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the girl becomes gasoline; tom [blitz]
Feb 7, 2017 15:26:00 GMT -5
Post by heather - d2 [mylee] on Feb 7, 2017 15:26:00 GMT -5
s h e l b y ♔ l e v i a n e
There is a certain point in consumption of an alcoholic beverage that one changes their perspective of the glass from half-full to half-empty.
Over the course of the past few days, I can tell that my point of view regarding most things, not simply the bottle in my hand, had shifted in a similar manner.
The boy and girl from Eight had never asked me why I had bothered to volunteer, and to their credit, for they had no reason to possess interest in such a subject. I had pondered the answer myself, searched for reasoning in the blurry mind I called my own, and never truly made it to the conclusion because the thought would be lost before I could grasp it.
Cha Leviane had given me no reason for departure, and I suppose this validated my own logic. By choice I was her second spitting image, resemblance not seen in glass eyes or charcoal bones, but rather in a mentality slowly spiraling towards the fate unknown by all except one.
If she had found the place that she was looking for, who was to say that I would be worthy enough to join her there when I was to follow her through death’s door?
With spitting image and hellfire tongue, I knew that any last hope of solitary redemption had been lost in the instantaneous moment it had taken me to make one last drunken mistake.
Anything I did from here on out was nothing more than collateral damage.
Sitting outside the main entrance to the training center, knees pressed closely to my chest, I set the bottle of whiskey down as a boy leaves hollow footsteps on the linoleum floor. I’ve got a mind half-full to leave him alone, but one half-empty craving drunken company, “I don’t know your name, but you look either exhausted, drunk, or depressed, and I can relate to all three.”
Over the course of the past few days, I can tell that my point of view regarding most things, not simply the bottle in my hand, had shifted in a similar manner.
The boy and girl from Eight had never asked me why I had bothered to volunteer, and to their credit, for they had no reason to possess interest in such a subject. I had pondered the answer myself, searched for reasoning in the blurry mind I called my own, and never truly made it to the conclusion because the thought would be lost before I could grasp it.
Cha Leviane had given me no reason for departure, and I suppose this validated my own logic. By choice I was her second spitting image, resemblance not seen in glass eyes or charcoal bones, but rather in a mentality slowly spiraling towards the fate unknown by all except one.
If she had found the place that she was looking for, who was to say that I would be worthy enough to join her there when I was to follow her through death’s door?
With spitting image and hellfire tongue, I knew that any last hope of solitary redemption had been lost in the instantaneous moment it had taken me to make one last drunken mistake.
Anything I did from here on out was nothing more than collateral damage.
Sitting outside the main entrance to the training center, knees pressed closely to my chest, I set the bottle of whiskey down as a boy leaves hollow footsteps on the linoleum floor. I’ve got a mind half-full to leave him alone, but one half-empty craving drunken company, “I don’t know your name, but you look either exhausted, drunk, or depressed, and I can relate to all three.”
