Wingless Bird's Flight

HYPOXIA, pt. 2 / III.

                                                                          III.

My pace quickened and so did the cold against my body. Aaron lived at the back of a subdivision's cul de sac, which was only a ten-minute walk to my friend's street. I trotted down the sidewalk, hands in pockets, black sweatshirt zip up, zipped up. It was dark as hell outside, and I followed the path of streetlights and thought about my life. Scuff, scuff, walk, cold. It was honestly a cool ass night, one of those nights where you just wish someone was following you around with a camera, like you were instantly in a movie or music video. I'm an avid movie fan, that was one of the most important things to me when I first got out here. That and books. Anyway, I trotted passed darken hut after hut, until I reached the second or third orange street light. The night is such a relieving time. I walked the shadows and peered into the little homes of the subdivision that occupied the streets. I imagined all of the parents lying awake at night, wondering if they did a good job raising their kids. My black jeans fit into mood, and I'm glad I looked as gothic as I did. If night was a person, he would definitely would have dressed like me right now. I peered into the distance, reminiscing on times that I used to run up and down the streets to play at my friend's house. Now, I'm walking back from a party. I guess some children just play differently. I shoved my boney hands into tight ass pants. I checked inventory. I pulled my phone out, which was on five percent. Fuck. I read the notification that told me Carmen had sent me a text three minutes ago. It sounded as desperate as one could imagine.

please don't tell anyone about us. You told me not to catch feelings and I did, idk fuck... you're just so fucking amazing

Like I was going to? Like I wanted people to know? I didn't reply. She poured herself into me, dumping her waste into me by the mouthful, only to repay me with a rockin' blowjob. It was well worth it, and all honest guys would agree. Sad really. I completely understand why the majority of female teenagers are on some form of antidepressants. The chase of sex in return for comfort and security. Some girls find comfort and security in sex. These are the people society likes to call whores. Everything works out, most of the time.

The sidewalk was coming to an end. Crossroads. I stepped down blindly onto the asphalt. My shoes were felt against the sidewalks. No cars passed me as I walked, I was only comforted by my missed steps and dazed vision. I was starting to feel somewhat sleepy. The party was actually horrible, and super depressing. The only glue there was the alcohol, and everyone knew that. Why else would play people come? Since my parents are not going to read any of this, I did drink a little bit to keep the mood light. If not, I get too sad not to drink. The alcohol poisoned my veins, rushing through like the floodgates to hell. Preparing to rid itself of the poison, the stomach turns on itself. What causes a problem should be removed? For this preliminary defense to the poison, I had drunk enough for my stomach to hurt. But then again, when didn't my stomach hurt then? The liquor sloshed and did jumping jacks in my stomach, exercising until it runs out of steam. Surprisingly, I wasn't even tired. I danced alone in the darkness of the streets, dreaming of become something great one day. Not now. My parents mentioned something about college earlier in the day. I didn't know what the hell to say, or why the hell adults always want to ask you what you're going to do. I think the whole thing is phony. The fact that I haven't done something, yet adults want to know exactly what I'm going to do. It pisses me off, because how am I going to know what I'm going to do until it happens? It's asking a future tense verb to become reality, to become a past verb. If adults were ever in school, they would learn that their statements don't make any sense. I prefer to roll to the beat of my drum, if you will. I was half dazed, walking the streets with only my thoughts to guide me. Nobody was going to ask me what the hell I was going to do. Hell, if I only know.
About one hundred thousand fucking steps later I found Vince's house. He is my best friend. His house was on the corner of two avenues, on the right-hand side if you are facing the courthouse. Most of the times the city contractor or builder will build the best-looking house on the corner, so that visitors will first see the nice corner house, and then look down the street. It's really stupid, I'll admit, but that's the way life goes. They jump through hoops and bullshit for bullshit. His house was not this case. His house was the worst on the street. As a matter of fact, the last house, on the complete other side of the street was the best one. It was owned by an optimist named Billy. Billy lived a pretty bullshit life: catholic, infantry unit in the second world war, married a fat girl, and was later abducted by aliens. Honestly, if I was ever good at writing, I would write a book about that guy. It would be a wonderful book. What if it was a New York Times Bestseller, and the author paraded around the United States and even the whole damn internet. Wife, a nice car, then kids. I would live that life if I could.