CARNIVORE [MxM+]

Chapter 5 [REVISED]

Tycho Black.

IT'S CHILLY.

I choke out a breath, watching the air turn into vapor in front of me. It's not supposed to be this cold in August, but its always been like that in the city. Warm, windy days and cold, stagnant nights. That, and it had rained just an hour ago. 

I wrap my arms around my chest in an attempt to keep myself warm, but it does nothing. The plastic slide I'm sitting on doesn't soak up my body warmth at all, only succeeding in keeping me colder. At first, you'd think I'm not comfortable, sitting on a child's toy in the middle of a park at 4 am. Thankfully, though, I've got so much liquor running through my veins that I wouldn't even feel a truck hitting me. 

Still fuckin' chilly.

I dig a sneaker into the dirty mulch and sigh, ignoring the way my chest shudders. I take out a half-empty lighter from the left pocket of my jeans and light it in front of me in a poor attempt at a fire. I debate starting one, but then again, I can't be picked up by the police, completely wasted, while underage, and in a park in the middle of the night. Even my inebriated mind agrees it's a bad idea, but I can't help and want a little comfort. 

Despite how uncomfortable my body is, my mind is at ease. This playground holds memories-- memories I'm not afraid to delve into. They make me miss what I dream about every night: a normal childhood. For a while, my life was normal. For a while, it was just me, my mother, and my father. My real father. 

And I know it isn't healthy, but there's a reason I come to this playground at night when I'm drunk. My mind tends to get vivid when I drink, and sometimes I use it to my advantage. Sometimes, I can still see him. Like he never died. 

I close my eyes and think. I conjure up every detail I can about his face. I try to picture all of the frames on the walls at home I saw as a kid before they disappeared. Like a click in my mind, it works. 

"What's wrong, buddy? What you sittin' around for?" The sudden voice doesn't alarm me, even when it's late at night. It's a voice I was pleasantly expecting, and I couldn't be more excited to greet him. 

I raise my eyes just enough for a pair of steel-toed boots to come into view. In front of me is my father, my own flesh and blood. Even though I live to see him like this, I can never raise my head enough to see his face. I can't remember exactly what he looks like, and it scares me. Jason took that away.

I feel stupid looking down at the dirt while I speak. Like a child who just did something wrong, and knows hes going to get punished for it. "Just missing you. That's it, really." I smile, but my  eyelids droop. I'm tired, I realize. 

I hear a chuckle, then shuffling. The mulch crunches below me, a calloused hand and knee meeting my vision. The skin on his hand was a light bronze and covered in little scars from work. Mom used to say I looked just like him. I wonder how accurate that is.

"Hey, you still got that phone I got you for Christmas that one year?" I could hear the grin on his face as he waited for my answer. He knew it already, of course, he just wanted to see if I still cared about him. I love our little talks.

I laugh, my eyes feeling wetter than before. 

Of course, I have it, Dad. I bring it with me, damn near everywhere I go. Especially now, in times like these, when the missing is at its worst. 

Why aren't you using it then, buddy? Where's our playlist, the one we listened to every day in the car?

I breathe out. My chest doesn't shake anymore. I'm calm. Certain.