Let me see your bedroom – a short story by William Cody Watson


William Cody Watson has been a very close friend for years now.  One thing that is super consistent with him is his undying need to create.  It’s not merely a  need , but more like a  tunnel -vision realm he’s trapped in – happiness is the distant light at the end, creation is bouncing off the thick  tunnel  walls, and the outside world is a severely fucked up place.  And, well, WCW is stuck in the  tunnel  - a  tunnel  used as a dumpsite for tales of love and betrayal, fear, desperation, escape, and shelter.  It’s always been there.  Look at his prolific work, hear his music, and try to deny the tear jerk reactions – it won’t happen.  His latest LP (out very soon) does just this – guides the listener  within , into sustained moments of life’s most raw emotions, pushing out a result of awe followed by the shedding of tears.

Below is one of many selections of WCW’s recent writings.  Knowing him personally and thumbing through his thoughts on a day to day basis, it is crystal clear to me.  It’s in there.  You’ll find it.” 

(Introduction by Jon Hency / Bathetic)

Click on “continue reading” to read William Cody Watson’s short story.



LET ME SEE YOUR BEDROOM by William Cody Watson

I sit in some corner booth, my head pounding deep dissonance with some kind of wrought-out, rot-gut bleak intensity; a lost cause for enthusiasm. The interior frills and frames have been long burnt and shot. I just pull back the hammer on the cheap-beer-bullet-dispenser, while waiting for some stranger to come back from the restroom — some over ecstatic, voluminous chatter box  who has been trying to find her way through my toxic teeth, hoping to pry open the backside of my skull, and acquire lush information. I have none.

She struts back and slinks into the booth, hair bouncing and bobbing to muted music, I hear nothing, I feel nothing. She can’t resist the gorgeous disposition buried in my warm-chocolate eyes, and the chance to grasp for fantasy realms curated in my broken, bitter mind. She knows nothing of “being jaded” or “plagues,” and I have been this way for years and swallowed the razors, the nails, the glass, and I think to myself; “Why am I even here?”

She bird eats and I belch quietly, under my breath, the kind of burning burp that rattles your throat. I speak little, through moderately clenched teeth, and I’m not interested in anything she has to say, not interested in anything I have to say. This is no place for narcissism and… Y’know, it’s really been years since I’ve felt that way about myself. She is basically carbon, a pile of ash, a slowly fading photocopy of every mildly imperfect but trying, totally imbalanced but working, sugar-coated, always-the-bridesmaid type I’ve seen floating for years. At this age,  at my age , they’ve all become the same person; never more, never less.

I used to wish for ambition, direction, adamant attraction, and independence; someone who fights the good fight and buckles for no one. Now, all I see is beautiful brokenness, the kind of formerly-fragile individuals who’ve completely shattered, but keep it together via band-aids and scotch tape for the sake of some pride or some ego — and this could all be wrong, but this is how the world works in my eyes. I toss crumpled straw wrappers into the salsa. She chuckles, a bit uneasily and blows it off as some sort of sense of humor. It’s not. It’s boredom and grouchiness. It’s restlessness, anguish, and depression; foaming at the mouth. 

We stop talking all together some half an hour in. 

I pay some bill with the last of the crumpled cash in my wallet. 

She drives us back to her apartment. I never drive. I can’t believe she would even agree to this without getting picked up. I don’t even fucking care. I never did.

We walk into her apartment. It smells of warm wood, relaxation, fruit, citrus, the sea, and other things I try to place but the boiling brain just can’t even register them. Also, I don’t even fucking care that much. I never did.

She leans, adventurously, into me as she slides her purse between the arm of the couch and some frilly, decorative pillow. Her breasts brush my shoulder. She glides her face in my direction, thinking that a kiss from this unfortunate, directionless soul might be the beginning of her voyage down “fix him up.” 

Who cares? It’s not real. It never was, and for the life of me, I can’t understand what makes her get excited to embark on this initiative. Is she that bored, that lonely, so desperate to –  even hopefully  – find someone that will meet some set of personal needs she’s kept in her panty drawer since middle-school?  Is this her fantasy coming to fruition?

“How many times has this girl been burned?” I ponder rubbing my flannel forearm.

She seems productive, moderately successful; shit she even seems courageous in an awkward and wholesome way, and a maybe bit complete — I think her parents may have actually loved her. She’s beautiful, in her own way, and for anyone other than I; a demonic interpretation of “all filler, no killer,” a dissatisfied, disenfranchised, soiled youth (not spoiled –  soiled ); certainly mustering the ability to enjoy this of find satisfaction in her achievements wouldn’t be a  task . I just want to laugh and die.

I break away from her face, allowing her to only slightly catch the side of my cheek with her plump, wet lips. Strawberry lips, sugar coated.

I ask her if there’s beer in her fridge. She nods, an odd expression on her face combining fear with something… maybe lust, I’m not sure. 

I walk to the kitchen, slouch over the fridge and pull a bottle from the shelf. I pop the top and stare directly at her — she possesses this slightly confused, slightly aroused, altogether  intrigued  look — as I drain over half of the bottle’s contents. I burp again, a slightly louder version of the previous belch, this time with more burn and it almost snaps me back to reality, but it fails. Her eyes widen. I wipe my mouth and slightly mutter…

“Let me see your bedroom.”

These mistakes we make will set fire to our graves.