Silence in November
folder
Angst › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
874
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Angst › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
874
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
This Place is a Prison
Disclaimer: I\'m making no money off of this D:Inhaling thrills through twenty dollar bills
and the tumblers are drained and flooded again
and again
The quieted as he entered the bar, the people that normally came there warily watching the newcomer. The two fighting had paused, their fists in mid air; the ones that were sitting at the table uncurled their rolled-up paper tubes and covered the white grains of lethal substance with their cupped hands while playing a stupefied look upon their faces. Soon, though, they saw that the boy was no threat. He was nothing more than, well, a boy. Obviously a boy of age, or he'd not be in a bar; but if he was or not never mattered. They didn't check age anyways. Screw the innocent.
By the way he dressed though; they knew he didn't fit in. Those clothes, as torn and ripped as they were, were not grimy and disgusting as everything else in the bar was. He seemed, obviously, out of place. But, he never had a place; so using that phrase would be out of context wouldn't it? Black vans slid on the floor that was laced with smells of puke, wax, and sex. The smell alone could kill, never mind whatever toxins the alcohol was laced with.
They're guards at the on ramps
armed at the teeth
"What'll it be?" The burly man over the counter asked as he swept up fragments of broken glass from the space in front of the space where the boy had chosen to sit, as he did so boy leaned on the cool granite, his knees bent so his feet stood on the side of the stool. The boy brushed the black hair away from his face, cool hazel eyes watching the glare that reflected from the glass the bartender was throwing away before he opened his mouth to reply.
"Your strongest drink," he replied, "Whatever it takes."
His reply must've been something the man wasn't expecting, or maybe someone was tickling that potbelly of his that he couldn't see because he seemed to be laughing for no reason.
"I'm not sure you can handle that, son. And we've gone not just one strong drink but two." The man grave back, as though to impress him. It didn't impress the boy at all. Actually, it did nothing of the sort; he just gave the man the blankest look ever possible.
"Then mix the damn two together." He replied with an icily calm tone, he laced his hands in front of him as he sat upright.
And you may case the grounds
from the cascades to Puget Sound
but you are not permitted to leave
He had lost track of time two hours ago. No, maybe it was not two hours and yes, that is how completely unaware he now was. He never retained alcohol well, since it soothed his nerves and got him thinking more. He kept thinking those unwanted thoughts of people he'd rather forget, and of people he should forget. Was it him or was it getting uncomfortably warm in here?
He considered taking the hoodie off, but he decided he'd feel close to naked without it. It was a gift from a friend. A gift from a friend he was drinking to. It was a gift from the friend that he'd rather forget about. A gift from a friend that he wished he never knew.
It was a gift from a beautiful person. It was a gift that he couldn't let go of, and the thought of not being able to let go of something that was just overpriced black cloth disgusted him. But then again, this might be the alcohol. But then again, this might not.
He found it amazing how much this imaginary heart could break.
I know there's a big world out there
like the one that I saw on the screen
"Turn it off." He hissed those three simple words as he turned his eyes away from the television screen, but no one was listening. They were gossiping now. They were just talking silently to one another about the things that flashed upon the screen.
"Oh the poor boy"¦"
"I couldn't imagine"¦just like that?"
"Do you think he'll come out okay?"
"HAH. YOU OWE ME FIFTY BUCKS, POPS."
"Turn it off." He announced again, in a louder voice this time. He announced it again, in an angrier voice this time. He announced it again, to the sound of shocked gasps that filled the room.
The pictures flashed on the television screen of someone that wasn't too old, that wasn't too young, that wasn't too anything. The pale white hair fell onto the creamy olive flesh that differed only to the context of his radiant black-gray eyes. That was definitely different, though. Black-grey eyes were not common, at all. One could praise God for co-dominant genotypes, really. The smile was like a picket fence, radiant and white and"¦just so happy.
More pictures filled the screen, of the same person, with the same smile. The pictures were always headshots, the photos taken out of their context; the smile held a purpose that was unknown. Soon, the screen showed the same person with the same smile with the same picture, but this time it had captured the context. The picture covered the movie-star glow that seemed to bathe in the form of a halo.
"Dear God, please just turn it off." The boy whispered again.
In my living room late last night
it was almost too bright to see
He buried his face in his hands, unable to anything else. He hated the overwhelming need to cry, but his body held no organ to make tears. He couldn't cry; it wasn't humanly possible, or maybe it was. Maybe he was holding himself back. He wished he wouldn't do that to himself. Maybe he should go and kill himself later. Yeah, that was a plan; not that he would ever go through with it. Goddamn him for being such a wuss.
"Look!" Women in the back gasped, but he didn't care about what anymore. The only things that were going through his mind were the sounds of static and pleasant rain that leaked from the outside onto the fragmented window panes and seeped through cracks in the concrete into the now water-logged wood grain. He supposed that it was too late to decide this place was extremely ugly.
More gasps elicited from the back of the room, followed by excited giggles and the clinking of wine glasses. The boy kept his face buried in his hands because he had once seen beer-vision on an episode of the Simpson's and was now afraid of what he saw. Perhaps he'd see beautiful women that were actually fat old hags. Perhaps he's see gangsters and make a run for it. Perhaps he'd see the one person he was trying to forget.
I know it's not a party if it happens every night
pretending there's glamour and candelabra
when you're drinking by candle light
He shifted, tilting his head from his hands as he dared to see whatever the world had for him with beer-vision. And, surprisingly, his vision was still clear (or he thought so, and he preferred thinking so). He looked around him, shoulders hunched over the granite that had become surprisingly warm from his own body heat. He stared in front of himself again, straight into the reflective panes and curves of the glasses that had been intricately laid out despite the grubby nature of the bar.
And, in that crystalline reflection shone crystalline tears. The tears from black-grey eyes, the eyes hidden behind pale blonde hair, the hair plastered to the angelic olive skin, the skin stuck to the thin bones of a small boy that stood outside of the bar. His fingers were wrapped around the breaking panes of glass, so careful not to cut himself or break any glass in his skin.
In those five minutes where they spent staring at each other, time stood still. In those five minutes they stared at each other, breaths were held in chests where lungs were soon constricting and threatening to collapse. In the five minutes they stared at each other, more tears fell (from one party more than the other). After those five minutes the boy in the bar stood, turning sharply to face the bartender, whom was staring at their scene, and tossed over a couple of bills and muttered something to the affect of "keep the change". In the ten seconds he took to turn around and rush off the stool (knocking it down) and rushing outside to find the one he was looking for gone, people exhaled the breaths they had kept in. In the fifteen seconds he took the call out the name of the one he was looking for, he spotted the olive hand pressing the button to the cross walk where no cars were passing anyways.
In the two seconds he took to regain his breath, the parting boy turned around to stare at him one last time with black-grey eyes. They were those same one-of-a-kind eyes.
At least something hadn't changed.
What does it take, to get a drink in this place
what does it take, and how long must I wait?
"Just remember," said the boy with the black-grey eyes, "that one time, a long time ago, I said "˜I love you'." He paused, "And I still do."
With a simple flick of his delicate wrist, pale blonde hair fell off to the side of his face in a fashionable twist; the tips of his thin lips twisted into the smallest of small smiles. The tips of those same lips were twisted into the saddest of sad smiles. The tips of those lips held the highest of high hopes.
"And remember," The boy with the one-of-a-kind eyes said with his smile, "that one time; a long time ago, you loved me too."
"You loved me too"
What if I still do?
What if I still do?
Can you make this heart stop beating so it stops hurting?
Can you sever the ties that hold me and you together?
Can you?
Because I still love you, too.
center>This place is a prison
and these people aren't your friends
It was dark inside the musty bar that stood on the corner of Mercury and Galveston Avenue. The widows were not only cracking, but now the little fragments glass had chosen to dissipate and the tufts of frayed (once white) curtains lay exposed as the musty polluted salt air wafted into the building. The spider webs that had been spun so intricately now lay in lace-like threads that hung off the edges of the door frame and window sills. The broken number address was just black paint that accommodated the other various graffiti that designed the street. The tiles of the roof had been falling long ago and had created a somewhat natural skylight. The light peering from where the gap in the boards lay.
The only signs of life came from inside the bar. The hum of the jukebox drowned out by the noisy buzzing of various insects and other various things. Few sounds of cheers and the clinking of heavy beer glasses became lost in the ruckus of a newly starting fight.
and the tumblers are drained and flooded again
and again
The quieted as he entered the bar, the people that normally came there warily watching the newcomer. The two fighting had paused, their fists in mid air; the ones that were sitting at the table uncurled their rolled-up paper tubes and covered the white grains of lethal substance with their cupped hands while playing a stupefied look upon their faces. Soon, though, they saw that the boy was no threat. He was nothing more than, well, a boy. Obviously a boy of age, or he'd not be in a bar; but if he was or not never mattered. They didn't check age anyways. Screw the innocent.
By the way he dressed though; they knew he didn't fit in. Those clothes, as torn and ripped as they were, were not grimy and disgusting as everything else in the bar was. He seemed, obviously, out of place. But, he never had a place; so using that phrase would be out of context wouldn't it? Black vans slid on the floor that was laced with smells of puke, wax, and sex. The smell alone could kill, never mind whatever toxins the alcohol was laced with.
armed at the teeth
"What'll it be?" The burly man over the counter asked as he swept up fragments of broken glass from the space in front of the space where the boy had chosen to sit, as he did so boy leaned on the cool granite, his knees bent so his feet stood on the side of the stool. The boy brushed the black hair away from his face, cool hazel eyes watching the glare that reflected from the glass the bartender was throwing away before he opened his mouth to reply.
"Your strongest drink," he replied, "Whatever it takes."
His reply must've been something the man wasn't expecting, or maybe someone was tickling that potbelly of his that he couldn't see because he seemed to be laughing for no reason.
"I'm not sure you can handle that, son. And we've gone not just one strong drink but two." The man grave back, as though to impress him. It didn't impress the boy at all. Actually, it did nothing of the sort; he just gave the man the blankest look ever possible.
"Then mix the damn two together." He replied with an icily calm tone, he laced his hands in front of him as he sat upright.
from the cascades to Puget Sound
but you are not permitted to leave
He had lost track of time two hours ago. No, maybe it was not two hours and yes, that is how completely unaware he now was. He never retained alcohol well, since it soothed his nerves and got him thinking more. He kept thinking those unwanted thoughts of people he'd rather forget, and of people he should forget. Was it him or was it getting uncomfortably warm in here?
He considered taking the hoodie off, but he decided he'd feel close to naked without it. It was a gift from a friend. A gift from a friend he was drinking to. It was a gift from the friend that he'd rather forget about. A gift from a friend that he wished he never knew.
It was a gift from a beautiful person. It was a gift that he couldn't let go of, and the thought of not being able to let go of something that was just overpriced black cloth disgusted him. But then again, this might be the alcohol. But then again, this might not.
He found it amazing how much this imaginary heart could break.
like the one that I saw on the screen
"Turn it off." He hissed those three simple words as he turned his eyes away from the television screen, but no one was listening. They were gossiping now. They were just talking silently to one another about the things that flashed upon the screen.
"Oh the poor boy"¦"
"I couldn't imagine"¦just like that?"
"Do you think he'll come out okay?"
"HAH. YOU OWE ME FIFTY BUCKS, POPS."
"Turn it off." He announced again, in a louder voice this time. He announced it again, in an angrier voice this time. He announced it again, to the sound of shocked gasps that filled the room.
The pictures flashed on the television screen of someone that wasn't too old, that wasn't too young, that wasn't too anything. The pale white hair fell onto the creamy olive flesh that differed only to the context of his radiant black-gray eyes. That was definitely different, though. Black-grey eyes were not common, at all. One could praise God for co-dominant genotypes, really. The smile was like a picket fence, radiant and white and"¦just so happy.
More pictures filled the screen, of the same person, with the same smile. The pictures were always headshots, the photos taken out of their context; the smile held a purpose that was unknown. Soon, the screen showed the same person with the same smile with the same picture, but this time it had captured the context. The picture covered the movie-star glow that seemed to bathe in the form of a halo.
"Dear God, please just turn it off." The boy whispered again.
it was almost too bright to see
He buried his face in his hands, unable to anything else. He hated the overwhelming need to cry, but his body held no organ to make tears. He couldn't cry; it wasn't humanly possible, or maybe it was. Maybe he was holding himself back. He wished he wouldn't do that to himself. Maybe he should go and kill himself later. Yeah, that was a plan; not that he would ever go through with it. Goddamn him for being such a wuss.
"Look!" Women in the back gasped, but he didn't care about what anymore. The only things that were going through his mind were the sounds of static and pleasant rain that leaked from the outside onto the fragmented window panes and seeped through cracks in the concrete into the now water-logged wood grain. He supposed that it was too late to decide this place was extremely ugly.
More gasps elicited from the back of the room, followed by excited giggles and the clinking of wine glasses. The boy kept his face buried in his hands because he had once seen beer-vision on an episode of the Simpson's and was now afraid of what he saw. Perhaps he'd see beautiful women that were actually fat old hags. Perhaps he's see gangsters and make a run for it. Perhaps he'd see the one person he was trying to forget.
pretending there's glamour and candelabra
when you're drinking by candle light
He shifted, tilting his head from his hands as he dared to see whatever the world had for him with beer-vision. And, surprisingly, his vision was still clear (or he thought so, and he preferred thinking so). He looked around him, shoulders hunched over the granite that had become surprisingly warm from his own body heat. He stared in front of himself again, straight into the reflective panes and curves of the glasses that had been intricately laid out despite the grubby nature of the bar.
And, in that crystalline reflection shone crystalline tears. The tears from black-grey eyes, the eyes hidden behind pale blonde hair, the hair plastered to the angelic olive skin, the skin stuck to the thin bones of a small boy that stood outside of the bar. His fingers were wrapped around the breaking panes of glass, so careful not to cut himself or break any glass in his skin.
In those five minutes where they spent staring at each other, time stood still. In those five minutes they stared at each other, breaths were held in chests where lungs were soon constricting and threatening to collapse. In the five minutes they stared at each other, more tears fell (from one party more than the other). After those five minutes the boy in the bar stood, turning sharply to face the bartender, whom was staring at their scene, and tossed over a couple of bills and muttered something to the affect of "keep the change". In the ten seconds he took to turn around and rush off the stool (knocking it down) and rushing outside to find the one he was looking for gone, people exhaled the breaths they had kept in. In the fifteen seconds he took the call out the name of the one he was looking for, he spotted the olive hand pressing the button to the cross walk where no cars were passing anyways.
In the two seconds he took to regain his breath, the parting boy turned around to stare at him one last time with black-grey eyes. They were those same one-of-a-kind eyes.
At least something hadn't changed.
what does it take, and how long must I wait?
"Just remember," said the boy with the black-grey eyes, "that one time, a long time ago, I said "˜I love you'." He paused, "And I still do."
With a simple flick of his delicate wrist, pale blonde hair fell off to the side of his face in a fashionable twist; the tips of his thin lips twisted into the smallest of small smiles. The tips of those same lips were twisted into the saddest of sad smiles. The tips of those lips held the highest of high hopes.
"And remember," The boy with the one-of-a-kind eyes said with his smile, "that one time; a long time ago, you loved me too."
What if I still do?
What if I still do?
Can you make this heart stop beating so it stops hurting?
Can you sever the ties that hold me and you together?
Can you?
Because I still love you, too.