Well I Have Faded In The Dark. //Zoë
Feb 21, 2013 5:42:29 GMT -5
Post by gamemaker kelsier on Feb 21, 2013 5:42:29 GMT -5
Take your time coming home
Hear the wheels as they roll
Let your lungs fill up with smoke
Forgive everyone.
And I don't think I've been this sad.
My fingers catch on the roughness of the brick, hand almost attacking the wall for support. I have a friend under my tongue, and one between my fingertips, blowing off steam like a freight train to nowhere. The wall steadies it's self and manages to keep me upright, me not so much. I slide down to the ground, body bending, stomach curling as the vertigo hits me. Acid begins to seer my throat, but I swallow it back down. Bouncing back, I let my fist fly right into the jaw of the other guy, and as a result, his head turns and he goes reeling. Everything's in slow motion when his fist comes flying back again at my face. I dodge, but miss the other fist, the one-two punch. It catches me in my side and my rib is definitely bruised, the skin pierced by the steel on his knuckles. In anger, I drop my cigarette, and it smolders on the ground. Flying back at him, I knock him onto the ground in turn, and flick off his lights with a quick blow to the side of the head.
Once he's down, you're supposed to stop. But this isn't some club, this is less than that, so I kick him on the side for good measure, and hear a resounding crack. Good. Pleased with myself, I allow myself a quick rest on this guy's back, and find some blunts and matches in his pocket. Jackpot. Fucking Dempsey hates it when I get gone on duty, but he's not here, and since when do I care anyway? Though, I've heard he's gotten worse lately, since Colt left. Nobody knows what happened that night, but they say he's gotten downright terrifying. I mean, I know he was popping the question and all that jazz, but I sort of thought Colt'd say yea, you know? Guess not. Not that I care. Kaelen Dempsey might be my Captain or whatever, but we're not buddies. Yeah, not like Beryl. I laugh, and stand up, blowing a soft smelling smoke behind me as I stumble away.
You're not actually supposed to mix substances, but whatever. Not like I care about what I'm supposed to do and what I'm not. I fly from reason to reason to exist. So happens that I'm caught in the midst of one right now. Still doesn't matter though. I was a career, long ago, and you never really stop. I've only gotten better. Q always stares at me reproachfully when I come home all bloody. He never lets me go to bed without him fixing me up. It'd be adorable if it wasn't such a nuisance. I stop, and lean against the alley wall, brick catching the fabric of my shirt, stealing it from my skin. The other guy is somewhere back fifteen feet or so. He won't be waking up soon, and I know I'm supposed to kill him, but I'm not so inclined to. I've killed enough people in my life to know when it's worth it. I take a drag from the blunt and it fills my insides with a warmth I didn't know there was. Guess that's what I get for not wearing a jacket in February.
My skin is sticky underneath my shirt, and I know that I'm probably bleeding a tiny bit. Woops. Nothing terrible, just hurts a bit. 'Course, the pill dissolving under my tongue, and the fact that I'm filled with nothing but alcohol is combating that. Bah, I'll be fine. Night is teeming in the streets, and I suspect that much of Panem is sleeping, but for this tiny little sect in District One. You know, the night life. The hookers, the drug peddlers, and the fucking mini games we have going on here. Not tributes though, just over a tribute, a spat a year old. Just as wasteful, just as stupid, just as pointless. So of course I was in right away. I'm always looking for a way out.
Autumn has decided to make me admit that I have a problem, but I don't think I do, and he says I do. So which one of us is right? If I have a problem, it's that air is still pumping it's self into my lungs, and I am still breathing it. I miss my little sister. A stronger man, would have gotten over this, I know. Good thing I'm no strong man, I'm just a wiry little thing that likes to punch people for kicks. I'm a burn out, twenty years old and nothing accomplished. I feel like such a waste, where did all my youth go? Would I do anything with it if I had it back. Ripred, I sound like such a drama queen. Sighing, I lean my head back against the wall and shut my eyes, lighting a cigarette from my own supply when the sleeping man's is finished.
I feel decidedly insubstantial, the wind seems to blow right through me and I barely feel it. The guy back there is definitely feeling it. A mild laugh crawls from my lips, and my ribs wince in protest. They probably are bruised. The things I do for psychopaths. If it were up to me, I'd be at a club right now. All I get are bruises and cuts, instead of the kisses I'm so used to. I flex my fingers, and they loosen slowly, my knuckles feeling raw and used. I imagine the cigarette wrapping me up from the inside, warming me up, and it calms me, slows my heart beat. Around me, with my eyes shut, I can hear the bustle of the night, the soft song it sings. I start with a lazy hum, lyrics forming, a virus for my brain. "..Take your time, coming home, let the wind catch your feet...."
My eyelids flick open at the sound of footsteps.