this world that we live in ;; shrimp
Dec 12, 2010 16:20:40 GMT -5
Post by Skylar on Dec 12, 2010 16:20:40 GMT -5
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.
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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.
