Two Truths and a Liar

VI • Why can't we be friends

Harley

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True fear tastes like a cigarette, slowly burning away like everything you thought you'd known.

I was on a stage, illuminated by a few flickering overhead lights and the gas station windows pooling yellow beams over dirt smattered sidewalk, cold under my hands. Smoke perfumed the air around, spiraling from the small almost innocent looking cigarette held lightly, dangerously loose in my thin, quivering fingers. It tasted like shit.

I held it up to my mouth and breathed it in. Felt it fill my lungs, felt my throat constrict ever so slightly.

Breathed it out.

It was all so confusing, the hurt. It broke its promises, feeding me filthy lies that told me it would be over if I just tried another way to escape. But the ache never left my bones. It left behind addictions. It left behind tear stains carving themselves down the curves of my face like pathways they'd follow the next time around.

There was always a next time around.

A time I'd give up and leave marks in my skin because I couldn't control myself again and the voice in my head told me I deserved to bleed, that the pain I was already going through wasn't enough. I was the problem.

I stared at the gently smouldering cigarette and felt my breaths come slower.

When would it end?

The light percussion of a bell split the night, a sheaf of light pouring over the sidewalk beside me.

"So are you just gonna sit there until you rot or what,"

I didn't bother to look up. The voice belonged to Rick, a name on a glossy nametag reflecting the gas station lights, nested in a sea of green. A coarse hand on the doorway. An overused voice, crackling like a vinyl record.

I shrugged halfheartedly.

A sigh.

"Look, Harley. Uh-"

"What,"

With a heave, and the swing and rustle of the door slipping shut, he let himself drop onto the curb by me. "Shouldn't'a let you get away with that pack, huh." He examined the Marlboro box, now half empty. Exhaled, and set it down on the sidewalk once more.

"Got it bad, huh?"

"Not too bad,"

"Sure,"

I tapped the end of the cigarette on the edge of my jeans and pulled the sleeves of my sweater up, willing curious eyes off the marks of my skin.

They always pretended not to see my scars, but never very subtle about it.

"I could..."

"I don't need your help,"

I spat it out a little too hard, too curt, words like a nail gun against a hard surface, hitting with a thunk and a finalization. An eyebrow raise, and a hand on my shoulder.

"You sure?"

"I don't,"

The man had more heavy sighs than words.

"Alright then."

With a great effort he pulled himself up and knit his eyebrows at me, scratching his nose and muttering something I couldn't quite hear. I peered up at him, unconcerned, almost boredly. Tired.