Your Streets

Details a young boy's inner turmoil with his first love and cold air in the late hours of the night. Autobiographical fiction.

Open. 

Close.

 

Taillights illuminate your streets, but only for a second. Your streets. Your town. My world seems a million miles away from this place. From these foreign street signs. The journey back to my town is a 10 minute drive no matter which route you take. A two hour walk should you be fortunate enough to not own a car. Tonight, I am fortunate. Tonight, I will be the moth at your window, pleading the glass to let me in so I can drown in the warmth of your light. Tonight, I’ll freeze over like the lake beyond the small forest behind your house.

The short walk to your den gives me time to think. Time to breathe.

 

Inhale. 

Exhale. 

Rinse. 

Repeat.

 

 

My thin blood doesn’t mix well with these cold summer nights but I think of the warmth of our bodies entwined like monkeys in barrel and at that moment even gravity doesn't seem to make a difference anymore. But, it does. And it will. And when I approach your window and call out your name you reply frantically, you feel as though that gravity tugs at your intestines harder the farther you descend into the bottom of your anxiety. The bottom of your disfigured being. The bottom of your mind. But I’m okay. I’ll wait, a patient patient awaiting the vaccine to end the loneliness of the past month that you’ve been gone. 

            I’ve long since swatted at the thick cobwebs in the farthest corners of my mind, abound with the secrets I keep and the dreams I don’t speak of. So I wait. And I wait. And the seconds turn to minutes, turn to hours, and sleep pulls at the sweatshirt you handed me through your window as a poor substitute for your embrace. The hot chocolate has long since sat at the bottom of my stomach and the bag of half-hearted cookies sit alone; their thick frosting catches the morning dew. An open bag. An open wound. The beating of my chest against the grass; the night has its last laugh as my eyes unwillingly retreat into the stagnant darkness.

I awaken to the echo of your voice against the back of my skull, shaking in unison with your nervous frame. No words can comfort you. You are beyond coaxing. Your mind fights an endless battle with the fear of the visits that you associate with your sleep. We are never alone. Privacy is a luxury in your life.

            Nonetheless our pact is upheld and as the light draws me ever close, your image becomes a blur. Our flesh begins to meld and soon this amalgamation, uncontrollable, foreseen, undeniable, uneasy: the silence still kept. We breathe through the other’s skin. We whisper through the nonexistent dimples that dash your face, leaving only the trail of paranoia that often battles your happiness. For these moments, you are not silent, but words are indistinguishable. In these moments, I feel your fragile, awkward shape begin to drain me, ready to lie and hide its renewal when it’s had enough. This maelstrom of mass confusion/terror/bliss leaves us in the center of a downpour, leaving everything else to flake away.

Your pain lies. Your insecurity sickens the immune. Your paranoia infuriates the kind-hearted. The line between the purposely forgotten and the self-imposed half-truths becomes the paint thinner to your brain. I am out-casted. Bandaged. Sent on my way. I am fortunate. I am comforted with apologies from a gutless voice. You are hollow. You are weak.

 

 

I picture deer staring. Not in curiosity, but in hate. I can hear the hum of rubber against pavement. The whispers of the trees and the secrets they keep. But I am not eager to know. I walk to where the streets and the forest meld; where bright lights question my presence. I have a destination, but it doesn’t matter when I arrive. I don’t feel the burden I once did.

The night becomes the day but I feel unchanged.

 

 

And the hours turn to days, turn to months, but fail to loosen their grasp. My skin flakes as well. Not from will, but from friction. A civil war rages inside my mind. Indecision and uncertainty flood the crevices of the mosaic that has become my thoughts. I live in a house without mirrors. I am hollow. I am weak. We are all f*****g weak. I inch my way to the edge, where my world teeters on the brink of nonexistence and my sanity gives way to the flood of thoughts that come with such disasters. I struggle to stay afloat, but the undertow hardens around my feet, the sweetest concrete, and at the bottom I’ll have time to sort through the wreckage.

Author's Note

As a therapeutic exercise, I was told to utilize my love for writing and document something. Anything. So I wrote about that night. It was cold. I sneaked in through the window after waiting for hours on end and was turned away after I was used. All that waited for me was the 2 hour-long walk home. The walk didn't bother me in the slightest, but the night itself is a sour memory. Thanks for any feedback.

Reviews

[Rachael]

As I was reading this I thought, "they're soooo a Palahniuk fan" and low and behold it says so in your 'about'. This definitely shows off his influence while still displaying your own style. I like how the thoughts flowed quickly, yet all connected with one another. Well done!

[Scarlet]

This is very interesting, very involved and descriptive. You really get a peek into someone's mind. Almost reads like poetry, well written, keep up the good work!

[Unloved_kitty]

This is really good! xD
Keep it up!