Mr. and Mrs. Goo
Knee. Two bruises stare back. Brand new, at least to me. Blue, no, black surrounded by yellow and sickening green. A ring of neon vomit around a black hole. Pathetically speaking, it isn’t so dark to indicate the illusion of infinite depth. Not gruesome enough, or at all actually. They are still watching. “What do you want from me?”, I want to scream, but can’t, especially in this bathroom.
|Are these Goos?|
A thought crosses my mind and suddenly the walls chuckle. Stop right there! I am not as crazy as you may perceive me to be, yet. As they say, or I say, tiled bathroom walls that are too close to each other for comfort is infamous to be the ultimate copycat. Actually, I chuckled first then they followed. Not as sharp but certainly far more grandiose.
Rewind, my darling brain, back to that zap of thought. If Mr. and Mrs. Goos, new names for a new couple, were actually just One Goo would I have noticed it at all? Black, blue, yellow and brown splattered all over my body. Not to mention gradations of skin color surrounding what used to be open wounds. Old, tattered and aged these markings were once representative of the foolish, yet often epic, accidents. Falling on top of the steps of the Sidney Opera House, tumbling in front of a llama, crushing my aunt’s rose bed in San Fransisco, and breaking my arm in Paris. How did scars become vintage memorabilia?
|Count the Goos|
Glancing back at The Goos, I can’t help but wonder if I would have even noticed my battered knee if it was only a spot, not two, just one. Being accustomed to darker, bloodier, and certainly larger scars I often look over the little ones. Little bruises, usually caused by sheer clumsiness, somehow didn’t make much difference. Multitudes of black and blue do not change me ever so slightly, even now when I have noticed them. A scar, on the other hand, becomes this new definition of my existence. With every sting felt comes a promise to be more cautious, comes a prayer for the pain to leave and never come back, comes a plea which resolves in tears. But two, even ten nickel-sized bruises won’t amount to even a single paper cut.
Life. My life. Is it really only molded by epic, gory quests? Or does every jump to the next pixelated box that little pixelated me makes matter? Does a boy have to break my heart in order for me to fall in love with him? Does a friend have to stab me in the back for the friendship to mean anything to me? What kind of life would I lead? A battered one at the most.