A Picture of Confusion

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#Sperks ]]




Soren’s sickly thin fingers curled around the cigarette, his swollen knuckles large and knobby, encased in white, shallow skin. He exhaled the grey smoke from his lungs, stubbing the butt out onto the worn-out shingles of the trashy, white house. He climbed back into the house, his bare feet hitting the over-used and too-old carpet in silence. He barely even noticed how the once white carpet was now a faded yellow color; some spots a more vibrant tone from cat piss he never got around to cleaning up. The walls were a dull green that had transformed more into a grey over the years his family had occupied the house.

He scoffed at the family picture on the hall table, showing his father, mother, himself and older sister with their arms all around each other, smiling. Soren quickly turned the picture down in disgust, wanting to shred it in anger of its irony.

His too slender legs swiftly carried his waxen body down to the end of the lifeless hall and down the steep stairs, Soren trying to ignore the pain it caused his muscles to do such a simple task.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw his mother sitting at the old oak dining room table, one of her many romance novels in hand and a “Family Circle” magazine to the left of her. She looked up briefly at her son, her entire body emanating the feeling that the whole house made. Her eyes were weary and tired and her body was thin and frail, although her son was still the thinner.

“Sit and have some tea with me?” she offered, her voice feeble from years of never using it built up with the fear of Soren.

He glared at her momentarily in repulsion. “No thanks.” He said in the bitterest tone that he could muster. Her cringe was almost physical.

With that he continued on his path, his naked feet proceeding to the front door where Soren clothed them with a pair of brown, ratty shoes, indiscernible after too many years of use.

He stepped out the door into the frigid afternoon air, the chill reaching his bones instantaneously, although it was welcomed to his usual numbness. He trudged his way to the local coffee shop, the snow coming up to his ankles. As much as the ice bit at his skin through the holes in his shoes, it was still greeted with appreciation.

By the time Soren reached the run down black and gold entrance to the main street coffee shop, his arms were bright red in irritation from the winter weather with no jacket on. He plopped himself down in his usual corner booth, somewhat glad to not be able to see his breath anymore.

He sat there, with his hands on the table, waiting. Most customers went to the counter to order, but the small shop knew Soren well, and knew what he was going to order anyways, so as long as he tipped well, they came to him, with his order of a medium black hazelnut coffee hot and ready.

His head hung low, his light brown hair coming down past his eyes, almost to the tip of his nose. He was too damn lazy to get a haircut. Not that he cared about his hair anyways. Or any other part of him considering it was a productive day for him if he actually showered.

As Soren heard the footsteps coming toward his table, he prepared himself for the warmth that was about to be placed in front of him. His fingers eagerly anticipated the plastic cup that would radiate with heat from the smooth brown liquid.

“Ahem…” He heard someone awkwardly enunciate from above him. Soren looked up from the completely uninteresting table to see a young boy standing at the edge of the table, close to Soren, wearing a green apron.

“…” Soren didn’t know what the kid wanted, but he definitely looked nervous about it.

“You’re um… supposed to place you’re order up at the counter, Sir.” He stated pseudo professionally.

“Er, usually Erik brings it to me.” He responded.

“Oh… um” the boy blushed “well… he-he’s sick today, what do you usually have?” He was fidgeting with the strings on his apron, probably trying to get away from Soren’s ever-intense stare. He couldn’t help it that his eyes just screamed of murder.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll just get it tomorrow.” Soren stated, even though his tone of voice spoke of death threats. He was naturally a brusque kind of guy, which surprised many from his fragile physique; although it was comparable to the small boy. He wasn’t so much thin… he actually could loose a pound or two around the middle, but he was short as hell, making him seem only about 12 or 13.

Soren was already pushing his way out of the booth before the kid, Harvey, as Soren noted by the name tag, spoke again.

“Can I get you like a hot chocolate or something? I’ll put it on the house.” He sounded a little desperate to make Soren happy and it pissed the taller boy off. Why couldn’t people leave him the fuck alone to make his own damn decisions? It wasn’t like he was completely inept or something.

“No thanks.” He said in the same tone as he’d used on his mother. It amused him to no end to use that phrase in such a way, after his father had drilled it in to him about how to be the most polite, the most educated, and the best-rounded child; manners was clearly a part of that.

The boy seemed mostly unfazed, just more concerned which only fueled Soren’s anger. He just stood up and pushed open the door, wanting to get back into the cold air which always seemed to match his anger with forceful gusts of wind instead of the warm days with the sun which only served to mock him.

Three steps out of the building and down the block, the wind picked up stinging his already raw skin. Ten steps away, next to the connecting bookstore the snow began, eating away at his core even more than the wind had; the frozen specks resting on his shoulders and ears. By the time he reached the Pizza Shop, connected on the same strip, it was flat out hailing, and there was no way in hell Soren was going to make the twenty minute walk back home without welts.

He glowered in pure annoyance as he turned on his heal, making his way back to the warm coffee shop. The instant the obnoxious bell rang, signifying his entry, he saw small pathetic little Harvey look up from the counter. The shop was still empty; it always was past the 9:30 rush for all the white-collared businessmen to get their coffee. It was small, only consisting of about three booths the length of the shop, which reached the black top counter with an out dated cash register, and they still didn’t take credit cards. There were only a few other lopsided tables and iron chairs that scattered the scratched up and faded wooden floors, overall the place was way overdue for a renovation.

Soren sat back down at his seat in the booth right next to the door, moments later Harvey was back at his side with a large steaming mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream on top. Harvey looked very proud of himself giving it to Soren who only scowled at the boy.

“ I don’t want you’re damn hot chocolate” he stated in a tone that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than fury. Harvey just shrugged and walked back behind the counter. Soren sat and glared at the boy through his bangs, his long, sallow fingers rhythmically hitting the table. It was a habit that he’d adopted from his father, one of the few he kept throughout all the torturous years of pain his father had caused.

It was the hardest thing in the world for Soren to keep reminding himself that his father wasn’t an evil man. It was the most difficult thing for him to believe actually, but he tried everyday. His frustrations about the situation of his past pushed out his anger which fueled his hate and strive for the standards he knew were impossible. Not the standards that his parents would want, not the standards any teachers would want, nothing like that. The standards that he had set for himself long before he understood society and became twisted in their game of what was supposed to be important. Soren was set on creating art in the most cliché sense yet in the most morbid way. He wanted to express every emotion, every feeling, every vision in a way that no one could mistake how he felt at that exact moment.

Soren’s current works of art were, in fact, all that he could hope for. He knew he had a talent from the moment he picked up his first crayon in kindergarten. The jagged, harsh and dark lines that he created on paper to represent his emotions were absolutely flawless in presenting his feelings. The only problem was, all his feelings were the same: numbness, hate, anger, frustration. Nothing new, so all the art pieces felt the same. They felt old, overused, like everything in Soren’s life; like his bedroom, his house, his mother, his coffee shop. Even his friends were overused to the point where they’d left, long since gone when everyone realized that Soren had given up on himself, so they all gave up on him.

He figured he just needed and new feeling, something new to explore and create, and master on his own. He just had to figure out what…


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# Sperks ]]