I'm An Addict

Walla Walla

There's something different about him.

A gleam in his eye as he drapes his arm lazily against the back of your leather seating, head tilted outwards towards the city. Jaw set and teeth grinding, the usual irritation within him is gone. Various emotions run across his face, lips downwards and teeth tugging against the lower, hand rubbing the skin of his growing stubble.

The interior reeks of alcohol and cologne, putrid scent filling the automobile, uncomfortable shifting as the vehicle continues to twist through the slum of Brooklyn streets. Men and their wives stroll sidewalks at midnight, bodies entangled with one another while the pale moonlight illuminates their figures, casting shadows along the pavement.

Ahead of the Cadillac is an Officer, dressed in the coordinated white and blue with an adorning badge, hair tucked beneath a cap as he chews nervously on his cheek. The buttons line his shirt, neck hidden beneath the collared shirt and face smooth with youth. He's nervous. 

Bucky's hand combs through his hair, fingers intertwining with your own as the car slows to a stop. With a sudden sigh, the man glances to you, head turned in your direction and smiles softly, thumb rubbing over the surfaces of your knuckles.

"Where did you say you wanted to go?" He questioned, eyes ignoring the young male who leaned awkwardly against his vehicle, blocking the road. Curling a knee to your chest, you shrugged, yawns slipping past the edge of your lips as Bucky continued to stare simply a your features. "Doesn't matter-" you spoke, taking a hesitant look to the officer, "so long as we don't end up in the slammer. Looks like he's about to bust us."

The equanimity drains from his pupils, touch fading from you as he sniffs, head shaking and jaw clenching. 

He's a bull, glass and china surrounding him waiting to break. The inevitable shatter of glass and bones. With men like Mr. Barnes, a hundred punches were packed into one blink. A heavyweight champ entitled to a throne of fame and glory, The Barnes are murderous fiends.

Everyone in the city knew the stories of his uprising, the blood he's spilt to build his everlasting reputation and the police he's humiliated to show the authorities who runs Brooklyn streets through the hours of the day into the late night. Without question, he's the living nightmare of everyone's dreams, a monster underneath the springs of your mattress and the skeleton in your closet.

The Barnes' name was branded onto an officer's chest.

And turf war ensued throughout the state because of his actions, empty hearts and closed caskets caused by the Gangsters foolishness. Because of him, you lived in a two bedroom single bathroom apartment with concrete flooring. The neighbors across from you threw cigarette butts towards your porch, and cobwebs collected at the doorstep as well as the cupboards.

So why are you in his Cadillac?

For a moment, the silence is peaceful, and then it starts to become unnerving as you glance to the driver side, noticing the dangling cigarette in his mouth as he puffs against it,  hand hanging limply outside the side of the window. 

Catcalls and whistles start to follow, palm smacking against the door in invitation as the young male swallows harshly, head bowed and eyes shut tightly. He's egging him on, pushing him as the tobacco settles on his lips, sucking harshly on the filter before he exhales through his nostrils.

Another whistle, snapping impatiently and the short honk of the horn before the officer glances up sharply, fists clenching. 

"Bucky? What are you doing? Don't hurt him I was just kidding, I don't care- c'mon please let's just go. It's making me uncomfortable-" you speak quickly, eyes flickering between the two males as anxiety starts to bubble within the pit of your stomach. A numbness falls over you, teeth biting down on your tongue as you watch the scene unfold before you.