The Humanist

CHAPTER ONE

"People generally see what they look for and hear what they listen for."

-To Kill a Mockingjay, Harper Lee

Cold late autumn air scratches at the back of my throat. The crisp morning breeze fills my crackling paperlungs and I cough like a raggedy old man. Smells like the cold, smells like death, smells like woods and the aftermath of too much vodka. I've made the sorry mistake of opening my eyes and sitting up at once and now the skies spinning. Spinning spinning spinning like a vertigo with me in the center. My eyes squeeze shut, the cool air too much for me. My rigid fingers move and crack to life, curling into fists as I try to move each finger, getting the circulation moving in them. I swing my legs over the edge of the moldy wooden bench, really sitting up this time and I feel my knee bump into something, the sound of hollow glass, and that same noise as the empty bottle hits the dirt floor and rolls till it bumps to a stop at my shoes. I dare to once again open my eyes, and try with strain to squint up at the sky. It's morning, as I've already mentioned but it could just as well be afternoon, or evening, or anytime really as the sky remains in a constant state of ruins, a grey creamy white, a little like spoiled milk with no spots, no hints of other colors, nothing but this morbid dusty white that seems to be never ending, an infinite blanket that smothers us beneath it, keeps our heads down, so that all we see is it and nothing but it. The aching in my head is viscous, violent, vehement; any other thrashing agonizing word beginning with 'v' that could describe this monstrous migraine that's took hold of me. My limbs are heavy as bricks, heavy like they aren't mine, my skins crawling but it feels like its layers away, like I can feel it from faraway, like its not mine but someone else's and all I'm doing is watching and imagining. It feels as though I've swallowed a liter of cotton balls instead of a liter of vodka, my insides are crawling, clawing at me from the inside out, wailing out at why I do this to myself. All I can think about is the same three questions that always hit me when I wake up like this: What did I do last night? How did I get here? And where's Elliot? That last question's usually answered quite quickly as he's usually asleep beside me, or at least in close proximity but I'm not at home. It's coming back, the vile night I'd had, and all of a sudden I regret the question, as I normally do. Don't think about it, don't remember. The sound of footsteps, distraction. I'm sitting, curled into myself on a park bench, there's a playground, a garden, children, a single black crow. My mouth tastes like death, my eyes are glazed over, my hair matted to my head, frost clinging to the tips of my eyelashes, my fingertips pink. I wrap my jacket tighter around myself and force my legs to support my weight as I lift myself off the bench. My knees are rather shaky, knobbly, threatening to give out but after a moment, I steady myself, lift my old leather bag up off the dirt and reach down to grab the emptied bottle. My head spins as I lift it up, standing up straight. A sensation gnaws at my neck and I glance instinctively to catch a woman watching me. I must be a sad, sad image. I look older than I am but its still not a pretty picture, a young girl, clearly disoriented, maybe still wasted, wide pink eyes, smeared mascara, a bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I didn't even notice I'd taken it out, out of habit, I'd reached into my inside pocket and held onto it, not lighting it, not even conscious of the gesture. I'm still watching her watch me. My gaze glances to the children at the playground, as I light the smoke. I can tell which child is hers, they've both got the same strawberry blonde hair and crinkled eyes, they're both looking right at me with an eerily similar expression.

She's still staring but it doesn't bother me, not really. It's the first days of November, I've always despised November. Or maybe I haven't, maybe as a child I liked it. It was the anticipation month- before December, which meant a break from school, which meant a pretty little tree in the living room, my mother knitting me sweaters, steaming hot chocolate, the crackling fireplace, the smell of burning wood and pine. And now? It's just cold. Not even snowing, which is a shitty type of cold. I like the snow, it excuses the freezing weather.