this world that we live in ;; shrimp

[Skylar]

And so I walk. I walk with a bottle of whiskey in one hand, my blood hot under my skin. Thanks to some money that Cattail had found lying in the forest, I now have money to rid myself of all my worries; to get drunk so all my paranoia of my sexuality being known by others disappears from me. With each swallow of the liquor, the slower my mind works, the more my eyes see yet not helping my vision at all. With it half empty now, I try to keep myself from chugging it as fast as I can, because the longer I savor it; the better.

In fact, it cost me barely anything. The people at the black market were aways willing to take cash, and it only took me about a tenth of it to get a fifth of whiskey to drink all to myself. I'm left with enough to buy a full loaf of bread from a bakery, and I plan to buy it as soon as my bottle's gone, so my mood will still be good. Hopefully, though, I'll still be able to walk without falling down and I can still talk in complete sentences.

I feel my arm brush up against a brick wall and I know that I'm in an alley. The orange glow of lanterns hang above my head while the stars dance around in the night sky. The atmosphere is warm, even though the weather is frightful and chilling against my face and skin. I told Cattail when I'd left that I'd be back in an hour or two, and so she probably went to visit a friends house. But now that I think of it, I left at sunset, and now it's pitch dark. Perhaps I'd wandered too long.

Quickly the whiskey is gone and I'm no longer holding the bottle. Everything is double, as if each eye provided a separate vision to my brain, and when I try to sing, it's slurred and indistinguishable. I feel at my pockets and there's still coins in them, and i feel like I'm in still of a good enough state to buy a loaf of bread.

There's really no one out at this time of night, seeming to be only me that decided that going out on weekend was a good thing. Occasionally, I'd bump into walls and apologize to them, only to giggle at my stupidity and confusion that walls weren't actually alive. I fell only once during my whole trip there, and though my knee seemed to be ripped open, the whiskey that I drank kept the pain from coming.

When I reach the bakery, the sign above it is a mix of painted letters that I can't distinguish. Inside, I see people dining, ones that own tons more than me that can afford to eat here every day of the week and every day of the year. Behind a counter, I see an orange glow attempting to be hidden by 4 iron bars. A teenage boy -- or so he looked like from my perspective -- opens the stove and the glowing coal inside sends small embers floating upwards as he pokes it with a tool.

I pull the glass door open and the smell that enters my nose is enough to make tears well up in my eyes. It brings back memories of a life where I wasn't so paranoid and scared, a life where I could go to sleep and have a story read to me. I throw the memories from my mind and approach the counter.

-----

I get the loaf of bread; Sourdough. Truly, I know nothing about sourdough bread or really any type of bread, but I tried to order with dignity and not look like I was too intoxicated. Of course I got thrown dirty looks, and the man that I ordered to looked disgusted when I first spoke, but I honestly didn't care.

When I receive the bread, it's wrapped in a white piece of paper, keeping my hands from disturbing the flavor. Immediately though, I take a piece off the top and throw it into my mouth, the sweet taste bursting in a cloud of flavor paradise. It's like nothing I remember from when I was a kid, but since it's been years upon years since I was that little kid that got bread every once in a while, I think that I'll never remember how it tasted.

In fact, I'm so encased with the flavor that I don't even say bye when I leave the bakery. And so once more, I walk. I walk as far as I can, but with the warmth of the bread and the temptation to eat all of it but not without Cat, I begin to run. Although my running may seem to simply be walking with exaggerated arm swings, I think I'm moving fast for a boy that's so drunk that he can't bump into walls without apologizing to them.

Eventually, my own two feet trip over each other and I land face first onto the cold pavement, the bread going somewhere unknown to me. Any other time, I'd probably laugh and shake it off, or not feel the pain just like I didn't when I'd landed on my knee, but with the sharp little pebbles embedded in my cheeks, I can't help but cry; loudly.

[shrimp]

LIVING - 676767
THINKING - 6D1B1B
SPEAKING - 526719
OTHERS SPEAKING - D99700
FLASHBACK - 1F3665

---

The city center has been somewhat active for the past few hours or so - perhaps the residents have decided to simply walk around and gaze at the snowflakes, which are slowly drifting two and fro in a wondrous pattern. It really is rather interesting, which is why I have decided to walk around a bit. Besides, I need to get something to eat anyways, and I have enough money to buy a small loaf... or slice, of bread.

I put on my working boots and slip my green jacket on as I prepare to exit into the brisk night. Silently, I thank my father for leaving this with me before he... killed himself, and that the matron of the Orphanage didn't go steal it during the many years I had been living in that... that horrid place. I am actually really surprised that I still have it; you would think that living in such a horrible place for sixteen years would cause your things to be stolen on a daily basis. I guess I was discreet enough about my belongings that nobody really noticed them.

With my jacket finally on, I shove open the old door, which groans in protest. I wince at the nose - similar to one pushing their bow extremely hard onto the violin - loud and scratchy. Shoving it closed, I being to set off towards dinner. My stomach growls, eager for something to be shoved down my throat. But it's going to have to wait, for I live a distance away from the bakery.

While I am walking, the snow floats to and fro lazily in front of my eyes. The amount of snow that's beginning to pile up in shallow drifts is rather intriguing - stopping in my tracks, I simply look up, and stare at all of the snowflakes parachuting down to the cold earth. I have heard that every single snowflake is unique, similar to humans in a way. We all have our different personalities, etc. Hmm, comparing snowflakes to people - this must be why I'm not very popular around people, I talk too much.

I stick out my tongue, catching a few snowflakes, which quickly melt into cold, refreshing water droplets. It only makes my stomach grumble more though, so I soon stop doing this, my eyes showing the hunger pangs that resonate through my body. I don't think I've eaten all day actually. Let's see... I had nothing in my house, so I couldn't prepare breakfast, and I was broke. So yes, I didn't eat breakfast or lunch. No wonder I feel like my stomach is going to start eating itself... Or something along that train of thought.

Shrugging that aside, I begin to walk again. I am still rather far from the Square, a fact which only seems to increase the rate of tummy grumblings, which seem rather loud against this quiet backdrop.

Silence is unnerving. I absolutely, positively hate silence. I would much rather be in a crowd, knowing that I am... well, safe. Being alone, being isolated from everyone else is just not going to lead to anything good. I would think that this is the reason that I was left so... Utterly confused and helpless a few years back. There was no one to talk to, nobody to share my feelings with. I was, truthfully, alone. I guess this is why I am a chatterbox - maybe covering up the silence with conversation will make me feel safer.

Suddenly, something rolls at my feet, making me jump in surprise. Gazing downward, I see a... A loaf of bread? No, this cannot be right; it must be my mind playing tricks on me. It is not likely that edible food will come to me just when I need it, unless I have magical powers or something, which is simply illogical and rather stupid if you think about it.

Picking up the warm loaf, I attempt to dust the wet snow off of it. It is not really working though, so I simply walk forward, attempting to discover what made this bread appear at my feet. Someone was eating it - there's some pieces ripped off of the top. Therefore, somebody is nearby.

"Hello? Is... Is someone in the premises? I have this... bread right here."

To my avail, there is no answer. What if this was all a trick? What if somebody is simply waiting in the shadows, to leap at me, tackle me to the ground and do unspeakable actions upon my body? Well, perhaps it is a bit far-fetched, but it has happened before. So what is stopping it from happening again? My body tenses, waiting for the impact. But nothing happens, except for the wail that appears quickly, causing me to freak out a tad bit again. It sounds like the said person (a male I assume?) is in a lot of pain. Sympathies overriding cautiousness, I walk over to the source of the sound, to see a male lying face down on the ground. It is getting a bit dark, so I cannot really discern any specific features. However, he looks a tad bit… big-boned I think. Somewhat tall. Finally reaching the boy, I bend down. The smell of greasy hair quickly fills my nostrils however, causing me to back up in slight disgust. However, I shouldn’t be talking – I’m probably worse off than this man is.

"Excuse me? Sir? I’m sorry to... bother you with what you are doing, but is this yours? Also, would you like a hand with getting up off of the ground? The earth is rather cold, so your face is probably a tad bit on the freezing side."

Without waiting for a reply, I put my hand out, just in case. I do not really think that he's dangerous - after all, the boy is crying like a baby. But just in case, the hand that's wrapped around the bread is also encased in a fist, so I could... What's the word? Uppercut? Yes, uppercut him or something.

At least I think that is the word...

Whatever.

[/blockquote]

[Skylar]

When I think back to Cattail, I think that she probably is not worrying about me one bit; probably enjoying my extensive time away. I know she gets tired of my complaining about how my sexuality would be the death of me, but it's truly all I think about while sober. When I'm at home and there's nothing to do, all I do is ask questions and cry. I bring my knees up to my chest and rock back in forth in front of the fire, letting the soot that it creates gather on my skin. She's probably gossiping about others at her school, seeing as she's well known and has all of the latest news and happenings around her. Sometimes she tells me to try to cheer me up when I'm broken down; to try to repair me. In truth, it does cheer me up, because she never mentions anyone ever asking if I was gay or asking if what they heard about me was true. But I can't help but think that she wouldn't tell me if they did.

I used to be similar to her. When I was around 10 or so. I had friends; plenty of them. There was Benjamin, Abrel, Caulf, Frederick, Gail, Whynd, and most importantly: Arthur. Perhaps all of my paranoia derives from him. All of the pain and crying and trembling and puke that've I caused has all been created by one single source. And if he wouldn't have kissed me, I wouldn't have been called a faggot, and I wouldn't have the need to worry about anything as major as that. The more I think about it, the only thing I'd worry about is Cattail and school work, which is already a given. And the school work wouldn't even be a problem anymore, because no longer do I study. Arthur is the one that caused it, and he and I both know it. I don't see him ever. Perhaps he died or ran away or dug a hole underground, or perhaps he's around me more than I think, but I just can't bring myself to see him.

The memory of Arthur makes the pain in my body hurt even more, causing my wails to grow louder and louder. My ears hear a faint voice, but I believe it's just a side effect of my intoxication. I ignore it and focus more on the burning sensation in my cheeks and the frigidity of my limbs. I turn my head onto its side and see the blur of house's lighting and warm glow of fire's as they illuminate out of the window. My eyes are still filled with salty tears, causing a certain sort of beautiful obstruction that only is made better with the seeing double that I've obtained from the whiskey. Once more, though. I hear the same voice I thought I'd heard before, and it's closer than ever. Immediately my stomach drops. It drops down to the other side of the earth. I may be intoxicated, and my mood and worries may be lessened drastically, but the wailing and crying I've done is so much that even the most clueless could conclude that I wasn't a normal heterosexual male.

Instinctively, I feel my throat contracting and morphing to my voice that I use while talking to those who I do not know very well, and it hurts. Having to talk deeply and mostly permanently, my throat can become quite raw. Especially in the conversations where it lasts for more than 5 or so minutes and there's constant back and forth. Around Cattail, I can talk with the voice I was acquired with at birth, and sometimes she mentions that there's no need for me to change my voice and make it adapt to the type of people I'm around, but I can't help it. My paranoia always sets in and I'm terrified that the slightest slip in my voice would give away my deepest darkest secret away.

"Excuse me? Sir? I’m sorry to... bother you with what you are doing, but is this yours? Also, would you like a hand with getting up off of the ground? The earth is rather cold, so your face is probably a tad bit on the freezing side," I hear. It's another male, and as I roll onto my back, the silhouette of a bright streetlight and the sky causes facial features and clothing to be nonexistent. I can see a slender male, however, one that doesn't seem to be scared about his voice or actions or anything that I worry about. My bread? What bread? Did I ever g- Yes, I did get bread. Am I so intoxicated, am I so drunk, as to forget what I'd done mere minutes ago? Perhaps the other thoughts that I had distracted me and caused me to lose my sense of time.

"Uh, yeahr. Mmmy bread that's mine. Can you give it to me? Like nnnow? Or can you help mmme up firsst? The earth is very collld and it makes me shivvver." My words are so slurred that no longer could it be seen as comical. Perhaps it's a mixture of my tears and nerves and coldness, but I think that the reason behind my speech is only to blame on the alcohol. How much of a fool I'd made of myself. I'd only wished to have a night where I didn't have to worry about anything, to celebrate my find, but now I've gotten to the point where I still find myself struggling to hide my true voice and say words without stumbling over them. And laying on a snow covered ground helps nothing either.

I try to pull myself up, noticing that I didn't get the help that I asked for. I find it fine though, because I have fear that if he were to touch me, I'd do things that'd make me look like a molester of sorts. I'm afraid that if I were to be touched my a male, let alone grasp hands by one or be gripped on the shoulder by one, they'd get a sense in their body that I wasn't normal; that I shouldn't be being touched. I guess there's another side effect of my intoxication: being curious and speaking without truly thinking out all of the situations.

"Glad you didnnnnn't help me up!"

[shrimp]

LIVING - 676767
THINKING - 6D1B1B
SPEAKING - 526719
OTHERS SPEAKING - D99700
FLASHBACK - 1F3665

---

With my fist still intact and my arm still reaching out, I spot the man rolling onto the ground, perhaps he is trying to take a closer look at me? Either way, I can see him sort of well. Yes, only partially well - his face is absorbed by dark shadows, so I cannot see all of his features. For example, the color of his eyes are obscured by black, and I can only make out the fact that he has pupils and irises in general. There is absolutely no way that I am able to see the color from this high up.

However, I am able to determine a few things. For starters, he has a large build, and his hair is rather short. Also, his torso is very large, as well as his arms. All in all, he could be a somewhat intimidating type of person; maybe he is not the type of person that I should be fraternizing with. Who knows? He might decide to kill me with a swift suffocation technique, or something like that. He has not done anything of the sort as of late, but I am still a tad bit apprehensive. The hair on my neck is standing up, and I seem to be able to hear better. I have heard that this occurs when a "flight or fight reaction" occurs, so perhaps that is it.

The male finally manages to sputter out a few words, consisting of proclaiming the bread to be his, and confusing me on whether I should either give him the bread, or help him up first. Debating on this, I finally decide that it would be best to help him up beforehand, then give him the bread. After all, it would be hard for a drunk (the slurred words give that away) to really hold something as he attempts to get up from his position, which really does not look very comfortable in the slightest. Not only does he have his face planted into the ground, but it will become very cold from the layers of snow that had previously covered the exterior of the earth.

Before I can do anything however, he begins to attempt to get up. I do not really know what to do at this point, so I simply watch as the man slowly, but surely, makes his way to his feet. I can see his eyes now - they are a nice, brown-like hue, contrasting somewhat with my own set of eyes. I do find them to be nice though; I do not really know why, but the color does look aesthetically pleasing, in my opinion at least. The male then says something else, being happy or grateful that I did not help him up.

Honestly, I have no idea on what to say to that. Thoughts run to and fro, making me ponder why he would not like me to touch him in the slightest. Perhaps he is squeamish? Or finicky? I really do not have a clue, so I simply hand out the bread to him and smile.

"Oh, no. I could have helped you if you needed it. I just did not really know what to do at the moment because you started to attempt to get up all by yourself, which really means that I could not really help at the time, or something of the sort... I think the correct wording is that I thought it would not be appropriate? What do you thi- Oh! I am truly sorry, but I feel that I am babbling at the moment, so here is your bread back. I believe that it is sourdough?"

I really think that I need to get help on speaking to others. I mean, when I speak, the words come to and fro, making it seem like I am a never ending box of chatter. Is the word "chatterbox"? Yes, I think it is. But still, I most definitely need help in this kind of speaking - it is not good to alienate others simply because you do not speak in contractions and feel the need to point out every single one of your thought processes. This simply makes people think that you are an extremely odd, if not old-fashioned person, and then they begin to avoid you like they will catch a fatal disease if they decide to utter a single word to you (which of course, is impossible, unless if I happen to have an airborne disease which is extremely contagious, which I tend not to have at all). It makes me feel alone. I really do wish that the feeling of loneliness would go away, but at this point in time, I am not betting on it.

I'm just different, and sometimes, being different is not a good thing in the slightest.

Not good at all.

[/blockquote][/color]

[Skylar]

The rambling of the man and his objection that he would, in fact, have helped Izzard up, honestly made him both frightened and secure. He felt secure in the sense that if he were to fall from his drunkenness, he'd have someone to catch him. Whether or not the man that had once had his bread was able to catch Izzard was unknown, but it was one of the few things he was optimistic about. Of course, he was also frightened due to the severity of his case of paranoia that, while sober (and possibly while drunken), controlled his every move.

wip again

[skylarversion2]

The rambling of the man and his objection that he would, in fact, have helped Izzard up, honestly made him both frightened and secure. He felt secure in the sense that if he were to fall from his drunkenness, he'd have someone to catch him. Whether or not the man that had once had his bread was able to catch Izzard was unknown, but it was one of the few things he was optimistic about. Of course, he was also frightened due to the severity of his case of paranoia that, while sober (and possibly while drunken), controlled his every move.

Izzard, though he was drunk, still had the ability to notice that the man had mentioned that the bread was sourdough, which, unless he had some superpowers or something, would not know of what kind of bread that it was.

"Yeah, so how'd you knnnow it was sourdough?" Izzard asked, the drunkenness still showing through.

[shrimp]

H O L M E S - Z A C H A R I A S - P E K K L A R

LIVING - 757575 THINKING - A33636 SPEAKING - 526719
OTHERS SPEAKING - D99700 FLASHBACK - 4E5678

----------
How did I know it was sourdough? Well, it is sourdough, plain and simple. The baker tends to make each different kind of bread look slightly different, at least I think that is the case. I do tend to mostly eat bread, so I would think I am somewhat a professional in recognizing different types of bread. Then again, I tend to only eat the bread that is made of rations, but nevertheless, bread is bread, is it not?

In reality, the slightly pungent aroma of sourdough is what alerted me to the fact that this was in fact, sourdough bread. Fresh out of the oven, sourdough has a slightly... Well, sour smell, so that is how I figured that out. But I really do not know how to explain it to the man, so I simply state

"Well... It is sourdough? It just is, do you understand what I am getting at? Oh, um... By any chance, could you tell me who you are? For I would not like to talk to somebody whose name I really do not know."

[skylarversion2]

Sourdough? Who could someone just know how sourdough looked? It wasn't like sourdough bread looked any different than other bread. Or that's what Izzard though, at least. He was drunk, tipsy, though, and nothing seemed to make sense for him at them moment. When he was asked for his name, he replied, "Izzard or somethin'. I really don't care. Just tell m' how you know my name!" He wasn't that bad earlier. Perhaps the alcohol effects grew stronger by the minute, but Izzard still had the sense to hope that he wouldn't get so drunk as to reveal his secret. "Hey, what 'bout y'? What's your bread?"