sovereign [newt/enzo] {T/W}
Jun 30, 2017 17:56:19 GMT -5
Post by kousei ♚ on Jun 30, 2017 17:56:19 GMT -5
n e w t
At fifteen I allowed the fumes of the first cancer stick to take refuge in my lungs. Tobacco, lighter and all -- the sense of regret that came with quite literally letting my body decay to the man-made elements didn't come until the hours that followed when I realized I had to go home to my father with evidence of my transgression on my breath. It wasn't the act of hindering my worth of a career or accelerating the time ticking down to my death, it was the fact he might catch me and slap me silly back and forth.
I've been dying since I was fifteen and I never cared.
To this day I tell myself it was the sense of control that followed every inhale and the relief that followed every exhale. Perfect career boy with the perfect body and the perfect set of lung; perfect in any sense but his mind and his heart. It felt good to destroy the ironic fantasy my father had built of me, it felt good to hold my potential in my hands waste away. Not due to a natural process that I could not control, but to man-made destruction I had willingly brought upon myself. I would be the judge, jury and executioner of my own self-worth.
It hadn't gone to plan, the stress reliever couldn't shield me from the disappointed shake of my father's head or the taunting smile of the girl I shared a womb with. The girl who hated me simply for existing.
Age fifteen and little acts of rebellion -smoking, drinking and drug taking- quickly became habitual behavior. It wasn't the fact that I was relieving the stress of being useless but it was my escape from this world of black and white that my father imposed upon me. Nevah was his shade of darkness, perfect career girl who would dance in accordance to her strings, who embodies the viciousness he could never pass on to me. I could be nothing more than the shade of grey, my existence and unintended consequence of his way of viewing the world. Age fifteen and I made unintended suicide a place in my habitual behavior -- why it felt right I do not know.
The name Newt Krearns was never supposed to be synonymous with rationale I suppose.
Two years and one lost eye later and I've spent my last coin so I can smoke my last cigarette and have a final drink.
It took two years, one eye, one lost girl and a moment of reflection followed by breaking point for me to take notice of the scars on my skin and to decide it was simply better that way because they belonged. Unintended suicide -- age fifteen I never thought I would see it turn into something that felt so right. I leave a half emptied bottle half buried in the sand and clutch the burning cigarette between my thumb and index finger. The disappointed tone of my father's voice still reverberating within the corners my mind -- "Newt, can't you do anything right?"
It's so dark following the sunset.
Pressing the end of the cigarette to my lips, I inhale deeply and exhale softly. Control, it's so fleeting but so necessary to the functioning of our everyday lives that we refuse to dedicate to anyone but ourselves. There's never a diagnosis for sensation of our lives quickly spiraling down the drain and soaking the sand like the blood of those who tried and failed, the Krearns who became nothing more but statistics.
My father swore I'd never be a footnote in a better tribute's victory. "So why do you feel such sympathy for the weak?" It was a question I never dared to answer, even to this day I'd rather feel the scars along my skin form with every breath of smoke I take. "I'm going to die." I say to myself softly, quickly halting the sensation of control sending everything spiraling sideways with another deep breath of smoke.
I continue to follow the call of Poseidon's kingdom, struggling through the stones in my pockets that weigh me to the sand. When I close my eyes I swear, I can still feel the fantasies that could never have been. Waking up to the tickling of my mother's hair against my chin as she kisses my forehead, the approving smile and nod of a father who never thought I was good enough, the laugh of a sister who despises my for existing. I bring an unsteady hand to my chest, a heartbeat I've forgotten the value of racing.
My father made sure to remind me that I never had the impact required to leave my impression on people and I took his word for it. I made sure never to scatter pieces of myself around the district, that way I would never take root and grow into something good, grow into something worth his while.
Uselessly burned out to a stump, I spit the cigarette into the ocean before stumbling over to the first rowing boat I can find. A watery grave, it plays in the back of my mind whether father would've preferred me to have a games number or drowned at sea on my gravestone, the thought of his son dying in either of those ways would have driven him over the edge. Age five when he taught me how to swim -- "we'll never die at sea." At yet I almost broke that creed once when I found myself caught in the wrath of the tsunami and now I will break it for real. I decide I do not care what my gravestone reads, I would rather it remained a blank state; my worth summed up onto a gravestone.
Fumbling with my hands, I barely manage to untie the boat from its anchor and another wave of grunts and groans follows as I barely manage to push the boat out from the coast. I roll in without hesitation and I just row and row and row. Granted, I don't go out far; just enough that the water would be deep enough but not so far I can no longer see dry land.
My land.
I stand up on trembling legs, holding my arms out wide for balance like I'm out to embrace the stars.(weakworthlessuseless)
I am left with only an imprint of what could have been, a fantasy of my mother's hair, my father's approval and the smile of the sister who despises me. "I saw the sunrise, one last time. For us." I whisper, hand held to my heart to feel a racing beat that I lost the value of somewhere within the process of drowning.
I breathe, I step and I fall
down.
I do not see the water rushing up to meet me, nor do I hear the splash that follows but the trepidation at the feeling of the wind being knocked from my lungs and my breath being snatched right before me is palpable. It's dark and it's cold -- I'm going to die.("Newt, you are strong, remember that.")
Strength was lost somewhere between the beginning of unintended suicide and the concept of a blank gravestone.
WC: 1189
