die on his floor to make her feet. I knock on his door, thinking it's the perfect time for her to reappear. But the dull echo of the silence of his apartment informs me that it is empty. I take a pen and mark "I want to live without you" on the first page of my manuscript, then slide it under her doormat.
That's it. Now we must take care of your survival.
I back down the stairs and back into the street. I start to walk by making large movements, so that the fabric of my pants do not come rub my wounds. The few passers-by that I meet and who supported me throw eyes scare me. I am terrified that the pain can start.
I am in Paris like a fool, ashamed and binary. I shiver as the little shit that I became in the final hours Looking back I have to live, unable to drive them out of my mind when I should go ahead. I just want to hide and no longer suffer.
Again, I go to Vincent. Because I have nowhere else to go, and because I know he has in him painkillers. I walk up to him, and I have an idea I never thought have: I miss the subway.
I push the door of the hall and up the stairs, counting each step to keep my mind occupied and less thinking about pain. I'll knock on the door of the apartment where we established our neighborhoods, sadly realizing that if Irving did not ask our new address because he did not even realize that we had moved.
It is not even important people. It is the army of losers, and we demolished bits by bits.
I should write something else to Martine. Something class, which leaves him not think that I am at his command.
Vincent opens the door, and seems not to recognize me. I would think it's because he sees an expression on my face that was not there before, but I know it's just because I am shaved and I wear a suit. I
plate to the ground as he knows so well, wondering how he could know that it's me. I'm tired, and unable to answer, because after all I'm left with a tattoo for me differentiate Irving Rutherford. That and ... Vincent
hard my pants and I understand that Xavier told him about the major difference between me and my evil twin. The fabric falls off sharply from my wounds, pulling the portion of crust of dried blood.
I heaved a groan of pain, and gives a kick to my pathetic friend who does not move an eyelash. It fixed my wounds and her eyes fill with tears, while his fists clench. I have seldom seen as impotent in this moment.
He whispers, "No" and that's all. Anyway there is nothing to say. He places his hand over his mouth as if to vomit, and tears begin to flow openly on his face.
-If my dick makes you much effect, you should ask yourself, "I said before fainting again.
Note: Remove the end joke
Soon: Mothers
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