I'm into Insomniacs (discontinued)

Walking Home (Pt. 2)

(A/N: Yeah, so. Sorry for not updating. I could say I've been busy, but really, I just really thought everyone was over this story so I kinda like- Yeah know. So, anyways, just like- I don't know. At least watch the video. it's probably the funniest thing I've seen all week.)

"-His name is Clucky!" Pacifica says. I smile, rather interested in her tales of her pet chicken which, she hopes, is safe in California and not in the bellies of either of her parents. She lights up as the tale continues, not leaving out a single detail. From the shape of it's beak to the hue of it's feathers to the pitch of it's squack. She doesn't seem to shy away either from giving a below average impression of Clucky, flapping her free arm in the air as she does so. Her other arm, snapped tightly around my waist as she holds my staggering body up right, is warm against my bare skin. My shirt, which Pacifica describes as a 'muscle shirt', is still soaked with tears I've yet to wash out.

"Well, enough about my life! Tell me something about you!" She beems at me and, for a moment, my heart is absolutely swelling with sudden appretiation for her. I return her beem as best I can, though the woozie nausia in my gut prevents me from an ear-to-ear grin. I begin to lean more easily against her, allowing a little less space between us. 'It's safe here' I think to myself. And it is. It feels safe here. Safe on this dark street, lit by the yellowed glow of street lamps. Safe for my drunkin mind to wonder, my brain to fuzz up, my goofy smile to last. It feels safe. I feel safe. I feel-

"-Sick." I say out loud before throwing up on the pavement, the sickening shades of muddy drinks and slimmy stomach acid racing over my tounge with a nausiating after-taste. Pacifica gasped in shock and suprise, watching the puke splatter and set on the paved road. It made a disguisting *sloosh* sound, at which I threw up again, this time an inescapible reflex of the nerves, my breath hitched, my shoulders bunched up, my eyes shut as I regurgitated lunch. I let out a drowsy 'ugh...' my right arm draped around Pacifica's neck now, holding me up to keep from falling face-first into my own chunks.

"O-oh God, dude!" She said, looking at the mess I made. Her arm tightened around my waist as the scent of my insides rose to her nose, causing both her and I to wrinkle our noses in disguist. I was disguisted. I was disgusting. And, in a way, it was liberating. I had never drunk, and I never again wanted to drink, but I felt alive. I felt fresher. My stomach no longer ached, but was meerly uneasy. The pain seemed to match perfectly with the feeling on excitement. The clentched muscles in your gut, the constant turning, the rush of not yet feeling the entisapation that was surely to come.

"Oh... My God..." I mustered, my eyes tracing over the scene I had made. "Can we-" I began, only to feel myself tilting back, my head dreamily floating towards the stars as I lose all feeling in my neck-muscles. My body sloshed side-to-side as Pacifica wraps her arms around me in a panic, managing to keep my body up right. "Dude!" She barked. "Let's take a break for a sec." She dragged my body towards the street's curb, setting me down far away from the filthy mess I had made earlier. "Jesus... I'm a real mess, Paz." Pacifica gave out a small 'hmp', bearing a soft smile in return to my statement. "Well, you're much more put together than I am."

"I wish. You've got your whole life together. I don't even have a life." I responded with a playful tone to it, although the truth behind it was painfully close to reality. "I mean, I wish I was allowed to stay out this late. Grunkle Stan's gonna kill me when I get home." Pacifica turned her head, looking at me worridly. I pretended not to see it. She looked disturbingly worried, like I was a child about to fall out of his car seat. Instead, I looked at my shoes, tracing the outlines of their sewing patterns. Every thread, every curve, every delicate detail followed to a "T". I wish I could be like that sometimes. I wish I was perfectly sewn together. I wish I was made of fabric and lacing and spent most of my time under a bed or lying in the closet. Most importantly, I wish someone was looking for me. Always. Someone out there was in constant devistation, thrashing through the room, throwing shit around, trying to find me before the school bus left. Because I was the most important peice. Because no one could go out without me.