easy like sunday morning {raseri-blitz}
Dec 27, 2012 13:10:41 GMT -5
Post by malibu jones on Dec 27, 2012 13:10:41 GMT -5
I was born in a cross-fire
hurricane and I howled
at my ma in the
driving
rain
I woke up in a cold sweat, smelling vomit. I gagged.
I was balled up in a fetal position in the corner of a dark bedroom. The black t-shirt I was wearing was drenched with sweat, and my jeans were laid out on a bed beside me. Stretching, I stumbled to my feet and pulled them on. Even though it was foggy, I could vaguely remember last night—some girl, some dancing, some pissed-off redneck guy, and then his fists against my mouth. Yawning, I slumped back against the wall as my eyes filled with saltwater. My breath tasted like ass and I felt like it, too.
So where was I? No idea. I pushed off the wall and limped to the bedroom door, leaning against it as I twisted the cheap doorknob. The house’s hallway was well-lit by an old chandelier. Beautiful, really. But I didn’t have time to marvel. I didn’t even know what day it was. All I knew was that my name was Jay Westwood. I was sixteen years old.
I had an awful hangover.
I checked every door in the hallway until I found a bathroom. I went in and vomited. At this point in my life, I didn’t feel any urge to vomit. Never felt like I was going to. It was instinct by now, a part of waking up. I washed my hands and gargled some water. I found a rag, wet it, and brushed my teeth with it. Then I let my feet carry me out into the living room, grabbing a bottle of beer from some other kid’s limp hand. He must have fallen asleep on the couch without opening it, I thought.
When I finally got outside, I cracked open the beer with my pocketknife and brought the rim to my mouth, starting to drain its contents, its life. And, also, now that I thought of it, my life, too. But who gives a shit. It’s better than the Games. Anyway, I looked around. I was on some damn ranch. It’s always some damn ranch. Some big damn ranch house, some stupid cows. Town must’ve been, like, a mile away. With no idea as to how I’d get there, I fantasized about stealing a cow and riding into town like some sort of confused cowboy, so all the old farts and all the ranchers would stop chewing on their straws or their pipes and stare at me like in one of those century-old movies. I did that once. Sort of.
Two years ago, I was in a similar situation to the one I was currently in, and I decided to be a smartass and ride a cow to town. I fell off after about five minutes, and I kicked it and walked the rest of the way. It just stood there. It could still be there today, I thought, nursing my drink, standing in the road with a stupid expression on its face.
I wandered around looking and feeling lost, traipsing down a dirt road, letting the sun smack me in the face like my father when I tried to steal in front of him.
I was raised by a toothless
bearded hag I was schooled
with a strap right
across my
back
[/i]bearded hag I was schooled
with a strap right
across my
back
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