i'm {not} sorry [alexis and louvain]
Jun 28, 2015 0:14:50 GMT -5
Post by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte] on Jun 28, 2015 0:14:50 GMT -5
A L E X I S K A N GI press my back against the cement, cold and unyielding underneath a body that is so broken although no hand has graced the flesh for a long, long time. My eyelids are heavy, head lolling back into a navy abyss as my friends chatter around me. Fingernails have dug themselves into a grave, whose I am not sure nor do I much care as I prop myself atop the throne, listening to the world crumble and shatter around me, breaks as easy as porcelain. I do not have to look at them to know that they are doing, soles of their shoes taking chunks out of withering stone and I do not care because we are miles away from his grave so it's okay.
I used to think that there was nothing more repulsive than them. Who are probably more than crazy and who value life as nothing more than a plaything. I used to fear what they would do to me, the more vulnerable I made myself around them, burning warmth into my lungs and acid into my gut. I used to think that but now I know.
The boy who sits and watches and who does not care because he can't, he is worse than they. At least they are human. They feel the greed, the lust, they feel something while I simply sit here with embers smoldering between my fingers and I watch them crush souls in their palms and I do not care. I bring the fire to my lips, inhaling deeply as my head spins and nicotine steadies the shake of my fingers. I'm wasted, I think. I simply cannot tell anymore. I'm wasted or high or dying or all three because they feel so similar now. Painful and numbing.
White smoke breaks my lips, curling into crisp air. I throw my head back further, near tipping backwards off of the grave an shattering my skull upon another. (Death is as common as breath these days but none of those who beg for the relief are dead. It is those who are scared and who scream. I can taste the blood down my throat once more.)
"Lexy~" They singsong, voices making my stomach churn and I think I might just throw up on their shoes. "Come have fun with us." One of their fingers curl into my hair, pushing it back off of my forehead and my palm finds their chest, the force of the blow sending him sprawling across the destroyed tomb as they all dissolve into giggles and guffaws. It is too cold to play with fire.
"Go be cunts somewhere else." I grumble eyes having yet to embrace the night sky. "I'm trying to enjoy being drunk off my ass." One shot, two, three, four, they all seem to have melded together into complete turmoil and utter chaos and it hurts so beautifully that bend my nails further against the stone and enjoy the relief it gives me. More smoke is squeezed into my lungs and I hold it there until my throat throbs and my chest screams.
"You're always so pent up!" Jon whines, dusting cemented rubble off of his ass gingerly. "This'll help you relax." And I'm ninety-nine percent sure Jon is less intelligent than the pebble he's picking from between his toes because he can't seem to take a hint. I came here to get drunk not to kill people. (As that is what they are doing. Sticking a knife into their memory.
"I'm relaxed as fuck right now, so fucking relaxed." I manage through grit teeth, smoke crawling from between clenched jaws. "And I want fuck all to do with your guys' whateverthefuck this is."
"Buzzkill." He hisses, taking black marker from his pocket and drawing something obscene on what was left of the tomb.
"Dumbass."
And he doesn't argue because we all know it's true. Not that I'm any smarter than he. I'm passing one more class than him and it's art and it doesn't even count. The teacher is an alternative bag of sticks obsessed with self expression and absolutely adores the nightmares I put to pen and paper.
(Father looming over my hand, hands pressed into my throat with red eyes and sharp fangs.)
(Anthony small and broken as he sticks long, bony fingers into my flesh and demands to know why I didn't save him.)
(Monsters that I cannot quite make out, humming threats behind my ears in a language I do not know.)
I'm not smart, not by any means. I don't understand the words they put in front of me, encrypted with numbers and symbols that mean nothing. But I;m not dumb. Not like my friends. And even if I feel nothing for the grave that lays in ruins beneath their feet I know it is wrong.
I don't think they do.
And honestly, that frightens me.