May [H.S]

21

Magnolia
•••

Bon à savoir.

I don't remember the exact moment I awoke from a hazy mess of sleep, the initial shock of opening my eyes to an unfamiliar surrounding overrode those first few seconds of bliss that washed over me. Not even white noise was offered up to distract me from the thumping wave of grogginess that loomed around my eyesight like a thick midnight fog.

Bugs crawled and nipped over my skin, fire ants, ravenous at the thought of a cigarette just as lucidness began ripping at my mental state. And after the irritability tilted in drop by drop, it wasn't long before I stretched up from the shitty sofa, I'd spent the night on, picking at the folded, ripped cigarette pack and fumbling for the lighter on the stained coffee table. Rushing to climb onto the fire escape so as to not wake the sleeping giant on the other, much smaller couch.

I never was able to get him into bed last night, the moment he hit the hay there was no way, that was out of the question, and something about inviting myself into his room, and sleeping between his covers made me nauseous. I still haven't shaken the feeling it gave me– waking up engulfed in the smell of him– swearing it was all a dream, only to realize it wasn't. I still don't get how he was so casual about it like it was the last thing on his mind that morning. With how it ended, I'm certain it was, and me waking up in his bed had only kicked in when he wasn't utterly occupied with whoever was pounding his door down.

Considering he avoided bringing that bit up like the plague, and how the bruises on his body were still faint, I assumed it was a sensitive topic.

My red knuckles clung to the cold, steel railing, just damp from the scarce showers that occurred overnight. A crisp breeze weaved in between my legs, ruffling the little golden-brown hairs on my arms that looked nearly translucent in the indirect sunlight. Though the railing feels unsteady, I'm too tired to process how dangerous leaning my entire body weight on it might be, that flimsy piece keeping me from falling to my death was the last thing on my mind.

The bottom of my aching feet was sore to the touch, freezing on the slated surface of the fire escape. Bare and wet as they were when it was pouring rain onto me, then I was even more sleepy than I had been today. Dare I say a lot more stable than now. 

I could feel a sheen of yesterday laying oily on the surface of my skin. I wonder how inappropriate it would be to ask him if I could shower and let my groggy state of mind evaporate along with the steam from the boiling stream of water. Hopefully, then the thought of regretting throwing away Harry's coke might wash down the drain.

As concerning as that was, I forced it to the back of my mind, encouraging the bout of cigarette smoke that hid it well.

It's like I'm slowly starting to drown, the early stages, where your lungs begin to restrict, and the water threatens the tip of your chin. Hinting at the inevitable, as fresh as the fear is crawling up your spine, you already know, a part of you has accepted that it's too late, and fighting isn't worth it. Help isn't coming and everything around you is the dark, salty, and trembling waves–just as terrified as you.

I wasn't at the point of finding the tranquility in my imminent imploding, no, I'm still making it hard for myself.

Why do I care so much? That's all I've thought about this past forty-eight hours; why? Why am I not crying with a sudden compression of alleviation? The consistent symphony of a heartache I've had since the day I came out of my mother's womb has disintegrated. The tension in my neck even started to decompress, and revert back to its normal, high-strung state. So, why do I feel like I've done something wrong?

Disrupted by the figure in my peripheral, I glance over my shoulder.

Having seen the pacing of what appeared to be a very lucid Harry in the window behind me, I decided to keep the bit of the cigarette that's left– knowing he doesn't mind if I smoke the rest inside– bending down and climbing through the small, opened window. By the time I've managed to tumble back into his living space safely, I see he's disappeared off into his room again, and I opt to put his lighter back where it belonged.