Next Sunday

From the Berlin vault ca 2022.

On Sundays we met in his bed. Pretty fun until it wasn’t.

John started working as part-time lesbian. His work was mainly centred around grunting and picking fights with dogs. Since the decline of lesbianism in Berlin, the government had hired multiple people to stabilize the gay agenda.

The gig was provided for by Janice. In a competitive market, Janice privatized it like a food delivery service. Shifts were more flexible and had a better outcome than the state operated ones.

Anyways, after that I didn’t see much of John. That was until I went to Hallesches myself to buy cheap weed. To my surprise Janice was the one selling. I recognised her from that time John showed me the privatized on demand lesbian provider website. “Is John around?” I asked.

“Out here, you better refer to him as Beth.” Janice said, as she smoked her sixth cigarette within minutes. Sure. “At the end of the block over.” She pointed me to him and I saw his back. Wig on and whatnot. John as Beth was weird. Beth was fake, I thought.

Because John looks good. And John feels nice. But John makes me sick. Yet John doesn’t mean no harm. I didn’t want to see him after all.

I was semi homophobic towards lesbians, due to one bad experience I had with a lesbian four years ago. But then again, I was more homophobic towards gay people due to myself.

It was easier to be non-homophobic and straight, than non-homophobic and gay, I thought. My blood started to boil a bit. As I glared at Joh-- Beth from afar, I couldn’t help to resent her, or them.

I often regretted things. Despite all the noise telling us to not. I didn’t believe it. How could people live so fluently without any regrets? Half my days was spent dwelling on regrets. The other half left me paralyzed without any conclusion. But this continues heartbreak over John was getting ridiculous. I never settled if it was caused by envy or love. He had such a skill letting things go…

It was easier to be non-homophobic and straight, than non-homophobic and gay. Well. How would I know? If you knew how close I was to ending it, would you still listen? Fuck. The U-Bahn swerved across my face. What if I push John out on the tracks instead of myself? Why not make someone else pay for once?

I got home, but I had no peace. It wasn’t long until someone rang the doorbell. I knew it couldn’t be, but I hoped for my safety that it was John. “It’s Amazon.” I said I didn’t order anything. But then he said that the package had my name on it. So I asked what it was. “It’s literally packaged.” “Alright. What does the package feel like?” “Like heaven baby.” I buzzed him in.

The delivery guy stood there after handing a decently small box over to me, trying to tell me that one out of two packages had been delivered. “No thank you. I ordered neither by the way.” “Fine. I hope you die!” “Wait!” I invited him in.

So we sat down by the kitchen table to open up the package before potentially having sex. Inside was a knife from the Amazon Knifey series. The same one John had. An neon blue one that I had in mind when I pictured ending him. Algorithm nowadays! The delivery man flirted with his brow, eyes and smile, but I proceeded to take a stab at his thigh instead. He shrieked out loud, shocked. Everyone must’ve heard it. But then again everyone was busy with their own shit. He shrieked and shrieked even more when I pulled out the knife. Hell, blood flew to the roof! I ran out of there. He was too busy being hurt to chase me.

Into the night with my new Amazon Knifey I went. There were tanks in the streets. But I lacked hope to question it. I had to get to Hallesches Tor. I had to find Beth. I had to find John! I just wanted to see his head float in the river. Sadly, when I got to the U-Bahn, it was replaced by a drive-through window. But I had no inspiration to figure out why.

I ran instead. Across the bridge. Along the avenue. Up to Hallesches station. There he was. Beth. I ran towards him. He turned as if he was expecting me. He didn’t look like Beth. He looked like himself. He came towards me. As to curb me.

I wanted to stab him. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to fuck him. And as I reached him, I could see that he was freezing, shivering. I needed to hug him, slice his neck in the back, warm us in his blood.

The streetlight sparked his face. I couldn’t slow down. So close now. His shoulder pulled back. His whole being was aiming. He put it into force. Derailing my face. Kicking my balls. Straight up my guts. Blood flew from my nose. As saliva hanging by a thread.

The Amazon Kinfey really did a number on my lung. From below, I felt the snow jarring into my fresh scar. It felt like little crystals desinigrating into bitterness. I was deflating, spiraling in an endless pool, losing the capability to fight the whirlpool. But as I sunk lower, the air felt crisper. The pain was horrendous and sharper than the cold. This wasn’t me. Or maybe it was. But I would no longer be. So what different did it make now?