Our Short Stories | groovycoolwriters

“Our Stories”

Stories by both Cinta and I (D.e.e.L) will be presented here.

Some you have seen before, as well as some new ones.
So feel free to browse through what is currently available.
Much more is soon to come!
…Since…we both can’t seem to stop writing…

Pistol Wrists

By: D.e.e.L

Disclaimer: This story involves intense situations and is not recommended for everyone. Please be aware of this before reading and proceed at your own will. This story is completely fictional. Do not attempt anything within the context of this story. Discretion is advised.

These people on television have no idea what they are even talking about. They are all sad; the people are. I do not view them as being sad from emotions and stress that they portray themselves to be. I look into their mendacious eyes upon my television’s screen and I visualize them as being sad from not understanding the world around them. Nobody upon this earth understands “It” more than I do. “It” is what we all dwell within. This universe of a world is nothing but a simple “It”, in which nobody but I truly understands.

This blade seemed much sharper when I was a child, but now, now it’s just some worthless piece of metal and fake looking wood that I will use to finally be free from everyone. Not a soul upon this earth truly understands me. I have to make some sort of statement in order to be noticed; otherwise I will be just like every other drone that walks through each day living in some condensed form of life that they assume to be the real thing. Someone might have money, family, love, their dream home, and so much more, but do they have what truly matters? Do they have “It”? I doubt very many souls could relate to what is deep within me; music has tried to do this for years, the older songs were much closer than the spit being spat within the time that ticks now. A singer might proclaim that they too understand the pain that I feel each day I walk upon the unknown sands of this earth. Though they have no idea, they don’t understand, they only repeat what has already been said, hoping to spark pain into someone that doesn’t need anymore; they do this just to steal money from the thieves.

Years from now when I reach my later teens, I will have to get a job and conform just as everyone else endlessly is forced to do. I could just walk through the door of generic as those have done all throughout time, or I could change reality within this moment.

With the dull worthless knife I begin to dig deep into my quivering wrist, stopping now would be a failure, giving up would become me. The pain makes my eyes roll over back into my head, my breathing turns to gasping. The wrist right below my left hand is now slit open straight across; quickly I wrap towels around my self-infliction and pick “It” up from my desk.

I hold “It” in my right hand and let the towels fall to the floor. The wound of my left wrist now once again exposed to the terrifying environment of a teenager’s bedroom. I place “It” into the wound and position “It” in the way I have envisioned in my mind a thousand times before. With needle and cheap green thread I sew up the wound as the blood surrounds my fingers, making the process even more difficult. I wrap fresh towels around my wrist once more; secure “It” tightly by wrapping much of my lower left arm with tape. I look at the clock to notice how long the first wrist took, only one hour; only one hour of my life has meant something now.

The process seems easier now; the pain is of a familiar pairing to my mind engaged. I make sure to leave the loading mechanism exposed just enough. With my right wrist now matching my left, I let the sight of so much of my blood finally consume my mind, I pass out onto my bed, my mind full of excitement.

I awaken and remove the towels from my once untouched wrists; they are badly beaten by my teenage dreams, a dark purple surrounds my homemade manifestations. All I must do is just clench my fists tightly to see if my idea works, but I cannot test quite yet, I need more time to heal.

I walk out of my cubicle sized room and stride towards the kitchen. She won’t be back from work until later, Saturdays she stays longer, as to make as many tips as possible. From under the sink I pull out a half full bottle of vodka. The pain will be vibrant; my mind must be numbed quickly before. I take one shot of the throat scorching liquid before placing each arm over the sink and dumping the bottles contents upon my life-saving wounds. I take another shot and let the liquid linger on my wrists. I turn the television on to watch everyone that isn’t me; I watch all those that do not understand “It”.

The project put to motion within this morning will still be much of a sight once she comes home in a few hours. I grab a hooded sweatshirt and slide the sleeves down my arms slowly as to not surrender myself to even more pain. I have a few hours before she comes home. I must do something to get my mind off of this pain.

Doors create an eerie sound when closing slowly. I close it slowly as I know my mother instructed the woman across the hall to watch out for me, keep me safe. I push the lobby button and stand next to an old woman that looks as if lost. She is carrying an old book that is probably newer than she is, I don’t say a word to her.

Battered shoes cover my feet as I step out of the elevator and give a pitiful wave to the lost old woman. The doorman doesn’t exist, so I push the weak door open myself and blink twice before stepping out into the world being brought to darkness.

My pockets carry very little money, but enough for a burger and soda at the convenience store just a couple blocks away. The trip, the treasures, will both provide my mind with some sort of escape from my self-induced pain. As I walk I find almost a dollar in change about the filth covered streets. I flick a nickel at a man lying on the ground right outside the liquor store a few minutes’ walk from the convenience store.

The total comes to me having a dollar left over, so I place a pack of gum onto the counter as well. Once I finish paying for my simple treasures I make for the door, I push the door open and notice three men getting out of a car right outside. I yell to the cashier and he looks out the window close to him to see the men placing masks over their faces and holding their guns in the air. The cashier motions for me to hide behind one of the aisles as he pulls a shotgun from behind the counter. The first man bursts through the door and without emotion fires a shot into the cashier’s life. The first man grabs the register and slams it to the floor as the other two men make their way for the back room, most likely looking for a safe. I creep around the aisles trying not to make a sound, trying not to die. A cracking noise makes the first man react as if I have thrown a grenade at him. Without warning he fires his gun at my direction without even seeing me. “It” isn’t ready yet, but I have no choice. I know that I only have one chance to face the first man; he reacts without any thought to this world vacant of his mind. As I stand my legs shake with what I tell myself is courage. I shout out words of hate and put my fists up into the air and clench them as tight as I can. The motion triggers “It” and a shot from each of my wrists is fired into his chest. He falls to the ground as a bullet from his pistol hits the ceiling. The noise is heard by the other two men, each come out to meet their fate. I fire one more shot to take out the security camera before grabbing their pistols for ammo and busting out the door and running as fast as my battered shoes will take me.

My items are left on the floor of the store, the receipt along with them. I used petty cash and there is no way for them to find me, I hope. Panic races through me as I endlessly run for somewhere, anywhere, just not here. I don’t think human beings are meant to run this fast; I feel as if light. Intense, severe, merciless, relentless pain devours my mind as the unhealed wounds I created are proving their power upon me. I slam my back against a wall once flinging my body into a side alley. Heart pounding, chest protruding, eyes wanting nothing more than to blink to another reality, I could have saved him, I could have at least tried. Is my life any more important than his? What makes one person better than another? Such a concept sadly exists within most people, as they put down others they see themselves superior to. Pathetic is the world we live in, pathetic are the ones that do not understand “It”.

She spots me and decides to walk over and take a chance. I am not even of age, and lack any sort of means to obtain money, robbing from my Mother’s purse was a past fool that no longer exists. I stand still as I am told of wondrous things she can do to me, things I have not yet had the mind to fathom, until now. Her clothes attract more attention than just mine, a man in a leather jacket and worn out jeans comes walking over along with a taller, dumber looking version of him by his side. They tell her to skip out on the kid and spend some time with some real men. The taller man pushes her against the wall as the man in the leather jacket pushes me to the filth covered ground. This situation will not end well, I will feel more pain, and I can’t be seen by anyone. She is better off without this life of self-degradation, these men are better off without this world.

Nobody saw me, nobody will ever find out what I have done. Black and blue mixes with dark purple and drips of red as my wrists are consumed by even more torment. “It” isn’t turning out as I had planned. I didn’t know how truly evil the world around me is. With every turn I make, I bare the chance of slamming myself into a situation with someone that just has no regard for the fact that “It” exists. Running as if light, I stream by people I will never know as if I am invisible to their eyes; as they take a quick glance at the boy running down the street with drops of red falling from his sleeves, my life means nothing to those that don’t know my name.

Nowhere to go, she will be home soon. If I show up she will see me like this, a beast created within such little time, this world changes us all so easily. One experience, a single person, can change your outlook on everything. Within one simple day I have completely altered my life; what have I done? Where do I go now?

Bandages I pull up my sleeve before walking out, there is no alarm sounding as I exit the store that is used to feed a family of four from its deprived profits.

I wrap the bandages tight around my wrists, the red bleeds through instantly. Stained sleeves are used to act as if attempting not to hide “It” at all.

Cars don’t stop for pedestrians around here. They don’t know me; why should they care? My mind tilts from positive to reflective upon my immortal decision I now must bare within me.

Strolling is what I call that which I am doing now, simply walking without direction or meaning, pacing myself as to not reach nowhere too fast. The slow pace I walk is quickened as police cars race by me. I follow as if supposed to, as if my duty now. The sirens are eventually my only method to finding my direction, the cars themselves far from the reach of my sight. Ending my sprint I stare up at a building consumed by flames.

All sorts of authorities know better than to approach such a devastating circumstance, I’m too worthless to know better; I begin to sprint. Voices that are paid to care begin to shout for me to stop, to halt my chance at becoming someone, if only for just a moment. The noise is but a soundless hindrance to my stride as I barrel through a door missing any meaning. Smoke instantly consumes my lungs, I choke with every second. Screams are haunting me from every direction of the six storied building. Start from the top and work my way down, those at the top have the least chance of escaping. The stairs are falling to pieces, the door handle to the sixth floor is much too hot, and the door consumed in flames, my right fist clenches tight and the door is sprung open as the handle becomes mangled in an instant. The bandage falls from my arm and burns away into the realm of the non-existent. I tear the bandages from my left and kick open the first door to find the lives inside already beyond this world. I listen for screaming as the fire grabs my flesh. I hear something, someone, somewhere, somewhere close. “It” pains my left wrist within a single moment, though pain no longer a factor needing to exist within my mind. The door floats open and a mother is holding her child. She sees me and reacts in horror to my dwindling appearance, but she can see it in my fading eyes that I hold some sort of beating organ within my chest. Her only words are to save the child wrapped in a fire-blanket. Within the tick of the clock of her handing the child to my arms I witness the light disappear from her eyes. I hold the child tightly in my arms and run as fast as I can back into the hall, to the door with the mangled handle, to the stairs reaching their final need for being. I leap the steps instead of sparing time to step to each one, only leaping to points that are without severity of damage, or at least look better than my other options. As I reach the fourth floor I hear more screams for a hero, for a chance, for anything. This child is coughing; my lungs are nothing but black smoke that will soon turn my blood to ashes. I continue to leap, hoping the fire will burn my ears before anything else. My vision is blurring, the stairs in front of me look as if a hole leading to even more flames within another realm more evil than this one. I leap towards the platform behind the eternal life source and slam my right shoulder hard into the wall; then I keep running. By the second floor, I am at a loss for an exit, as the floor above has crumbled into my path. I hold the child in my left arm and clench my right fist at the wall, I then switch arms and cradle the child as gentle as I dream of being loved as I deplete all of “It” from my left wrist into the wall. I kick at the hole made by “It” and an exit creates within my foreseen design. The building is cracking, failing, worthless, as I jump to the ground and land completely to my own sacrifice to save the child. Authorities come running up to me and first grab the child from my arms. Someone dressed in conformity grabs me and lifts me up; my ankles buckle and send my knees crashing into the ground. They cannot see “It”. They may not witness my immortality, for such lives could never understand “Me”.

I stand and shove people away from me as the building creates endless sounds of destruction behind me. The choice I had made at the beginning of this day has taught me that pain does not truly exist, that it is something only within our minds, a simple figment to tell us what not to feel anymore, how to become like everyone else.

All pain does not exist within me as I run, as I sprint, as I become light once more.

I finally fall to the earth once within the darkness unseen by the streets and the people that are invisible to everyone but me. The back of my head feels nothing as I fall to the floor and rest harshly against the wall in an unwilling haste.

Suddenly a shadow of a heart from within one of the corners I cannot see within my reckoning darkness, projects a faint sound. Words speak to my mind asking for change, for a bit of luck. I deliver him my voice and tell the old sounding man to take seat next to me. I ask of his world, of how he came to exist as such. I sit and listen to someone other than me, someone that truly understands “It” better than I ever will.

Pistol Wrists 2

By: D.e.e.L

Whispers, all I can hear is whispers…I can’t even tell what they are saying…it’s about me though…about what I’ve done.

Blood no longer drips from my self-inflicted wounds. This gift I have placed upon myself is still justified within my mind, this world, the people I have helped. The old man, the shadow, the gun shot to end his misery was heard; I was found. He had asked me to release him to worlds beyond this one, as he was so sure of their existence. He, who truly understood the world in my eyes took a last glimpse to the sky, said he wished to pluck a last gaze of the stars before he became one forever. My adolescence provides a barrier to my words, these badges that bark before me. My mother on a bench far away…crying as she looks into my eyes, glancing away as I look up to see her.

All are too cautious as to come close enough to touch me. A simple flick of my wrist can kill a man, someone says. All are of but equals to each other, though not to me. It is true what the man with the beard said, though a simple flick wouldn’t kill, a hard clenched fist is what releases my sanction. Each a coward, hiding, fading into the darkness. I begin to count them…1…2…3…4…

I then check each barrel…1…2…3…4…5…6…

Her gaze finally locks into my own, my eyes full of trust. With my eyes I look at her and then to the ground, repeating until she nods; a tear drops from her face, yet she still nods.

My right hand is cuffed; loud noise; my right hand was cuffed; guns drawn towards me; I wouldn’t have make such a disruption without first planning my entire course. The desk, four feet away, I dive, peer my right wrist just beyond the far edge of the desk, one down, I make a run towards another desk at the other end of the room, at least twenty feet away, two down and then I dive, scramble quickly, get hit in the foot, left foot, they yell, call me out, give up, reinforcements are on the way, middle of the desk where the name tag is, three down, fourth…timid as I stand…he assumes me some sort of evil…four down.

Her eyes squint, tear, now abandoned of my heart. Her life of impurities just to put food in front of me, I love her more than the world could ever love itself. She no longer knows me, but I now know more than anyone shall ever begin to fathom. She will not grab my hand as we exit, though she is too scared to leave my side. Sirens, loud and endless in their oblivious chase towards someone they will never peer into. I throw a pistol to the streets as its bullets fill me.

What next?

She just wants to go home; home is no longer a word that exists to us. I must free more people, learn what they never could. I click, click, click, and then finally hear a beep. A timid looking car, keys were lying on the desk that was but four feet away. She drives, traveling towards the next reason to save. Drive, drive, endless are the roads set before us; I glimpse into the worlds of past, within my mind I can almost see them. They were driven by money to build these roads…I wonder what lives they lived at home, the family man, the drunk, all but past are they now.

I feel it coming before it happens…

…she halts the car as we reach to the center of the middle of nowhere…

…cries of horror reach out to grab me, sobbing, questions, my eyes show no sign of blood, she will never understand, yet I will always love her for her sacrifice. I exit the car; it drives away, Love.

The road appears vacant, yet it is bound that someone will pass. It best I just assume that they do not understand “It”; emotions grab hold of me quickly for those that do.

These passing wheels could never understand…

Radio is playing music I like before I even enter the car, must have been pure chance.

Words of decaying poets spill into my ears as wheels created by the shy rip me forward through the passing visions. Cells begin to fill with the tranquil melodies, until…

:Interruption:

Identity is shouted out through the speakers from which I fall away from. People are warned of my existence, told of what I have “done”. “It” isn’t finished, this bestowment I have placed upon myself is not “done” with “It” yet. I turn the station; mimic does my hearing consume. Roads are only black, lines dotted or whole, we listen to them, as long as the person in front of us is going fast enough, for we all want to go through life as fast as we can; experience it all before never seeing “It” again.

Stopping; I keep going until I need to stop. Cars are sold to us for endless wealth, sold to us in a way that demands repair, more money. In order for them to even be worth cash from hand we have to put the liquid of our ancestors into a tank we cannot even see. I have no money; I cannot afford to place past lives into my attempt at never ending. I stop at a gas station.

Battered shoe in front of the other, repeating until I reach the door. A small building, very small. An old man inside, probably robbed daily, today is a day just as all others. He puts up an argument, says he must use this job to feed his family that I have never met before. Shown in girth, he pulls back at my pushing attempts at his liquor money. I ask his children’s names, their ages, their birthdays and the color of their eyes. He looks to the ground, the ceiling, his skull crashed open against the wall. The register isn’t even locked. I act as if working there, enough to fill my tank and accept the decent tip in hand.

Voices on the radio tell me of their attempts, plans, actions, and failures. Helicopters.

Rubber peels away as I stick an arm out the window and clench my fist as I shout out the words to the song in my head.

Static, static, static, unwanted noise. They talk of a bounty now on my life, now on “It”. I have become equal to the worth of one working for a year as someone they don’t want to be for eight hours a day, breaking their dwindling time as they wait for two days to sleep slightly longer, only to get done what has no chance of ever completing. Two days to live, two days to pretend it’s all worth “It”.

Helicopters. They spray their loud searches past me, having not a clue that I am inside this speeding worthless. I could step outside and be seen in a second. My composure has fallen, my appearance fading, burned away by my heroics. Battered wrists are now hidden by my face.

:The beast becoming me.

Spinning, spinning, twirling, twirling, rotating are the wheels of man racing me into the unseen worlds of my youth. Blades whipping at speeds I cannot comprehend move in close to me, peer into my heart. The voice on the radio knows where I am.

Not long will it take them to find me, come for me, chase me, try. I pull off the road to halt. Slower, the large hands on the clock begin to stop throwing time into the winds as the helicopter lands. I step out of my car and lean up against the closed driver door. Hands behind my back. They approach me as I count them in front and behind me. The pilot is most likely armed as well, I’ll have to take one of their guns for him. There are only four of them, five counting the pilot. One forgets the earth in seconds, I fall to the ground, roll under the car and to the other side. Three, not counting the pilot. They will attempt to surround me, yet leave one in front, the pilot will not leave his position yet, as he hopes they kill me. Both appear at the same time as I had planned, fall upon the soil at the same time, even though one was much heavier, such an experiment I had tried before with the same results. The pilot will be unbuckling his seatbelt now. The fourth man will be backing up towards his escape. I grab both of the guns, much quicker than mine. I fly myself to the roof of the car and begin mercy to their pain as I end both of them quickly. The pilot had just opened the door to aid in my erasing.

I don’t know how to fly this thing, and I won’t even attempt. I pick up the pilots gun and fill “It”.

More terrors of whom they assume me to have become fills the minds of those that have never known me. The new voice on the radio is even more annoying, as I had just muted the one screaming of the beast before him. I take off my left shoe, assuming time exists to reflect on backed forgottens. Pain is something I no longer find to exist. I flick the holed shoe to the ground and rip the bloodied sock from my soul. My foot mutilated. Battered as my wrists used to be; still are, yet not within my care. I trade battered shoes for common footwear; boots. I press my left wrist to my right foot, my teeth do not even begin to grind. Even have I become; painless in body and thought.

Limping would be odd.

More will come. More will always come. I drive. I ponder of the world for a moment before stopping once more; waiting. I sit atop the vehicle I have claimed to be something I do not care about and I wait. A motorcyclist rolls up to me and pulls a shotgun upon me seconds before his death. A van looking to offer candy to children funnels out grown men that fall to the ground just as quickly as their desires. Another helicopter, spots me, and reports me, and leaves, I hear it all from the annoying voice. I can’t stand his vocal chords, so I shoot with acquired accuracy into the back tail of the copter. The radio is more peaceful now, for now.

A limousine curls up beside me. A window rolls down and no gun pokes out. I hear doors open from the other side of the stretched waste, yet still no face appears within the window. Men wearing matching and sunglasses stand armed on the other side of the opened window. A pompous prick glares his wonderless eyes to my person. He says to understand the beast. He claims to want to hold my gift within his hands and unwrap it to the world. I listen to his words and make another fold to the paper with each phrase of hopeless he vomits before me. The only way he can spread joy to the world is with money; the alacrity of his tone is obvious.

I let him step out of the vehicle. I let him show me his pistol. I allow myself to glance at his steady hand opened with palm before me. He wants his initials to bleed into his victim’s heart. Purged fingers cram the bullets into a gun matching the same intent of purpose I find to have no true meaning. Barrel directs towards dreams of “victory”. My back hits the ground harshly, pain not existing, only the will to keep “It” from becoming a nightmare. He pulled the trigger seconds too late as I had been planning seconds before his catcher could withhold the nightmare of his failure. With my back still filthed to the ground I clench my fist to the sight of his shocked shin. He tumbles and I see his chin moments before it’s expelled from this realm by a simple flex. Sunglasses hide the burning of the glare between the transparent clouds, yet still don’t allow them to see between the shining bullets of fate that are placed between each of their frames. Trembleless appendages of the common hand pick up the initialed ammunition.

The driver of the limousine was trying to run away.

Sitting and waiting has proved to be of nothing but a refill. Effortless replicas to the word used to describe life beyond living dwell near the pedals of the vehicle. Push and go once ancestors ignited; I am off, infinitied to times before.

I wonder what the man that had to dig right there ate before he came to work for the existence of this road during one of his Fridays, right before the weekend. Friday, we all dream of it, some swallowing cup after cup of ground bean flavored water just to grasp the energy to make the day last into the next upon their clock no longer existing according to a simple final swipe of a card for the week. I bet he had eggs, or she, and I bet time didn’t exist earlier in the week for such a meal, and being ten minutes late was a matter that did not appear to worry. Should have just taken the day off.

Curling over and over upon themselves, only inflated by polluted subsistence of the mortals that had to feed a family, filled with the air we do not desire, curling over and over upon themselves the tires rush. Arrest in expulsion from momentum occurs as my eyes flash to a victim of abuse; a victim of immortal Love to my soul high above my legs and above even the tallest clouds that reach beneath us all. Rewind recent passing’s as I create a time where my transportation exists where I need it to be placed. I step out. They have her. Bate. Checkmate, to who’s end is still lingering in my psyche.

Her eyes used to be so loving: I loved them as a child.

I pull my flingers against my wrists to count, the initials waiting at the end of each forearm. Two pistols placed against “It” – “Her” – “Tears drop upon a figment of my heart”.

I ask for demands, knowing that it is me. They scowl me with pitiless pity.

I ask again without intention to answer. I ask again and again and never once do I think anything but the facts. I cup each of my fists upon my temples and tell them to back away from “It”. They do, as I had planned. 1, 2, 3, 4, countless and worthless in their readiness. The two that backed away from the back of behind her eyes are gone before the third can even react. The forth fired and missed just before I hit him, and the fifth never stood a chance. 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13…all just waiting and firing at an immortal beast. The car belonging to no one becomes a shield that blocks, another and his friend and his coworker, their families will miss them. Initials aren’t meant to be expelled upon pages of those you have never met. Initials are created upon a handshake, a moment of purpose, an agreement; I do not agree with these men. I run towards her body huddled closely to the ground, pick up a gun and eradicate a few more from attempt. She is safe as I teleport with such intent to wherever I need to be, pre-planning becoming each step, gone, gone, given to the earth. I have become “It”.

I can’t bear to see her like this; eyes tortured beyond any possible pain. She does not look up at me, though I still see her face. Each tear joins us closer. Initials bleed within her brain, almost escape.

T.E.

A FOREIGNER IN LONDON

By Cinta García de la Rosa

Being a foreigner in London. Feeling like a foreigner in London. People who treat you like a foreigner in London. All of this contributes to make me feel lonely most of the time. The feeling of loneliness does not leave me even if I am travelling in the Tube in a rush hour.

Being a foreigner in London. Feeling like a foreigner in London. People who quickly realise that you are not a Londoner, so they treat you as a foreigner in London. Ladies and gentlemen, I am a European, just like you, so don’t look at me as if I were a strange species coming from a still unknown jungle. You make me feel useless sometimes, and ashamed of speaking in front of the British because I fear to be interrupted by the damned “Ah! You are Spanish”. So, do we have to treat people in a special or different way depending on the country they come from?

Being a foreigner in London. Feeling like a foreigner in London. Although the cultural differences between Spain and the United Kingdom are not enormous, we must acknowledge that certain details are very different and can create embarrassing situations. Honestly, I think that those minute cultural differences are the ones that, sometimes, make people think that I am a bit rude or inconsiderate. But, of course, I don’t do it on purpose. During the time I have spent in London, I know that I have offended several people by saying something, not saying anything, doing something, or not doing anything. I perfectly understand their position, but I believe they should try to understand me as well. Instead of looking offended and change the topic, they should explain my mistake. That would avoid future complications. But they don’t, because I am a foreigner in London, an alien who maybe cannot understand what a British person has to explain.

All of this makes me feel like a foreigner in London. That is what I am, yes, of course, but I am sure that you, patient reader, understand me quite well, no matter what nationality you are.

With these lines I do not pretend to make a criticism of the character of the British population and society. On the contrary, I love England; it has always been my dream to be able to live here, and I finally do. Here I am, a whole year has passed by, and I feel a bit more accepted by the London society. But, even though, even in the middle of the chaos of Piccadilly Circus on a Sunday morning, I feel lonely.

I met Noah just when I most needed someone’s support in my boring and solitary life in London. He helped me to understand and accept all the cultural differences that made me feel like a foreigner in London. While I was with him, everything was easier, everything seemed clearer and brighter, and even my English was more fluent. With him, I was not afraid of letting people notice my Spanish accent, or even of stammering when I was lacking the exact words to express something. He was more than a friend: my confidant, my advisor, my teacher, and my support. No, don’t worry; this is not a sentimental love story.

I know lots of people who think that friendship between a boy and a girl is totally impossible. I strongly disagree. Noah and I were the best friends that could be found, and he warned me: “I don’t want to hurt you, so the best thing to do is to be friends and not to think about something romantic”. And I accepted that, even though I felt tempted sometimes of crossing that invisible barrier between love and friendship. But I did not do it, and I do not regret that.

Maybe you are wondering why I talk about Noah in the past. The answer is a very simple and very sad one: Noah is not with me anymore. I remember that day as an especially misty day, or, at least, when I think of that day I see everything surrounded by mist.

It was a day I was feeling particularly melancholic. I was looking through the window without seeing anything in particular, thinking of thousands of things and of nothing at all, when the phone rang.

“Hello, it’s me. Can we meet? I have to talk to you”.

One hour later, we were sitting in a cafe in front of two cups of tea.

“What’s the matter?” I was feeling frightened, because his face was the most grave and serious I had ever seen.

“I am leaving”. And with those three words my entire world crumbled into a million pieces. Those three words echoed in my mind with the strength of cannon shot.

I felt so stunned that I couldn’t talk. I could just look at him, while my eyes shouted “WHY?!!”

“I have been offered a job in Denmark, so I have to be there in two days.”

“Two days!” my heart shouted.

During those months of my friendship with Noah I felt that I was someone, one more person in the middle of the London chaos; now, in just two days, I was going to be forced to go back to loneliness and to being a foreigner in London. Suddenly, I started to panic, to feel abandoned, angry, desperate, because the capacity for reasoning abandons us when our feelings are at stake and in danger.

At last I could utter the question that my eyes were shouting in desperation: “why?” even though the question was going to be unanswered. Yes, unanswered, because the question was directed more to me than to Noah. Why was I feeling so miserable? Why did it seem to me that Noah was betraying me? I know that I was being quite unfair, but when our feelings overwhelm us, our neurons do not work as well as they should.

Noah was quite attentive and understanding. I was speechless, so he was in charge of leading the conversation, doing everything he could to make me understand the situation, and trying to make me feel a bit better. To feel better... At that moment that was something completely inadmissible and impossible for me. How could I pretend that everything was fine when my little world was deafeningly and hopelessly falling into pieces? My face reflected all the desperation, and my soul shouted and bled in pain.

At that moment, only my feelings could express and they remained dumb. My eyes reflected the helplessness of my rootlessness. Lost hopes, my friend fading away in the distance, the way was going to be hard. Feeling the transplant produces pain, the naked roots hurt when facing life, and the soul feels fleshless. In the middle of my confusion, I just knew that I felt lonely.

Noah was talking about his work in Denmark, but I was not listening. However, something told me that I should feel glad for him, he who had said so many times that he wished to get a job like this one. So I forced myself to smile and to congratulate him for the great opportunity he was being offered. Then he also smiled; he seemed relieved, as if I removed a weight off his mind.

“I am really glad that you understand me, and that you understand that I need to leave. It is not easy for me either, you know? But I cannot refuse this job. This is what I have been waiting and wishing for a long time,” he told me.

“Of course I am glad for you, although it makes me a bit sad to think that in two days I won’t see you again. I am sorry, I cannot help it,” I answered him.

“Don’t be silly. This is not the end of our friendship. Remember that we have the phone, the post, the e-mail, and, what is most important, the holidays. We will keep in touch and we will see each other very soon, sooner than expected.”

I wanted to believe in him, but Denmark is so many miles away...

And he was gone. We spent his last two days together, and I even helped him to pack his luggage. And he was gone. I could not stop the time and the so feared day arrived. Noah wanted me to go with him to the airport, but I couldn’t. I thought that I wouldn’t be strong enough as to say goodbye to him in a sober way. But, however, I could wish him all the best in his new life when I said goodbye to him, with the sun on my face and rain on my heart.

And here I am. Alone. Sad. Desolated. A foreigner in London. Because, though Noah and I are still in touch, it is not the same. He left five months ago and we have not met yet. His job is too demanding and he cannot travel as much as he would like to. Of course, I cannot go to Denmark either, even though I feel constantly like taking the first plane to Denmark.

Being a foreigner in London. Feeling like a foreigner in London. Those feelings that make me feel like a foreigner in London. Loneliness, that terrible loneliness that eats me up daily, and only the fact of receiving news from Noah can mitigate it.

And here I am. Without friends. Far from my family. Thinking of Noah every minute. In short, I am lonely. That is why I am a foreigner in London. That is why I feel like a foreigner in London. That is why I feel lonely even in the chaos of the Tube in a rush hour.