Kiss death

Chapter one

(author note at end)

Standing on the cold balcony he pressed the burning bud of his addictive into the metal bars. He then dropped it off into the expansive white blankets that covered the city's streets.
Was he envious of that cigarette? Perhaps. It didn't have a purpose but to be used and discarded quickly, leaving nothing but an impact in its wake.

The cigarette didn't have responsibility, it didn't know about the cruelty of human. It had it easy.

He never understood how humans could exist without fearing each other, the dreaded sound of people calling your name, asking you questions and mentioning you in passing. It was all quite unwanted for someone like him.

It was disturbing to think of what humans could perceive of you, everyone has a different version of you in their head. The person you saw on the street, the lady in the cafe, your coworkers. Everyone has a strange, corrupted sense of you in their cruel imagination.

Children disturb him the most, how are they so carefree? How do they say what they do without fear?
In his opinion humans should only reproduce if they need to, if his parents did that he wouldn't be living this dreadful and horrific life. His parents didn't even care for the repercussions of birthing a child without half the funds needed to put him in school.

The way they smile in photographs that are strewn in the house, as though what they've done has been promptly set aside in a dusty bookcase.

School itself is dreadful, the funds to go there are barely scraped together quick enough. Education is only valuable when it's taught and received correctly.

'Flick-flick' the tip of his thumb clicked the lighter. His copper, dim eyes gazed at the quickly disappearing flame. His eyes are the ones of a lost child, a child that never knew how to truly live.

He never liked school, he already knew everything. As a small child, the retelling of subjects, monotonously drawn on for an entire hour made him go crazy. He would fidget throughout class to make it go faster.

It never worked however and the minutes would merge into a slow sludge that his mind would walk through.

He never got to the otherside of the sea of sludge before it was the next day, and he would be thrown back to the beginning. It was like this everyday, everyday until the weekend. On the weekend his mind would recharge and the sludge would dissipate quickly.

'Flick-flick' he mindlessly clicked the lighter twice more, watching the orange flame reappear then vanish again. He gazed out on the snowy, December streets, the roads void of cars. The sidewalks were slick and icy, the road wasn't a safe place when it snowed. It was much like the slippery sidewalk, but much more deadly.

He breathed, his breath appearing in the air after he exhaled. He stepped back from the railing, turning toward his shut balcony doors. He pocketed his lighter and opened the door, heading inside the warm kitchen.

To the man's right was a sink, dishes piled high under the leaky faucet. The pantry was barren except for the instant cups of ramen that cost more than he was worth.

To his left was a dining table, not a very tidy room, nor was it impressive. It had cardboard boxes against the walls, a small one chaired table sitting by a window that was perpendicular to the balcony doors. A dirty, thread worn rug was spread across the hardwood floor.

Creaks and cracks were heard as he stepped further into the room. He kept walking to his destination, hand on the wall next to him, feeling the drywalls chipped nature. The walls were barren and painted a plain beige, disgusting.

He reached a door that wasn't fully shut, he turned the doorknob and let himself in. A messy mattress was on the floor, pressed up against the wall, under the covered window was an even messier desk, papers strewn, ink spilt.

He took a seat on the desk chair, putting his face in his hands. He breathed, shoulders rising in a feverish manner.

People..did he count as a person if he wasn't human? Just how thin was the line that was drawn between inhumanity and human? He was sure that he had crossed that line, smudged and tore through it as soon as he saw the blurry, blinding lights of the hospital.

He was ruined the moment he was born, a broken child in a poor family. His mother was a rotten woman, the type to congratulate him for minor victories, only to beat him if he made a mistake. His father was a drunkard, always sitting in that old chair, green beer bottle in hand. He had to tread lightly around that man, anything could set him off into a tirade of drunk rambles and harsh words.