Stranger Than Fiction | Tsar
Mar 6, 2011 17:18:56 GMT -5
Post by L△LIA on Mar 6, 2011 17:18:56 GMT -5
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I was picked up and then dropped off
In a culture counter-clockwise turned around
Dug a hole in Southern Carolina
Took me straight to China safe and sound
Donated my map to the lost and found
Aesop woke up.
... or at least he was fairly certain that's what he did. Some days it was was difficult to tell where sleep ended, the hangover of morphling hallucinations creeping in on reality like unwelcome daylight sneaking through the holes in his tattered bedroom curtains. Today was going to be one of those days, the kind where he writhed uncomfortably in his own body, impatiently searching for anything that wouldn't disappear as soon as he reached out to touch it.
With all the grace and maturity of a four-year-old, he thrashed his legs and flailed his arms, cursing the dawn as his tantrum kicked blankets and sheets into the air. Mornings never brought him anything good. They presented him with migraines, work, or new problems to suffer through — none of which would make it onto a shortlist of Aesop's Favorite Things. Groaning in resignation, he rolled himself back into the nest of abused quilts he had cast aside just moments before, bundling himself tightly in their protective hold. As if karma were punishing him for mistreating his bedding, he turned too far, slipping over the edge of the bed and plummeting to the floor with an uncomfortable thunk.
If he had any lingering doubts, they were chased away by the dull ache that had taken up residence in his back. It was definitely going to be one of those days.
Squirming his arms free, he groped along the floor until his roving hands discovered a pile of discarded clothing. Methodically, he sniffed each piece, catapulting anything dirty across the room and onto his brother's still sleeping form. Having sorted out enough reasonably clean clothes to wear, he pulled himself off the ground with an exasperated sigh and changed. Black pants, a black shirt, and a denim jacket — he wouldn't look homeless today. His sister would probably spontaneously combust from joy and pride; he would definitely need to leave before she died from the shock of witnessing his achievement.
The intensity of his hangover told him today was probably Sunday. Like a consolation prize for waking up on the wrong side of his morphling trip, the promise of a work-free day of freedom appeased his irritation. Maybe his day could still be salvaged.
Not wanting to wake the rest of his family, he stealthily sneaked out his bedroom window and down the apartment building's fire escape, the dim alleyway below welcoming him with the familiar odor of garbage and unidentifiable refuse. He smirked in amusement. At least he could be certain this was real; even his most vivid dreams couldn't recreate the utter filth of District Six's backstreets like this.
Leaving the trash bins behind, he turned onto the main street, making his way aimlessly towards the center of the district. Despite not having a particular destination in mind, he knew very clearly what he would be doing today: it was time to figure out if he was still hallucinating or not. Running a hand through his sleep-rumpled hair, he scanned the sidewalks, breaking into a plodding jog to catch up to the nearest pedestrian. Tapping the stranger on the shoulder, he gave them a lopsided grin before starting in on his questioning, "What's today? Keep in mind that I'd appreciate it if you tell me it's Sunday, even if that's a lie."
[/size][/blockquote]... or at least he was fairly certain that's what he did. Some days it was was difficult to tell where sleep ended, the hangover of morphling hallucinations creeping in on reality like unwelcome daylight sneaking through the holes in his tattered bedroom curtains. Today was going to be one of those days, the kind where he writhed uncomfortably in his own body, impatiently searching for anything that wouldn't disappear as soon as he reached out to touch it.
With all the grace and maturity of a four-year-old, he thrashed his legs and flailed his arms, cursing the dawn as his tantrum kicked blankets and sheets into the air. Mornings never brought him anything good. They presented him with migraines, work, or new problems to suffer through — none of which would make it onto a shortlist of Aesop's Favorite Things. Groaning in resignation, he rolled himself back into the nest of abused quilts he had cast aside just moments before, bundling himself tightly in their protective hold. As if karma were punishing him for mistreating his bedding, he turned too far, slipping over the edge of the bed and plummeting to the floor with an uncomfortable thunk.
If he had any lingering doubts, they were chased away by the dull ache that had taken up residence in his back. It was definitely going to be one of those days.
Squirming his arms free, he groped along the floor until his roving hands discovered a pile of discarded clothing. Methodically, he sniffed each piece, catapulting anything dirty across the room and onto his brother's still sleeping form. Having sorted out enough reasonably clean clothes to wear, he pulled himself off the ground with an exasperated sigh and changed. Black pants, a black shirt, and a denim jacket — he wouldn't look homeless today. His sister would probably spontaneously combust from joy and pride; he would definitely need to leave before she died from the shock of witnessing his achievement.
The intensity of his hangover told him today was probably Sunday. Like a consolation prize for waking up on the wrong side of his morphling trip, the promise of a work-free day of freedom appeased his irritation. Maybe his day could still be salvaged.
Not wanting to wake the rest of his family, he stealthily sneaked out his bedroom window and down the apartment building's fire escape, the dim alleyway below welcoming him with the familiar odor of garbage and unidentifiable refuse. He smirked in amusement. At least he could be certain this was real; even his most vivid dreams couldn't recreate the utter filth of District Six's backstreets like this.
Leaving the trash bins behind, he turned onto the main street, making his way aimlessly towards the center of the district. Despite not having a particular destination in mind, he knew very clearly what he would be doing today: it was time to figure out if he was still hallucinating or not. Running a hand through his sleep-rumpled hair, he scanned the sidewalks, breaking into a plodding jog to catch up to the nearest pedestrian. Tapping the stranger on the shoulder, he gave them a lopsided grin before starting in on his questioning, "What's today? Keep in mind that I'd appreciate it if you tell me it's Sunday, even if that's a lie."
