Flaws {Ripleys}
Sept 3, 2013 6:34:31 GMT -5
Post by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ on Sept 3, 2013 6:34:31 GMT -5
| [atrb=cellSpacing,20,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; padding: 0 0 0 0px; border-radius: 10px 10px 0px 0px; background: #777777; background-image: url(http://i.imgur.com/xzLOFRl.png); background-repeat: no-repeat, padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 35px; bTable] j u d e r i p l e y. |
| [atrb=style, word-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; opacity: 0.8; padding: 35px 10px 35px 10px; border-radius: 5px;]The night soars around me, limitless, in a chest heaving way. A sour taste rests in my mouth, I run my tongue along my teeth, trying to find the source of it. It comes from the back of my throat, where the sweetness of the punch bowl tickles my tongue. I preoccupy myself with the stickiness on the roof of my mouth, and try not to think about what I'm doing. It comes still, a fresh wave of panic filling up my boots. Anxiously, my hands shake, and I cannot still them even if I focus. I hold them up to the light to watch them, and they shatter the stillness of the sky with their jittery movement. My eyes gaze at them, curious as to why they shake so much. I only plan to speak to my little brother afterall. I've removed the pan costume, I felt ridiculous. I wear the old suit I arrived in, the plum purple one and my hat rests uncertainly on my crown. I am king of the idiots tonight, but whatever was in the punch bowl has given me false courage and my feet are planted. I cannot escape this. In my back pocket, there is a pen, and in a familiar way, my fingers itch to take it out and sketch the stars. "You've probably fergotten how," and I ignore the voice. I've been trying so hard to ignore him, but still, my fingers stay away from ink out of the fear that nothing will climb out of the silver tube. I'm afraid that the part of me that still knew how to live died with Noah and Fitz. I'm worried that I'm just skin and cogs working with a creak through the motions. I can't feel my feet sometimes so I wiggle my toes and watch them go. I can't figure out how to move forward from here, I have been so stuck and in a way I feel full of air. I could float away. One night, I tied myself to the bedpost just in case I went out the open window. Some nights I stood at Nino's door and wondered if he was in, but the last time we talked there was shouting and I wasn't there. He spoke to the other guy, who has been strangely quiet since then. "I'm still here Judey boy, have no fear." Yet that's what I am worried about, because his words still shape my lips, and sound still exudes unannounced from my throat. He is still here, but so am I. After a lot of thought, I have decided with a firmness that I didn't know I had. I want to be here. So I hide the deep impressions on my wrists with long sleeves, and dig up dead people with quiet determination. Yet, I haven't been able to face my younger brother, the boy who has been my best friend since we learned to toddle. I cannot imagine life without him, and I am afraid that he hates me. When he comes home, I jump into my closet in a panic, breathing quietly, not entirely sure of what I'm doing. Once he stepped into my room, and I could see him through the cracks, cheeks dirty, shoulders tense. We don't dig together anymore. I don't know why I climb into my closet, or lock myself in the bathroom when he gets home, but I am afraid. The last time I truly spoke to him, it was before the equation of the knife and my wrists. I cannot bare the thought that he thinks less of me now. I cannot take the knowledge that he saw me be everything I always promised them I wasn't. My years of hiding my panic, and stress seem like a waste now. I feel wasted now, wrong, because in the eyes of my brother I must look like a weakling. I don't want to see that in his eyes, before when he looked at me, it was with the admiration of a younger brother. I don't want to look into his eyes and see his pity and contempt. The idea grabs my heart like a fist and I swear I've stopped breathing, I don't have any paper bags. It hurts, and I bend forward, hands reaching up to press against my rib cage, trying to protect it from the blow I've just given it. The world shakes and blurs, I can't see my shaking hands because they press against my chest. All the noise in the background intensifies and I can hear people passing by. Some stop, ask if I am alright, and I shake my head no. They think I'm going to throw up, that I am really wasted, and I almost scream because they don't give me any space. I wish Nino were here, with the sudden intensity of a child reaching for it's mother. Nino wouldn't know what to do either, I had never let him see it. I regret that. I wish I'd told him what I was feeling instead of showing him the hard way. I lean against brick wall behind me and hold myself. Some passerby is whispering into my ear, cooing, trying to calm me down. Breathing slowly resumes, and the kind stranger moves on again, their work done. I felt lipstick on my ear, and curls against my cheek. If I keep my eyes shut, I can pretend it was my mother. When I open my eyes again, the street is empty, and I am worried that Nino has left by a different route, or even gone right by me. I chose the route that was not the fastest way, but the second best. I figured he might take this one if he knew I was taking the first. I hope I am right, the nights are getting colder as fall settles in, and I can feel my ears going crisp even as they burn. My feet almost take me away, itching to run home and slide into my bed so I can listen for Nino's arrival. I bite my lower lip, and my eyebrows narrow in nervousness. "Judey, he hates you. He doesn't want to ta-" I squish the voice before it can finish, blocking my ears to it. If I cannot fix tonight what I've broken, I cannot call myself an older brother. So I stand on the corner and wait for his feet to tap against the ground, to come into view. I want to remember the way his smile looks. You have always worn your flaws upon your sleeve And I have always buried them deep beneath the ground Dig them up; let's finish what we've started Dig them up, so nothing's left unturned |
