I looked at them both from a distance. They were blurry, like they were behind some curtain. When I covered one of my eyes, one of them would disappear.
I stumbled around again. She yelled something at him and he yelled something at her and I yelled something at the both of them. A few swear words here and there. It was hard to keep standing straight. I remembered things and then forgot them. I thought about things but those thoughts can get fucked.
I covered both my eyes and they both vanished. All that was left was my breathing and the dampness of my fingers around my forehead, eyelids, cheeks. End of my palms on my lips. Sound was still there. Yells were still there.
I heard a dragon flying in the distance. I heard a four-headed monster running, chasing another monster. I heard squirrels and fish-headed men. I heard great battles and magic spells and thirty foot tall, magnificent people walking about, looking for their true loves. I heard wings flapping and then fading somewhere high up. I heard heroes winning, the clever bad guys gone for the meantime. I heard elves snorting some coke with rolled up leaves and I heard a lion ask the land who the hell wanted some candy.
He asked me if I loved him. I said yes. She asked me if I loved her. I said yes. They took a hand of mine each and we all laughed and walked to the store and bought cornettos.
I kept my eyes covered. I wondered how long I had to wait. Probably not that long.
The last ninja Aaron had to kill smoked and listened to the Carpenters and watched young girls in miniskirts as they walked passed him in the city. He was a pretty old man, in his late sixties. His name was Ruben.
Out of all them, Ruben had murdered the most people. Ruben wore eyeliner but wasn’t gay.
As Ruben locked Aaron’s arms to the floor and punched him again and again and again, Aaron thought, “Shit, this guy’s fast.” He wondered how powerful Ruben must have been when he was his age.
Ruben wasn’t a happy man. He was married for a while, but that didn’t mean he was happy. Most his friends have died. In the night, he’d feel the calluses on his hands. He’d stare at the ceiling. He’d study a few scrolls. He’d fix his hair in front of the mirror. He dyed his hair black. He’d trim his nose hairs. He’d try not to think about much. He always had to try his hardest.
Aaron had to remember the basics as another tooth was knocked out of him. Relax. There will always be someone stronger than you. The only way to overcome someone stronger than you is to think clear, move soft and relax. If you tense up, he will tense up too. Aaron let the old man hit him again. And again. And again. Relax. Again. Relax. Again. Relax.
Aaron softened. He dodged the next punch, while at the same time sliding one arm out of Ruben’s grip. Ruben quickly caught Aaron’s freed arm, only to realise it was a distraction. Aaron rolled his legs upwards, flinging Ruben off him and sending him to a wall. A mirror fell and shattered.
There came a point in his life when Ruben could no longer masturbate. The point was five years ago, when he turned sixty one. He cried. He cried for about five hours. He then read a novel. He then read some scrolls. He meditated. He fell asleep and went to work the next day.
Ruben picked up a few broken pieces of glass the second they became broken and threw them towards Aaron’s eyes. Aaron saw this in advance and leapt towards Ruben. He pulled out a knife he hid in his boot and stabbed Ruben’s penis. Ruben had been trained for moments like this. In fact, he’d experienced far worse. Someone once managed to stab a finger in his piss hole. He survived.
Ruben was so trained that he only winced for one half of a second. But that was enough for Aaron to quickly pluck out one of his eyes. Ruben screamed, and as he screamed, Aaron went to stab the hole where the eye once belonged, but Ruben quickly dodged, and, grabbing Aaron’s arm and spinning underneath it, Ruben managed to escape and break Aaron’s hand. Aaron kicked but Ruben blocked it. Aaron threw his knife with his one healthy hand but Ruben caught it, throwing it back. Aaron rolled out of the way and quickly stood back up. They were facing each other with bloody faces. They got into their stances. Ruben said, “I need a cigarette.”
“Shut up, murderer.”
“Look who’s talking, asshole.”
Out of nowhere Ruben threw a bottle at Aaron. The bottle shattered on his arm. Ruben flicked a tiny piece of ember, lighting Aaron’s arm on fire. Aaron threw his belt at Ruben, who caught it to perform a counterattack. Suddenly, Ruben realised that he had made a mistake. Although one of his hands was broken and his other hand was on fire, Aaron would never throw anything at him at such a slow speed. But it was too late. As he grabbed Aaron’s belt, Aaron had already leant forward. He bit Ruben’s wrist as hard as he could with his last remaining teeth. He didn’t let go. As he bit he forced his own elbow upward, breaking Ruben’s arm. Ruben winced. Aaron pulled out the sword on the ground and cut Ruben’s arm off. Ruben vomited. Aaron glanced at the vomit, only to realise that it was merely a distraction. As he glanced at the bile, Ruben grabbed Aaron’s flaming hand and broke his fingers, releasing the sword into his own hand. He chopped Aaron’s head off. They both smiled.
Ruben leant against the wall. He remembered his wife and the son they never had. He cried. Things in the house began to catch fire. He watched the flames, but in the end couldn’t wait for them to engulf him. He was sick of life. This nonsense. He looked at his eye on the floor. He looked at the decapitated boy.
Ruben remembered the painting he didn’t like. He remembered the people he didn’t like. He remembered that movie he didn’t like. Ruben gave up and closed his eyes for good.
She thought of hope as this thing that went farther and farther away, and he went farther and farther away, and when she stepped closer, he would only stumble farther. She couldn’t complain, for what was there to complain about, what kind of ungratefulness did she truly deserve? It never rained it was always sunny but she was there. There was no sad song on the radio but she was there. Children laughed but she was there. She was there her curly hair. Her makeup and finger prints and fingernails and that extended, cruel silence – it had no beat, it had no rhythm, it had no up or down it was simply there and it chose not to abandon her. It embraced her whether she liked it or not. That silence, the cloudy drop. Where is he now, what is he eating? Where are you now? What are you eating? She did not know how, nor what breath she was seeing. And she met a man and paid him to tell her it’s not her fault, her heart would not halt for her body, it was not her fault. His smile was fake and his eyes were broken, and they lay on top of crumpled sheets, and he whispered, This Is Not Your Fault.
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