Collaborated Damage

"Goodness, real goodness, has it's own sort of cruelty to it."

― Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Angel

Oh stay away from him. He is no good. Drugs, they say. He lost it, after his girl's gone. Insane, no anchor to reality. Gone, his mind is somewhere in Neverland. Little ones ask their mothers'; does he fly with Peter? Does he dance With Wendy? The mothers  hush them and lead them away, from the dying man who's first love would always be Music. Where his obsession may seem daft. It turns out to be the anchor to his sanity.

Voices milled about me in a blur. I couldn't tell which voice was mine and which was the gossiping strangers.People would always judge even if they didn't know the full story. I placed my head in my hands. My ass was hurting from sitting on the sidewalk too long.  

You don't just wake up and decide that you will be insane, bonkers, off your rocker. You're either born that way or broken into little pieces that you just kind of have to. It's just like, do you like red or yellow? Green or orange? SEE. SEE. See how you have no choice in the matter. Just like you have no choice in which family you were born too. 

See. You have to understand that I don't chose to be like this. To have to listen, to breathe music everyday, every minute. SEE. No one can help that they have brown eyes, or freckles. It just happens. 

 I continued to watch the people go by. One good stranger out of every ten they walked by me would ask if I was alright. I would just turn my head away from them and give them a pleasant 'Yes ma'am' or 'Of course sir'. And then they'd continue on walking, leaving me behind. 

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"Blue, get up off the ground and let's go home." I looked at her. Her mouth was in a tight smile and her eyes were bloodshot. 

I should say yes. "No. I don't wanna leave."

Her left eye twitched. "I had a bad day. Get up off the ground. You're a grown man, I shouldn't have to take care of you like you're a child."

"Leave me! Leave me now! I want to stay here!" My voice was raspy, like a smokers. 

Annette snapped. Her fist came with a reassuring 'thump' leaving a soon to be bruised eye. "So help me God, if you don't get up right now--" She broke off. Whispering, "Oh God, we're starting another scene."

"Then leave. Don't worry about me, I got all I need." I patted my guitar case. 

"Oh Blue, you need more than that." Then she snorted. "And your face needs a shave." 

Annette wrapped her thin fingers around my own calloused ones. Her other hand patted my cheek. "You're lucky that you have me, or else you'd be eating crumbs with the pigeons."

We walked in silence, my guitar case occasionally bumping into the side of my leg. It wasn't really silence, for say, there was the city life. The sounds of cars, of feet walking. But none of that seemed worthy of noting, nothing seemed worthy of even noticing. 

Annette's house wasn't a house. It wasn't in one spot, it was all over. If she couldn't pay the rent, she'd find a cheaper 'better' place to stay. If she quit her job she'd go and move somewhere closer to her old job. Of course she always stayed in New York City, where she could hide in this paradox of a town. 

Another thing about Annette was like she was one big rock star of a mother. She couldn't sing, actually she sounded like a dying cat, but she lived to listen to the next great Nirvana or Beatles. She understood others and wanted to help all even though that got her to many places including jail.