all the possibilities {arsen/theo}
Jan 19, 2015 18:28:28 GMT -5
Post by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte] on Jan 19, 2015 18:28:28 GMT -5
t h e o d o r e h a r t
It's empty without Nikolas. Mom let me move back into our old room and I sleep with his pillows because they smell just like him. Nearly two years have passed since I needed someone to sing me to sleep but I can't help and imagine what it would be like if my brother was still here. If we could sit up talking about everything and avoiding the elephant in the room because nobody ever wanted to talk about that elephant. We could act like everything was normal and I could smile. I wouldn't tell him he's an asshole, wouldn't tell him it was all his fault. I wouldn't tell him I hate him. (Oh, there are so many things I would have done differently.)
This morning is quiet. I lift up the floorboards as I always do, clutching the needle I'd prepared the night before. My veins are on fire, the whole of my body craving the sinful liquid that bubbles when I tap on it with my finger. I need it. I don't want it, want is something I haven't done for a while. There is no room for wanting when the whole of my life is consumed by getting the next fix. (Luckily Jordan has given me enough to finish out this week, barely.) There's elastic between my teeth as I pull the band taught over my skin. Bruises and pock marks line my forearm and it's so ugly that I grimace when I see it. The vein I've been using has scarred over too thick and no matter how much I move the needle underneath my flesh I can't hit the vein.
So I choose one upon my wrist, hitting the plunger with a moan akin to a starving man's first bite. I throw my head back, smile lighting my lips as the happiness wracks my body. It doesn't last long. (It hasn't lasted long enough for a year now.) I don't feel happy, I feel normal. I feel nothing. I need the drug to feel nothing. It is my savior from the way it has scarred my own body. It's pathetic.
I've put the supplies away, knowing that by nightfall I'll need another hit. Until then, I plan on spending as much of my allotted freedom out of this damned house. So I pull a sweater over my head (nobody wants to see arms marred by sin) and pants over my legs. There's no absolute destination in mind, just to get as far away as possible with shackles still attached to my ankle.
Today's wanderings have lead me to a parlor. One where needles are used for art instead of destruction. The thought brings a smile to my lips and I walk inside because I want to know what it's like to make beauty with the thing ruining my life. And maybe because I was lonely and didn't want to spend my day with Jordan. I never want to spend my day with Jordan.
There's a boy there, and there's something sad about him. If a raincloud followed anyone around, it would have been him. The way he holds himself and look upon his face. Right then, I decide he's going to be my friend because I think the both of us could use one.
Cocky grin pasted upon my lips, I saunter over to him, resting an elbow on the counter as I ponder what would be my first words to this new friend. "You know, it takes more muscles to frown than to smile." (Perfect.)
This morning is quiet. I lift up the floorboards as I always do, clutching the needle I'd prepared the night before. My veins are on fire, the whole of my body craving the sinful liquid that bubbles when I tap on it with my finger. I need it. I don't want it, want is something I haven't done for a while. There is no room for wanting when the whole of my life is consumed by getting the next fix. (Luckily Jordan has given me enough to finish out this week, barely.) There's elastic between my teeth as I pull the band taught over my skin. Bruises and pock marks line my forearm and it's so ugly that I grimace when I see it. The vein I've been using has scarred over too thick and no matter how much I move the needle underneath my flesh I can't hit the vein.
So I choose one upon my wrist, hitting the plunger with a moan akin to a starving man's first bite. I throw my head back, smile lighting my lips as the happiness wracks my body. It doesn't last long. (It hasn't lasted long enough for a year now.) I don't feel happy, I feel normal. I feel nothing. I need the drug to feel nothing. It is my savior from the way it has scarred my own body. It's pathetic.
I've put the supplies away, knowing that by nightfall I'll need another hit. Until then, I plan on spending as much of my allotted freedom out of this damned house. So I pull a sweater over my head (nobody wants to see arms marred by sin) and pants over my legs. There's no absolute destination in mind, just to get as far away as possible with shackles still attached to my ankle.
Today's wanderings have lead me to a parlor. One where needles are used for art instead of destruction. The thought brings a smile to my lips and I walk inside because I want to know what it's like to make beauty with the thing ruining my life. And maybe because I was lonely and didn't want to spend my day with Jordan. I never want to spend my day with Jordan.
There's a boy there, and there's something sad about him. If a raincloud followed anyone around, it would have been him. The way he holds himself and look upon his face. Right then, I decide he's going to be my friend because I think the both of us could use one.
Cocky grin pasted upon my lips, I saunter over to him, resting an elbow on the counter as I ponder what would be my first words to this new friend. "You know, it takes more muscles to frown than to smile." (Perfect.)