The Second Breath Of Air
Est. April, 2006
Sixteen-Years Old
Est. April, 2006
Sixteen-Years Old
Broken noses feel like shit, that thick line of blood running straight down and pooling round the filter of a cigarette hanging loosely between closed lips. Moving between baby teeth and the taste of it rubbing raw against a new tongue. Each inhale lessens the punch of it, making a friend out of the smoke that spills from barely parted lips. The endless numb that comes with street grade painkillers floods each cell, down to the fibers of my being. A leeway into feeling nothing at all. A path towards tonights tormented dreams.
"Christ, who fucked ya up?"
I avoid the battering stare cast down upon me from a figure nothing more than shadow, upturn my head to the sky and let the blood run the other direction back down my throat. A new taste to accompany the nicotine. Something decidedly sweet in comparison to the burn in my lungs.
"Doesn't matter."
Footsteps. The shuffling of fabric. Two seconds of wondering if the man has left before a sudden weight drops into my lap. The crinkle of a paper bag and the unmistakable sight of fast food wrappers.
"Grabbed lunch."
"Don't care."
"No, didn't expect you would." He pauses a beat, "Pretty damn stupid running off like that."
I sneer, set the bag aside and look up to meet his gaze. Dalaigh's a sleight man that doesn't stand out in a crowd, non-imposing, non-threatening. Dressed in a way that screams Sunday Mass and not cold blooded murder till the cotton of his shirts stained red with the evidence of a crime committed. Its the kind of deliberate disguise that has me curling my lip in a snarl. Playing house is a fools game, a stab at choking the monster back. But he's always going to be there, lurking at the edge of every thought each time something with the capability to kill is in hand. It is a weakness, and it always ends the same. His allegiance to my father be damned, I'm more than ready to take a pair of dull knives to the skin between each rib.
Just like I've been taught.
The cigarette is nearly down to the filter, losing its taste. Whats left of the twinge in my nose is gone. Same shit, different day. I cross my arms, wonder where my brothers gone, whether he's aware that with him out of the picture pops has men like Dalaigh trailing every running shadow of mine. Don't suppose he'd care, busy with the feeling of wet viscera slipping through excited hands.
"Why don't you just fuck off."
Dalaigh laughs. Like he has the right to find anything funny when in truth, he's walking on ice so thin that its already beginning to crack.
"And take a bullet for not doing my job?" He seems to ponder. "Keeping your psychotic ass in line is still better than that."
I stub the cigarette out on the ground, the pavement is still wet from the never fucking ending rain. He knows the fucking answer to that, so I don't say a damn thing in return. Shove my hands in my pockets to stave off the cold thats seeping in. There are still clouds in the sky, a storm gathering on the horizon. The lack of sun washes all light from the landscape turning vivid color into grungy monochrome. The shadows that are usually long and reaching are barely distinguishable today.
Typical day for this shit.
"Where the hell are you going now."
"Hell."
And it's the truth.
Home is hell wrapped up in a gemstone glow. Shiny enough to pull off the gleam of clean business, with razor edges cut into fine geometry. Icarus heels at the door, mutt eyes blue and brown with that tinge of red veins showing exhaustion at the corners. Drops his muzzle to the floor in a seeking motion, snuffles the fabric of my pants as I walk away without so much as acknowledging him. His drool leaving a dripping pattern across the polished tile beneath us.
If there is ever a common equivalent of cereberus than it is the single headed mutt searching for its daily head scratch. I do not comply in fear of digging sharp nails too hard into animal skin - purposeful despite lack of intent. There is no greater urging twisting up in my gut than the anger, the sure as day longing to feel it taken out on anything within reach. Walls, floors, pets, people. Does it matter.
Everything, anything, always, always, always...
It can all be destroyed with the simplest of pressure applied.
The slick slide of a knife gliding over supple skin. So soft, so soft.
stop.
Think, gather, ground. Be in the present, and not within the swirling of a vortex of thoughts that exist outside the realm of normal psychological behavior. Its ingrained now, the fierceness of each thought. A learned habit maybe, or something deeper. Something thats always been there. Teased out by a family hellbent on ruination - the father and his empire, the mother and her anger, the brother and his blade. And myself, when did I first look in the mirror and see the Ichor of life spilling between clenched fists.
The taste of it is sweet, even as it slides down thick.
I'm only here for a moment, slip in, slip out. Gather clothes and money, cash upon cash upon cash. Stuff it in a bag, lacking sentimental nuances. There's enough for a day or two, maybe three if the feeling doesn't fade quite as fast. Each time gets shorter, more itching in between.
Leave, never touch the damned dog. Let him trail after me, droopy eye'd and desperate. Get halfway down the line of pristine cars to the one that looks like shit from a combination of careless driving and drunken attacks with a steel pipe.
They'll wonder where I am, whether I'm off taking or giving life. Spending nights much alike my mother in that regards. But rather, where I am going is different. A place that is the very opposite of a gemstone. A dirt covered rock in a bed of rusty coins. Still as capable of drawing blood.
A welcome with open arms and just barely the hint of a smile. "Sucker." the smile says as if ears are not a thing and today they are not for there are matters more pressing than an insult. A heedy desperation that has swirled its way round each limb. Tight as a Boa, constricting its prays breath from its lungs.
It is not the first, and it will not be the last. Because the plunge of a needle never lasts.
It never lasts.
I need more.
"Christ, who fucked ya up?"
I avoid the battering stare cast down upon me from a figure nothing more than shadow, upturn my head to the sky and let the blood run the other direction back down my throat. A new taste to accompany the nicotine. Something decidedly sweet in comparison to the burn in my lungs.
"Doesn't matter."
Footsteps. The shuffling of fabric. Two seconds of wondering if the man has left before a sudden weight drops into my lap. The crinkle of a paper bag and the unmistakable sight of fast food wrappers.
"Grabbed lunch."
"Don't care."
"No, didn't expect you would." He pauses a beat, "Pretty damn stupid running off like that."
I sneer, set the bag aside and look up to meet his gaze. Dalaigh's a sleight man that doesn't stand out in a crowd, non-imposing, non-threatening. Dressed in a way that screams Sunday Mass and not cold blooded murder till the cotton of his shirts stained red with the evidence of a crime committed. Its the kind of deliberate disguise that has me curling my lip in a snarl. Playing house is a fools game, a stab at choking the monster back. But he's always going to be there, lurking at the edge of every thought each time something with the capability to kill is in hand. It is a weakness, and it always ends the same. His allegiance to my father be damned, I'm more than ready to take a pair of dull knives to the skin between each rib.
Just like I've been taught.
The cigarette is nearly down to the filter, losing its taste. Whats left of the twinge in my nose is gone. Same shit, different day. I cross my arms, wonder where my brothers gone, whether he's aware that with him out of the picture pops has men like Dalaigh trailing every running shadow of mine. Don't suppose he'd care, busy with the feeling of wet viscera slipping through excited hands.
"Why don't you just fuck off."
Dalaigh laughs. Like he has the right to find anything funny when in truth, he's walking on ice so thin that its already beginning to crack.
"And take a bullet for not doing my job?" He seems to ponder. "Keeping your psychotic ass in line is still better than that."
I stub the cigarette out on the ground, the pavement is still wet from the never fucking ending rain. He knows the fucking answer to that, so I don't say a damn thing in return. Shove my hands in my pockets to stave off the cold thats seeping in. There are still clouds in the sky, a storm gathering on the horizon. The lack of sun washes all light from the landscape turning vivid color into grungy monochrome. The shadows that are usually long and reaching are barely distinguishable today.
Typical day for this shit.
"Where the hell are you going now."
"Hell."
And it's the truth.
Home is hell wrapped up in a gemstone glow. Shiny enough to pull off the gleam of clean business, with razor edges cut into fine geometry. Icarus heels at the door, mutt eyes blue and brown with that tinge of red veins showing exhaustion at the corners. Drops his muzzle to the floor in a seeking motion, snuffles the fabric of my pants as I walk away without so much as acknowledging him. His drool leaving a dripping pattern across the polished tile beneath us.
If there is ever a common equivalent of cereberus than it is the single headed mutt searching for its daily head scratch. I do not comply in fear of digging sharp nails too hard into animal skin - purposeful despite lack of intent. There is no greater urging twisting up in my gut than the anger, the sure as day longing to feel it taken out on anything within reach. Walls, floors, pets, people. Does it matter.
Everything, anything, always, always, always...
It can all be destroyed with the simplest of pressure applied.
The slick slide of a knife gliding over supple skin. So soft, so soft.
stop.
Think, gather, ground. Be in the present, and not within the swirling of a vortex of thoughts that exist outside the realm of normal psychological behavior. Its ingrained now, the fierceness of each thought. A learned habit maybe, or something deeper. Something thats always been there. Teased out by a family hellbent on ruination - the father and his empire, the mother and her anger, the brother and his blade. And myself, when did I first look in the mirror and see the Ichor of life spilling between clenched fists.
The taste of it is sweet, even as it slides down thick.
I'm only here for a moment, slip in, slip out. Gather clothes and money, cash upon cash upon cash. Stuff it in a bag, lacking sentimental nuances. There's enough for a day or two, maybe three if the feeling doesn't fade quite as fast. Each time gets shorter, more itching in between.
Leave, never touch the damned dog. Let him trail after me, droopy eye'd and desperate. Get halfway down the line of pristine cars to the one that looks like shit from a combination of careless driving and drunken attacks with a steel pipe.
They'll wonder where I am, whether I'm off taking or giving life. Spending nights much alike my mother in that regards. But rather, where I am going is different. A place that is the very opposite of a gemstone. A dirt covered rock in a bed of rusty coins. Still as capable of drawing blood.
A welcome with open arms and just barely the hint of a smile. "Sucker." the smile says as if ears are not a thing and today they are not for there are matters more pressing than an insult. A heedy desperation that has swirled its way round each limb. Tight as a Boa, constricting its prays breath from its lungs.
It is not the first, and it will not be the last. Because the plunge of a needle never lasts.
It never lasts.
I need more.