Chapter 12: The Lie of Blood

James opened his eyes to the colourful grey of earth. He picked up his phone, and checked his mail. Kate had called a few times, and Arthur had called three times. Both later resorted to texting James. 'Please call me back', 'We need to talk', 'Please, James, I want to talk' were Kate's texts, while Arthur's were riddled with requests to open the 'goddamn' door. James walked to his bathroom, after getting up from his damned seat. After washing his face, James called Arthur, who picked up, "James! What the hell, mate?! I was waiting outside for, like, half an hour." "I'm sorry. I slept quickly," James apologized, his voice still holding a hint of grief, breaking while he spoke. Arthur seemed to notice, "What happened to your voice? Were you, crying?" "Yeah," replied James, letting his sadness fill his voice, "I broke up. With Kate." "What?! Why?!" "Nothing really. Anyway, where are you now?" "At Mike's house." "Ahh. Well, when will you come back?" James said, letting his melancholy leave his voice finally. Arthur didn't seem to notice this time, "Well. I don't know. I guess by tomorrow. Thank god I don't have to go to the restaurant today. Ahh, Fridays really are the best, aren't they. Except for those who have the weekend shift of catering to the whims of pampered toddlers, ready to sink their teeth into some junk food or other." "Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I think I am just gonna, like, drown my 'sorrows'." "Well enough. I wish you luck on your, 'sorrow drowning'. Bye, James," Arthur said, cutting the call without letting James say his goodbyes.

James stared at the afternoon sun, blazing in it's eye-burning glory. The day was too young to drink, so he had to come with other ways to forget about yesternight. He would have been joyous if he could knock on Kate's door, and apologize. But regret burned through his veins, scalding and scarring to his wasting body. What is done is done, with no chance to change it. He had lashed out, and he would lament all the way to his grave, wondering of what could have been. The lord of the grey might approve of his painful decision, but James felt wrong. Wrong as if he might never be loved, never be cared for. As it was, his thoughts of love turned platonic, and he began thinking of his mother. She was someone who had loved him unconditionally, it being her biggest flaw in James' eyes. If she had just not, not cared so, so much, James might have reached out when he failed. But as it was, his broken pedestal did not warrant breaking the sweet woman's heart. People had called James self-centred, selfish, a narcissistic arseh*le, but James believed that he was selfless enough to not break his mother's heart, at least for his own useless good.

Yet, James found himself entering his mother's number into his phone. He initiated the call, and he didn't know if he wanted to do this or not, but he had deliberated his actions for too long. Someone picked up the call, and James brought the phone to his ear, and spoke to whoever was on the other side, "Mom?" "James!" His mother was surprised, letting her surprise at hearing from James after three years slip into her voice, "I am, It's, I," She blabbered, "It's, good to hear your voice. After, so many years." "Yeah, mom. It's good to hear yours." "What the hell were you thinking, not calling me for three godforsaken years!" His mother still acted dazed. James felt he owed her enough to at least apologise, "I'm, sorry. I was wrong," As he said the words he had deliberated in his mind for years, he felt tears stream down his face, "I'm, sorry. I failed." "What are you saying? You never failed anyone, my little ray of sunshine." "No! I, didn't talk to you for years. Why would you not care?!" James cried out, his sadness clear as day in his breaking voice. His mother didn't seem to care, or cared too much to point it out, "I do care! I didn't hear my baby's voice for three years. Three years! But, you did not fail." "I did. I did. I lost my vigour, my power of imagination. I failed in my literature." "What are you saying? You couldn't have, just lost your power of imagination. You are the most special boy in the world, and no one can take that away from you, least of all you yourself." "You can't believe that, not anymore!" James screamed into his microphone, almost dejected that his mother did not hate him, "Because I don't. I don't feel I have anything special in me. Not anymore," James said, just dejected.

His mother began to speak, "Don't think that. You are..." From the phone, came a scream of 'Grace'. James was intrigued, "Mom. Who is that?" "Uh, it's. It's my, my husband." "What?! That's, impossible." "I married him three months ago. I wanted to invite you. But you were nowhere to be found. I, I feared you didn't want to, didn't want to talk to me." "But. But, this can't be. You loved dad." "I did. But, I also love Craig. Come home, please, you should meet him." "I can't." "You can. Where are you living?" "Arthur's." "Arthur? You friend from childhood? Why there." "I lost my fame, my fortune." "But why didn't you come to live with me?" "I, I didn't want to disappoint you, after failing so gracefully. But I'm not the disappointment." "Please, James, meet Craig. I know you will like him." Grace had a hint of longing, of despair, in her voice. James did not care anymore, "No" James cut the call. He sank into his chair, dejected, despaired, and depressed. The torn leather of the seat pricked his arms, but he continued sinking into his cursed abode, and wished he could live there forever. That was quick, he thought, it hardly had taken his mother four minutes to leave him saddened. Love had always meant to disappoint, James knew that for sure now. First Kate, then Grace, and he was left with nothing in him but despair. Men said hell burned, but he felt his current situation was hell incarnate, cold, with no hope left in the cursed world. The leather pricked his skin deep, and James raised his hand to inspect it. Blood began at about the middle of the distance between his elbow and wrist, red and dark. The plush white cotton below the torn leather was bloodstained. James was almost, amused.

James laughed out, out into the grey sky with it's grey clouds. He touched the blood on his left arm with his right index finger, and let the red devour the skin colour of his finger, as it spread like ice-cream on a hot day. He chuckled and cackled, giggled and guffawed, hooted and howled. The lie of blood was there, blatant and there for all to see. It didn't matter whose blood was similar or dissimilar to James' own, no one could truly ever love him. They might love him as a child, or as a famous author, but no one gave a tiniest bit of a sh*t about him, about James. 'James' was a shambling mess of superficial problems, in the mere shape of a human being. The red hot blood on his fingertips, streaming down to his palm, was a reminder of what everyone showed to him. Spite. Spite was all everyone showed him, no one wanted James, everyone hated James, spited him. Spite, in it's hot, dark blood, was a cold reminder of the hell on earth James face. And there was one person who spited him, and loved him, more than anyone else. James broke into laughter again, sinking his arms into the jagged spikes that were his chair's armrests.