jack spragg {d6 : fin}

There's a green cloud in your lungs, sitting dormant, but slowly breaking down the cells inside your body, its toxins making a catacomb of your organs. Breathe. Can you feel it? No, you can't, because it's a part of you, you're so accustomed to it that you can't even feel how poisonous it is. It's only when you stand up and suck in some fresh air that you realise exactly what was slowly, silently killing you.

I'm looking over my shoulder, not so much burning my bridges, but gently blowing at the flickering tinder. I'm hoping that one day it will all collapse, so that I can start to feel again. I believe that I am much better off without the other people in this house. What are family ties, anyway, other than a word that drips red, spitting accusations of disloyalty and inhumanity at you if you dare to cast it aside. Oh, my family ties are tight around my wrists and ankles. They're digging into my joints, gagging around my mouth, and keeling me over.

I've ossified in these suburbs. Daily routine is ho-hum, casting my mind to gun-hoe daydreams of go-AWOL. Early rise, cold shower, bland food, walk dog, work hard, cook food, wash clothes, and by the time the night comes, and my bed beckons, I'm too tired to even sleep. Yet I rise, and do it again, and again. Like a clockwork slug. My face is a melt of non-expression, mouth oft agape, on the verge of a yawn.

Can you feel it? It's a poison, and it's seeping through my skin, burning in my veins. I am nothing but desolation here, a wasted vessel in a sea of what the fuck am I doing with my life.

The only thing keeping me here is the huge uncertainty surrounding what I'd actually do if I walked out that door and just kept walking. No one is going to take in a black sheep, they practically litter the alleyways and street corners. There's little work for people my age, let alone work that doubles with accommodation. With no great plan or direction, I'm left sunken in this hole, with voices tearing around me, telling me to shape up, to tidy my birds nest of a hairstyle, to do something with my life - And isn't that just the burning contradiction that they seemingly drive so persistently? Do something with your life. No, not that, this. And this is the same fucking point that I'm at, and I'm just reaching it again and again. It's suffocating me.

And if I say something, I'm a heretic. And if I say nothing, I'm a laggard. It's perverse.

My father is a priest, and a hypocrite. He preaches about deities and false gods, and he thinks that gives him power. I suppose, in many ways, it does. He has a following of yellow eyed lambs who drink up his psalms and prophecies, feeding off every parable in some soft hope that it will give their days meaning. They all want miracles but they only find dust, and talks about tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Always something that's out of reach.

My mother is a drunk, and why shouldn't she be when she's got five boys running around the house? I'm second oldest, but of course I have the most responsibility. Ben left two years ago, decided he couldn't stomach our parents any more, and do I really blame him? He could feel it in his lungs too. Three younger brothers, two of which are aggressively uncooperative twins, the other is a screaming toddler, so she drinks. I hate her for it. It's like saying I give up. And yet here's me thinking of leaving. Do I give up? Yeah, I guess. I give up on this. Whatever this is.

I suppose you can think of me as a gas leak, just waiting to ignite. I can't wait.

There are some things I like. I like my dog, Pig. Pig is a silly name for a dog, but the twins named her when they were infants, and they often got their way back then (still do). I like dogs in general. Dogs don't judge, or care what you've done. They're just always there for you. Loyal, some would call it. I'd say they're just simple, in their own capacity, and it's a nice comfort.

I quite like sex too. I'm good at that. I'm good with girls. Talking to them, flirting. Girls around these parts like it when guys talk dirty to them, and well, I'm pretty damn filthy. I never bring them back to mine, of course, I'd never do that with my younger siblings and parents around. Usually they have bigger houses than mine, with bigger rooms and thicker walls. All the better - I'm clumsy, and lousy at sneaking around.

Those are my escapes, the cold morning walks with Pig, where time stands still and I can breathe in fresher air to remind me of the toxins of my life, and glorious sex with gorgeous girls. Anything else is a waste, and I'm just biding my time between what little gaps I can force in the monotony of it.

See: timebomb, gasleak, disaster waiting to happen. (read up, at the top)

And don't say I didn't warn you.