growing pains {peri}

The television flickers to a new montage. A made for television edit of regular occurrences, music to add dramatic effect, multiple angles, it was all over the top. The misty waters hush and swirl about, two streams co-existing yet not intermixing. Rapids rush by fervently, a pathway to hell, a necklace clings to a boys youthful neck, the leather strap bound and solid, brown in youth, tight. It’s prism is clear and purposed, an amethyst not yet destroyed by the sand-ridden landscape, but still passed on. The camera zooms out towards a small figure. She grunts dramatically, pressing two plywood pieces together desperately attempting to make fire as he giggles from a distance, watching. The music fades in to a soft ballad as the camera switches slowly back and forth between the two children - one watching, bewildered and cautious, the other working strenuously, carelessly, proving a point.

He twinkles along the bed frame, not quite keen but still observant, the bed sheets scowl and twist, unable to remain put together. His crystal figure is broken and unbalanced; once a cat ready to pounce, his lifeless form is now clumpy and passive. Cigarette in hand, he waves through silver linings with his other fingertips, graded down to sandpaper edges he is rougher than once before and yet less poised to attack. Broken filters litter to floor, snapped in half and crushed to pieces. Little dabbles of tobacco dwindle in corners where brooms and dustpans cannot reach. Last night, for the first time in seven years, he had actively lost a tribute he’d decided to mentor.

She rolls her eyes as he approaches, her tiny figure uninterested yet determined. He strides fearlessly and confidently - cocky even. Zoom in, she smiles, not a toothy grin, but a cheeky smirk that stretches to her ears, grey eyes lightening up. Flash, to him. His persona drops, cheekbones red, he kneels next to her as she tries harder even than before, he watches on. The sounds of rushing streams pours outwards, the trees sway hard in the background, each branch bustling towards the west, he doesn’t mock, just watches.

“Can.. can you.. I don’t know how..” He mutters the words alongside the little girl, as though a broken record, repetitive, monotonous. Can you? He could. Not once, but more. He trickles the wall in citrine speckles, painting splotches of stars across the foreign room. With a foul swoop, the remote lands in his hand, pause. Pause. Inhale, the dust of the arena finds it’s way into his lungs. He is now made of many things: tar, silicone, dust, and stars.

The screen flickers in place on her grey eyes, once again. Poisoned and petrified, he’s relentless in his worship of his taboo. Oh Little Girl, we’ve come so far and have yet so far to go. He traces constellations with his toes along the carpeted floor, finds light in ash trays and love in pin cushions. Embroidered flowers line his pillows, a soft reminder that he was once Needleboy and is now Junkie, and Forgotten. She watches his moves, a still-life painting unrelenting in it’s grief. Once upon a time, he would run from such truths, but there is a game to be played still - though which game he did not know.

Battle plans were not easily made, formed from scotch and cigarettes, finger food and blazers with scents that did not linger. Found deep in closets, behind TV screens, and at the bottom of every bottle, he found fun and games in remembering his youth - not thinking of what life had yet to bring. Peri pinched his gut as he stalked forward towards his nightstand, cradled with dust, notepads, and a tissue box, he picked up a small glass of liqueur, swindling the glass about before putting the taste to his lips. The music of the night taps itself on glass windows, the howling reactions of watchers, and sonnets made of old poetry. The world spins mad and crazy as she watches always like a wolf with no accord. Knock.

He hears a knocking, he walks towards the pounding door twiddling the glass and cigarette in one hand alone. The other freely opens the door, creaking open as though iron clad, expecting another newspaper Opal attack, he is slow and patient. He expects nothing less than screams and worry, a punishment of sorts, a burden, a death, a call to the - Little Girl.

“Oh.” Through emerald eyes he pierces the tall porcelain figurine, still unbroken yet wavy. Her patient limbs grew ten times, while her sunlit hair fell to her shoulders. “Yeah - I mean, I’m -“ He pulls the closer close, television flickering and flouting, her eyes still staring, oh Little Girl, she’s still here, oh still here amongst carpet constellations. “I’m a little busy, Saffron to uh - you’re - hello.” He stumbles along words, trebuchets over sentences and falls flat before even beginning.