a single cigarette butt [standalone

a single cigarette butt [standalone Oct 12, 2013 22:54:28 GMT -5

Post by Wonder on Oct 12, 2013 22:54:28 GMT -5

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cor·mac · sh·aw
(noun) /kohr-mahk/
1. district eleven, seventeen, male
2. there is no point in calling out my name,
3. i can't hear you any more.

"The soul becomes dyed with the colour of its thoughts."

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[/size]"Cormac?"

"Ye?"

"Ma's out back behind the garbages sneaking cigarettes again, I don't know where she got the money from, but uh - I thought you snatched her last pack."

"I told you Jace, she's hidden a pack all around the house for any occasion, I wouldn't be surprised if there's one hidden in your sock drawer."

The beginnings of autumn had fallen very quickly. Whether it was the sudden drop of temperature, from a light height to a dull and desperate cold, or the meticulous change of colour to the groves trees, it had arrived quite suddenly. With it came a sort of distraught that arose any time that winter was coming. It was almost as if the entire point of the late season was a forewarning of the damp depression that was yet to come. I watched fervently as the whispering winds tread over each fallen leaf, rousing them from their deathly nap to live once more. Forever crumpling and churning among the strong gusts - what a life that was, what a life.

"And - uh.. Cormac?"

"Yes, Jase?"

"Just thought you should know, that uh - there's an empty wine bottle on the counter, I don't know if it was half empty before or not, it's just uh - well it's empty now, alright?"

Orange. It was the colour that really I wanted to feel deep down, to let it surround me and consume me. The shade of the changing leaves as they make their way through the last phase of their life. A sunset, or a sunrise as it mounts and descends, changing routes, resolving a new. Orange was the colour of new beginnings, somewhere far from here, that was for sure. Maybe some place in the centre of town, a nice small apartment perhaps. Wouldn't need any sort of space out back, 'naw that was for someone with some sort of skill that I don't have. All I need is a place of my own, that'd be nice.

New arrivals, something exciting and relevant. There are four walls made of solid cast iron built around me, a prison with no breathing holes. I can feel the cracks of the design, where the nuts and bolts have put in place. If water were to enter the least bit into my prison I would - drown. Swimming upwards, paddling limbs - I dream here often. When I'm wide awake it's not so clear, the boundaries that are compressing every bit of my lungs. They are blue, I have chilled myself to the point that when I look at my hands they are shades of darkness. I see it, freezing. Gripping upwards, clawing towards the ceilings, but it extends beyond the four walls.

I am not trapped. I am encapsulated.

There are four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. This is where they have locked me in. Blue, from the harsh words, the callous calling. The skin that I live in is dyed in it's colour because where I live everything I see, everything I breathe is cold and distant and blue is all I know, blue is all I know. Voices cut through the darkness, cellar doors swing wide open, I see peep holes that allow the viewing public to weigh in on where I've been endangered. This is a zoo, locked in by chains and walls, they watch me pretending they know what's going on.

"Uh - Cormac?"

"What, Jase?" I feel the temper flare up in my bones. Red lives through me, teases me with promises of meat and freedom. It is the ring leader of the lions show I have entered myself into. Jumping through hoops of flames, just to claw at necks - I am vaporized.

I know he's at ease, I sense the purple of confusion dwindling around and over him - this is not his fault, he did nothing wrong, he's just letting me know what's going on. His shirt is stained, purple blotches from some sort of berry, sinking into the white fabric. Why he wore that shirt to go work the farm is beyond me, and yet he did it. Curious, there's nothing wrong with asking questions and I shouldn't be the one to terrorize his natural inquisitiveness when I hardly speak a word. "Are you alright?" He chokes on the air around him, unsure which way he wants to turn, whether or not to keep going. "Y-Y-You just seem a little, tense is all." Every stutter is a punch, in, the, gut. I feel it, twist in and take it's aim. Red, red, red. Anger boils through me, frustration. "I'll just go."

I am consumed by self-hatred as every tip toe away from my down-trotted figure is but another added insult to injury. What kind of monster am I to turn my own brother away in his time of need? Who cares if we're related by blood or not, when he comes to me he wants to know that it's going to be alright - that everything is fine. He wants to know that Ma downing bottles of wine then consuming a pack of cigarettes is totally normal. That Pa sneaking out at midnight when she's passed out in a booze-filled haze to sleep with our shepherd in the barn is a natural act for family. That every handicap that nails him further in the coffin, the inability to read, the lack of any social behaviour, how he can't learn to use a damned rake right - that that's all just a normal throw of life.

But it ain't normal, and he ain't normal, and I ain't normal, and this - all of this shit, is the farthest thing from normal anyone could get. Whether or not the damn leaves fall each year is a totally different matter from the fact that I can't even learn to tie a damn bail of hay, let alone learn how to manage any of that finance stuff that Pa's always ranting on about day after day after day. Jace doesn't haven't to deal with that, I shouldn't have to deal with that - I shouldn't have to live in a life where red, and blue is all I feel. I shouldn't have to live with a purple haze surrounding my head, and I sure as hell don't need to be sticking around keeping everyone's damn secrets all the time.

Where do I go for secrets? Whisper them into bottles and cast them into trees? Chuck them, let the glass shatter, trample over the broken shards barefoot. Sneak outside in the middle of the night, scream at the wind, jump over the fence and run 'til nothing can even reach me. Not any of the damned guns, no rules, no strict laws. Where's my fuckin' escape? Lost somewhere probably between the ass of the shepherd, and the cork of the wine bottle that flew out the glass window last week.

Hacking erupts through my thoughts. A sound barrier that I once thought impenetrable broken down by the hysterics of a women who can't even walk in a straight line. What a waste that was, the slump of what was once a human being, broken and beaten down by what she thought she loved. Torn down by nostalgia, grasping into the past - as pathetic as the criminals in detention centres. This was the first example in the case of letting red consume you, she wasted away in the bottom of the bottle of red wine, so much so her face turned the same shade. The last time she changed her clothes, who knew, she only seemed to leave the house to smoke a cigarette or buy more booze. I don't even know where she got the money from, I know I'm bad at financials, but I know enough to know we haven't got any money to buy a pack a day.

"Ey! What're y'doin' muckin' about? Get back to work y'lazy ass!" She coughs her way through her sentence. Smothering words together, choking out whatever vowels they once had, this was the way she talked when she was drunk.

"It's past seven, the work days over."

She grunts, mumbles and shakes her head, "Excuses, it's always th'fuckin' excuses with you." Stumbling towards the porch, she kicks her way up the wooden steps, assuring she not miss a step with her stomping. The plywood beneath her bends with each stomp, seemingly ready to snap - but it'd handled these habits time and time again, it wasn't really nothing new at this point. Just a daily routine that could be told through colours. Black - desperation. I would hear her crying in her bedroom every morning when I woke up to do chores, she'll always deny this 'til the day she dies, but I know what crying sounds like. It eats her alive, claws through her rotting flesh and absorbs every bit of negative space in her wide open room. There is no one sleeping beside her in the morning - he's already off by the time either of us wakes up, and he's too tired to talk by the time that he gets home. This is just something that we'd all grown used to. At least, Jase and I. It strings her along, bumps her. It's all a cycle.

Starting with black and moves to blue, sadness. She turns sad as the shower wipes down the tears. I notice her applying make-up extra carefully in the morning. When I was younger I used to think that it simply was that she didn't want to waste it; make-up, after all, was a luxury most couldn't afford. But it was just to take care that it would cover up the black rings around her eyes and the permanent tear stains that had begun to live on her face. She transfers into plum, a deep confusion that doesn't seem to leave for the rest of the day. The once light purple turns darker with each glass of wine, most of the time she doesn't even bother to grab a glass any more, just grabs the bottle. She stands as long as she can - but addiction arrises within her. I tried to take her smokes every time, but I know she grasps for them. I hear the screams from the field, frustration overbearing with the overwhelming sense of confusion.

Every day the screams of addiction echo through the fields, and I can see Jase's face fill up with sadness. He does not yet know what blue feels like, but I see him dabble in it. Dip his paint brush and begin the masterpiece of emotion - if I could do one thing, I would ensure that my brother's brush would never dip into the darker colours, supply him only with yellow, with orange, with pink, and white. The world would be a much better place for him. Yet, he's stuck in a bush, pushing through with the abilities that are being forced on him. I do not wish blue to consume him, yet to be his gentle pal. "Did you take my cigarettes again, Cormac?" The slurring reappears. "I know you fuckin' did, unless ya want me to bear Jase shitless." She snickers under her breath, chokes on her laugh. Every emotion in her body is buried under a layer of alcohol and covered by a layer of tar. The laugh erupts into sobs, and I'm not quite sure what to do any more. I feel indifferent. Is there a colour for that? "J-J-Just give 'em back alright, it's uh - I need 'em, alright? I need 'em for your father. Ya see, he uh - he likes the smell, and I uh - I just need the pack, alright Cormac. I've run dry."

Everything in me starts shaking, but I stare ahead. Concentrate. Stare at a trunk across the ways, it's bark struck down and now it runs bare, there are no leaves on it, there never were. She pushes me, shoves me trying to get my attention. "Cormac!" I wonder how long the trees been dead, if it's been like that for a couple of years, or if it's just recently died with this coming season. There are holes along the bare skeleton, where I assume some sort of animal had made a huge home out of it. "Fucking bastard, answer me!" Maybe someone just wanted food, maybe sap came from that particular type of tree, I'm not really knowledgable in that field, but I'm sure that someone might know about it. She shoves me more and more, shaking me. "Wake up!" I don't want to come to - I don't want to but -

"I burned them alright! A took 'em in the field and lit a fire, and burned them all! They're gone! Ok! They're gone!" That's a lie, they're sitting in my pocket, I feel the lump. The lighter right below them, it's a strange feeling to have a pack of cigarettes in your pocket. I should have burned them, I should have taken them to the back field - but they cost money, and what if - what if she really needed them, some time. "They're gone." I whisper this time, my throat cracking - no don't cry, you little baby. Stand up for -

"Fuck this, fuck you! I - fuck you!" She storms off cussing, cursing me. Sometimes she forgets I'm her child, sometimes she forget that she signed a contract to take me into her life but I don't really care because I'm here.

I guess.

Am I here? Or am I just sitting staring at a dead tree.

I guess.

I can feel the burning eyes of Jase from his second story window, wondering what's going on, but I don't let him see my face. The last thing the kid needs to see is me a crying mess, enveloped in hatred and anger.

The pack slips from my pockets and I finger the edge before finally taking out a cigarette. I had never smoked before but now seemed as good a time as any. Fiddling with the lighter before it finally produces a flame, I raise it to the tip with the other end of my mouth - this is how I'd seen my mother do it, so I just assumed. Inhaling, the sick feeling of tar enraptures my lungs immediately and causes me to spit it out coughing - the smoke billows up in the air creating mystic patterns. Touching my lips again, I let it be consumed, this is what it's like to die. They say these things take three days off your total life span. The heat and warmth are immediate, I let the smoke fall out of my mouth, forcing it out seems like too much.

I ash it against the porch step and I still feel Jase watching, he'd already seen Ma fail, why not me. The screams of fuck still surround me but I am immune to it now.

Puff. It's in the autumn air that I shed three days from my life, tried to eliminate addiction and learned that I will always be consumed by red.

Under the sunset, I take the rest of the pack and burn it at the foot of the porch with the used up butt that I had finished earlier.

I live in a broken household.
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