up in smoke {elegant}
Jul 7, 2014 23:33:44 GMT -5
Post by gamemaker artemie 🦉nyte on Jul 7, 2014 23:33:44 GMT -5
My days are spent avoiding responsibility. Sixteen years and then some yet I felt no obligation to grow up. Still knee deep in stolen relics and sins, unwilling- unable to change. Body bound by tight fabric, bow forced in dyed hair. A mirror image of the girl walking the same streets nearly two years ago, the only thing having changed was the length of slender legs carrying me. Who was I to know the hardships of an adult? I've worked for nothing my entire life, taking what I want with no regard to the others who may be inconvenienced
Did that shopkeeper feed his family after I'd trashed his store? Was anyone ever blamed for my wrong doings?
Remorse is something I feel far too often. I've forced myself to be something unfeeling, or at least convinced myself that I am. Robotic in nature, repeating the same rebellions day after day, as if I had to meet some sick quota. Thinking just isn't necessary anymore. I can move through life without so much as a single conscious thought. I've become that uniform, that inhuman. It's as funny as it is cruel. Seeing as I've forced myself into such a numb state I no longer care for my own well being. The past few months my reckless activity has skyrocketed. Compelled by reckless compulsions and desperation.
Back pressed against plaster wall, shaking hands reach into leather pockets. Hopeless addiction. The long cylinder is positioned carefully between two fingers, a lighter brought to the very end. Hungry flame lap at the paper's end a steady stream of smoke embers glowing on the butt. My lungs craved the smoke, the delicious tang of burning paper and drug wrapped inside.
The cigarette is placed between heavily painted lips, toxins snaking their way into my lungs. There they stayed until I couldn't possibly take any more. A plume of fragrant smoke escaping me in one beautiful stream. It dances within the wind, intermingling with heavy pollution already cloaking District Three. Just doing my part in the destruction of an already destroyed plain. And that, I feel no remorse for.
It took me about ten minutes to finish off the smoke, crushing it beneath my heel as I traversed empty streets once more. I do regret being dependent on such things, regret picking up the habit as a stupid teenager thinking it'd give me some air of importance when I was convinced I had none. Alas I lacked the will to drop it, and the regards for my own life to fear what it would do to my body. So I march on.
The stores I pass do not interest me in the slightest. I've either been banned from their premises or the shiny trinkets within hold little to no value any longer. After all, my escapades have only escalated with age. Perhaps at fourteen I would have felt obligated to snatch the tacky snow globe displayed behind thick glass, the nickel chain bound to taint my skin an ungodly green strung like Ratmas lights along the counter. Worthless things for a worthless girl.
Yet my eyes find a shop they'd never given a second glance before. I had always been too busy, my mind skipping over such details it deemed unimportant. I'm flawed like that. Nonetheless I feel as though I'm drawn to it, like the sun pulls us to him, I'm helpless. Victim to my own impulsions and curiosities. What insignificant trinkets must be held here that I paid it no mind? I took pride in my knowledge of the streets of District Three. This was a challenge, a glitch in the system that I was honor bound to rectify. I'll be damned if my ego were to be beaten by such an insignificant building.
More angry than I should have been, I entered the store in a rush of bright fabrics and tousled hair. Eyes fell upon a boy behind the counter. And for a moment there was no emotion. Simply me, standing there awestruck at the sight of such a thing. Mouth agape and eyes traveling the length what I could see. He was, by all intents and purposes, a boy. Such as I was still a girl, despite the torture my mind has endured, the experiences and tragedies it had faced, I was still a child. Slips of paper still thrown into that bowl with my name embroidered upon it, each year a greater chance that I would be given the painful death I feared.
The first thought to enter my mind was that he'd been robbed. The fresh markings adorning his skin seemed to support such a notion, blacks and blues dancing across his flesh, open wounds marring what was an admittedly fair face. I wondered if i should run, get the fuck out of dodge because an assailant could be waiting around the corner. Until the foolish fantasies had worked their way out of my brain, I was just able to make out deeper wounds within his skin. Filled in with new flesh, but leaving a pattern across his skin like a morbid tattoo.
At a loss for words, I somehow find my mouth still moving. "What in the ever loving fuck happened to you?"
Did that shopkeeper feed his family after I'd trashed his store? Was anyone ever blamed for my wrong doings?
Remorse is something I feel far too often. I've forced myself to be something unfeeling, or at least convinced myself that I am. Robotic in nature, repeating the same rebellions day after day, as if I had to meet some sick quota. Thinking just isn't necessary anymore. I can move through life without so much as a single conscious thought. I've become that uniform, that inhuman. It's as funny as it is cruel. Seeing as I've forced myself into such a numb state I no longer care for my own well being. The past few months my reckless activity has skyrocketed. Compelled by reckless compulsions and desperation.
Back pressed against plaster wall, shaking hands reach into leather pockets. Hopeless addiction. The long cylinder is positioned carefully between two fingers, a lighter brought to the very end. Hungry flame lap at the paper's end a steady stream of smoke embers glowing on the butt. My lungs craved the smoke, the delicious tang of burning paper and drug wrapped inside.
The cigarette is placed between heavily painted lips, toxins snaking their way into my lungs. There they stayed until I couldn't possibly take any more. A plume of fragrant smoke escaping me in one beautiful stream. It dances within the wind, intermingling with heavy pollution already cloaking District Three. Just doing my part in the destruction of an already destroyed plain. And that, I feel no remorse for.
It took me about ten minutes to finish off the smoke, crushing it beneath my heel as I traversed empty streets once more. I do regret being dependent on such things, regret picking up the habit as a stupid teenager thinking it'd give me some air of importance when I was convinced I had none. Alas I lacked the will to drop it, and the regards for my own life to fear what it would do to my body. So I march on.
The stores I pass do not interest me in the slightest. I've either been banned from their premises or the shiny trinkets within hold little to no value any longer. After all, my escapades have only escalated with age. Perhaps at fourteen I would have felt obligated to snatch the tacky snow globe displayed behind thick glass, the nickel chain bound to taint my skin an ungodly green strung like Ratmas lights along the counter. Worthless things for a worthless girl.
Yet my eyes find a shop they'd never given a second glance before. I had always been too busy, my mind skipping over such details it deemed unimportant. I'm flawed like that. Nonetheless I feel as though I'm drawn to it, like the sun pulls us to him, I'm helpless. Victim to my own impulsions and curiosities. What insignificant trinkets must be held here that I paid it no mind? I took pride in my knowledge of the streets of District Three. This was a challenge, a glitch in the system that I was honor bound to rectify. I'll be damned if my ego were to be beaten by such an insignificant building.
More angry than I should have been, I entered the store in a rush of bright fabrics and tousled hair. Eyes fell upon a boy behind the counter. And for a moment there was no emotion. Simply me, standing there awestruck at the sight of such a thing. Mouth agape and eyes traveling the length what I could see. He was, by all intents and purposes, a boy. Such as I was still a girl, despite the torture my mind has endured, the experiences and tragedies it had faced, I was still a child. Slips of paper still thrown into that bowl with my name embroidered upon it, each year a greater chance that I would be given the painful death I feared.
The first thought to enter my mind was that he'd been robbed. The fresh markings adorning his skin seemed to support such a notion, blacks and blues dancing across his flesh, open wounds marring what was an admittedly fair face. I wondered if i should run, get the fuck out of dodge because an assailant could be waiting around the corner. Until the foolish fantasies had worked their way out of my brain, I was just able to make out deeper wounds within his skin. Filled in with new flesh, but leaving a pattern across his skin like a morbid tattoo.
At a loss for words, I somehow find my mouth still moving. "What in the ever loving fuck happened to you?"
