![maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte] Avatar](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/36/47/b9/3647b962113f490463ab6a37f3e7dab4.jpg)
A Drug by Any other Name >Jag!Standalone<
Jan 21, 2014 3:04:24 GMT -5
Post by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte] on Jan 21, 2014 3:04:24 GMT -5
Jag Lyre
Pain, without love
Pain, without love
My back touches the cold, damp snow. My eyes find the large gray expanse that has loomed above me every winter's day. My head hits the pavement, sharp pain cradling my head in its dark embrace. I let out a sigh, feeling my muscles relax as the cold snow begins to melt, trickling down my arms, soaking into my back. My eyes can't seem to focus. The haze of smoke that filled the house had seeped into my mind.
I hate how it makes me feel. So... numb. I can't be-won't be- in that house. The pain is what keeps me going. The sharp, intoxicating feeling spreading throughout my body in a web of twisted excitement. The aunts and uncles that huddle in my house don't think the same as me. They shove the needles into their skin with such hunger. Like that of a child starved since the very day they left their mother's embrace. They must be trying to escape something. Using their needles and smoke to numb some suffering within.
I almost pity them. Their ragged hair and foul smell, the way their eyes followed me as I stumbled out of the house. The snickers that left their diseased lungs as I limp out of my father's room, after his hands meet my skin for hours upon end. The jokes on them. I don't want their numbness. I don't want the scars, like little pen marks, that line their arms. I close my eyes, my head beginning to spin. Odd colors snake their way in and out of my vision.
I don't know how long I stay there. Long enough for the snow to begin to feel like knives cutting into my exposed back. Long enough to feel real . The smoke has left my mind. Purged from my mind and has long dissipated into the wind. Perhaps making its way back into the lungs of my aunts and uncles. Maybe even into that of my mother, huddled under the tattered blanket, a hungry flame help under a glass ball with by a shaking cloud. How many times have I seen that storm cloud brew inside of her magic ball, disappearing into her lungs. She would spit it out in my face, the cloud stinging my eyes and tongue. The words that followed her assault burn even more.
I hate you! She spits the word like a poison, You stupid-you bastard child! I don't cry. I don't understand half of the words she says. They are uttered far too quickly, too nonsensically for me to comprehend. Their message, however, is as clear as the ice that hangs on the sills of our windows. She hates me. Though hate can be something of an understatement. The pure detest that laced every word is nothing more than obvious. But, I love it. I love her shouts, I love the way her words can make me feel useless. Like the beautiful snowflake falling from the heavens, doomed to be crushed underfoot by one much larger then it. I sit there, stone faced as she screams. I can barely resist the urge to crack a smile.
I'm finally snapped back into reality when a large burning begins to radiate through my body. I take in a choked breath, my eyes shooting open to find my father standing above me. They red that rings the blackness of his eyes tells a tale of smoke and needles. I know that the rage that always overtakes him when the liquid courses through his veins holds him in his own intoxication.
My heart is racing, he digs the rubber sole of his boot deeper into my skin. Get the fuck up! he screams. Though I am given no time to react. His meaty hands wrap around my upper arm. I hear a sickening crack as my shoulder falls out of its joint, unable to bear the weight that my toned body holds.
As the sound resonates through the barren cemented streets, my father releases me. A scream leaves my lips as I fall to my hands and knees. The shoulder is forced to meet its joint once again, sending an indescribable sharpness radiating through my body. He doesn't say a word, nor do I expect him to. I simply scramble to my feet, trying to appear as small as possible before him as I make my way back into the clouded house.
And so is my life, that of a man trapped into his own addiction in a house of addicts. Yet I am so alone in what I crave. I shove no needles into my skin nor do I welcome the storm clouds into my lungs. I crave only what my parents can give. Pain. Such sweet sorrow, the way they prove to me day after day how much they care, despite their words of hate.
I love them.
They love me.
I think.
I hate how it makes me feel. So... numb. I can't be-won't be- in that house. The pain is what keeps me going. The sharp, intoxicating feeling spreading throughout my body in a web of twisted excitement. The aunts and uncles that huddle in my house don't think the same as me. They shove the needles into their skin with such hunger. Like that of a child starved since the very day they left their mother's embrace. They must be trying to escape something. Using their needles and smoke to numb some suffering within.
I almost pity them. Their ragged hair and foul smell, the way their eyes followed me as I stumbled out of the house. The snickers that left their diseased lungs as I limp out of my father's room, after his hands meet my skin for hours upon end. The jokes on them. I don't want their numbness. I don't want the scars, like little pen marks, that line their arms. I close my eyes, my head beginning to spin. Odd colors snake their way in and out of my vision.
I don't know how long I stay there. Long enough for the snow to begin to feel like knives cutting into my exposed back. Long enough to feel real . The smoke has left my mind. Purged from my mind and has long dissipated into the wind. Perhaps making its way back into the lungs of my aunts and uncles. Maybe even into that of my mother, huddled under the tattered blanket, a hungry flame help under a glass ball with by a shaking cloud. How many times have I seen that storm cloud brew inside of her magic ball, disappearing into her lungs. She would spit it out in my face, the cloud stinging my eyes and tongue. The words that followed her assault burn even more.
I hate you! She spits the word like a poison, You stupid-you bastard child! I don't cry. I don't understand half of the words she says. They are uttered far too quickly, too nonsensically for me to comprehend. Their message, however, is as clear as the ice that hangs on the sills of our windows. She hates me. Though hate can be something of an understatement. The pure detest that laced every word is nothing more than obvious. But, I love it. I love her shouts, I love the way her words can make me feel useless. Like the beautiful snowflake falling from the heavens, doomed to be crushed underfoot by one much larger then it. I sit there, stone faced as she screams. I can barely resist the urge to crack a smile.
I'm finally snapped back into reality when a large burning begins to radiate through my body. I take in a choked breath, my eyes shooting open to find my father standing above me. They red that rings the blackness of his eyes tells a tale of smoke and needles. I know that the rage that always overtakes him when the liquid courses through his veins holds him in his own intoxication.
My heart is racing, he digs the rubber sole of his boot deeper into my skin. Get the fuck up! he screams. Though I am given no time to react. His meaty hands wrap around my upper arm. I hear a sickening crack as my shoulder falls out of its joint, unable to bear the weight that my toned body holds.
As the sound resonates through the barren cemented streets, my father releases me. A scream leaves my lips as I fall to my hands and knees. The shoulder is forced to meet its joint once again, sending an indescribable sharpness radiating through my body. He doesn't say a word, nor do I expect him to. I simply scramble to my feet, trying to appear as small as possible before him as I make my way back into the clouded house.
And so is my life, that of a man trapped into his own addiction in a house of addicts. Yet I am so alone in what I crave. I shove no needles into my skin nor do I welcome the storm clouds into my lungs. I crave only what my parents can give. Pain. Such sweet sorrow, the way they prove to me day after day how much they care, despite their words of hate.
I love them.
They love me.
I think.
template by chelsey
