Again the bottle called and my hand reached out to grab it, eager to consume the liquid promise of inebriation it offered. I was ready to slip back into the numb and surrender myself to the mercy of nature's current. After all, life wasn't about happiness when it should have been. I had searched for its face among the scholars and the drug lords alike; in the end I'd only found it in the obscure, intangible corners of a tripped-out phase.
And we all know too many of those aren't good for you.
I'd come back to the residence of the one who'd abandoned my graces upon my entrance into college. I came back to look for answers, and found that what I expected all along was both true and erroneous. Before me lay a shell of the man I knew, reaching out for my saving graces (for Angela-Marie is the "savior of the worlds!"). I was only too happy to give. For a moment, I almost allowed myself to surrender to bliss and tell myself that it would all be amazing again as it had been a few months before. Still the cynic thought and caught me before I hit the floor. "On guard," she warned.
The next night brought the inevitable shift I'd subtly anticipated. He denounced me a fraud and reduced me to the level of the ordinary amidst drunken stammers. There was an empty uncertainty in his opaque eyes, and I perceived anguish in his heart.
Quietly,
emotionless,
I accepted his diversion. (I don't know how you were diverted; you were perverted, too).
Switch. Recover. Reload. Search.
The bottle in my hand grew warmer.
My down-trailing eyes looked up and met those of a familiar face I had seen two years ago. Quietly, emotionless he sat, swimming in his own stream of toxic conscience. The pair of green iris rose and I smiled a hello:
"Hullo. So, how's it goin' with you?" I beamed.
He raised a brow and swayed ever slightly.
Fade to the morning as I stood by his side, bottle empty in a pile beside the bile. Misery loves comfort, and a good pat on the back goes a long way for the morning's sickness. Handing him a bottle of water, we retreated back inside. Cautiously I regarded his sleeping figure. A notion began to seep its way through me, though its meaning eluded me. When he woke we spoke and I followed him home like a faithful pet. I wanted to see how his life had changed, how he'd become. Eventually, our paths ended at the shed again.
The nights melted into each other and syncronized their patterns, but somewhere along the way lines shifted. We sat and spoke and smiled more. I'd always wanted to know him; he'd always wanted to "know" me. Gradually words cast their spell on words and the levels in our eyes grew to their balance. The seeping feeling began to pool within.
Take the blue pill (take the red pill -- take both).
Let the puma chase you into each other's arms.
But I'd needed no further incentive to sleep in his arms that night. I'd made my decision back at the bottle; I was going to be his eventually.
And so the soon-to-be-lovers shared in the folly of ancient whiles in the company of two. The days of our youth are spent forever searching.
Tides of Vodka brought me around to the reverse the next night.
I tumbled out the door, naked from the waist up, save for a borrowed hoodie with a broken zipper. He followed, holding me steadfast, offering to bring me home with him to rest the blackout away.
Thus began our tale: two strangers, both alike in dignity, in a party-pimped shed searching for a sliver of meaning, staggering into the darkness with what would later become a hint of happiness sought. Together they'd denounce the phantoms of their past, embracing the future spinning fast in a glowing whir.
Butterfly.
Bring him back into my arms.
Cheers to Winter Break.
Unknown "Angel" Content
- 16 years, 10 months, 23 days ago
