swirling dust motes in a sunbeam ; coffee stained mugs lining windowsills ; a honey coloured sky ; rapid breaths ; digging through couch cushions for spare change ; the warning signs carved your skin ; an unmade bed ; mud on the soles of your shoes ; dust clinging to your lungs ; scars on your palms and the insides of your fingers ; the taste of rust in your mouth, blood on your tongue ; a dull ache where you'll never forget the pain ; a wild screaming weight, trapped in your belly ;unspoken depravity ; cracked glass against your own bones ; tell the stars to consume you ; pressing fingertips into bruises ;
“Eh, do whatever you want.” he shrugged, raising the drink to his lip. “I’ve been called worse.” John added with a shrug before taking a sip. He didn’t care whether or not Ryan remembered the high school phrases that were being thrown around as much as he did. Probably not. Most people were self-centered, after all. What seemed important to him, probably wasn’t all that important to anyone else. John could live with that. He had been past self-pity for many years now.
He put the glass back down, shifting its position. “It’s just small-talk. That’s what guys do, right? Talk about women.” Was it that obvious he didn’t have many guy-friends? There was really only Evan and they didn’t really talk about girls much. “No — no, not my type… not really, no.” the male responded with a shake of his head that ended into another uncomfortable twitch of the neck.
“And I don’t think she was a red head either.. But—” Brows knitted together in thought as he paused, followed by another shrug. “I don’t remember, actually.”
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
Ryan’s high school years only ever seemed remembered in fragments, in moments. As if the whole thing was a carousel of images all flickering one after the other, disjointed memories all trying to stitch together the idea of something that once was. But he’d grown since then, so much had happened in the man’s life since he was the boy he was in high school. To Ryan that felt like a lifetime ago, and on the worse days it felt like someone elses lifetime that he was just watching in on.
“I guess?” Ryan would return with a shrug, truth was he wouldn’t have many people he just spoke to. Or if they did it would be all too much all at once, things you only mutter when you’re too drunk to walk home, and you can barley remember why you’re sad only that profound feeling you couldn’t shake. But maybe it was just the way he was private with some things, Ryan wouldn’t be able to remember the last time he openly spoke about his relationships.
“I don’t think I’d remember her name, I just assumed with a name like Ginger. I doubt I went home with her.” He said with slight amusement. “What about you then, any non red heads worth talking about?”
the question tugged a playful grin onto thad’s lips. okay. he could handle playing a cat and mouse game, hard to get. “well, you know me now. so no more excuses, pal.” thad pointed out suggestively, bringing his glass to his lips for another drink. when he set it back down, he wasted no time being obvious in the way he eyed the stranger. he painstakingly raked his eyes up and down his face, noting his small eyes, where his hair fell. thad’s gaze even fell to oggle the stranger’s shoulders. it was late, he was several drinks in, and well, generally shameless. now his prospect would know it too.
“are you from around here?” thad asked, stirring his drink with it’s straw, intensely keeping his stare locked. it was a genuine surprise he’d never seen the man around before. thad was a local at this point, constantly hanging around at the hideaway or wherever else. he knew most everyone in hawkins for better or for worse, “i’ve never seen you in here before.” he said obviously, then slid his hand over on the bar, first to the guy’s elbow for a squeeze, then for him to shake, “i’m thad.”
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
For the briefest of moments there’s one prominent thought that swarms Ryan’s mind as he takes in the sight of the man before him, is this someone he’d be trying to ignore? Perhaps someone he’d already met on a drunken night, stumbled home in the dark with and left before the sun rose and he could really remember his face. It wouldn’t have been a first, but Ryan his best not to get too involved with those in Hawkins. He’d made the mistake one too many times in his youth, and all he learnt was that everyone talks to everyone.
So he found the only way to keep people out of his relationship, was in general to keep his relationships to himself.
But he was only human, and Ryan would be the first to tell you he’s made more than one mistake in his life.
"Ryan,” Perhaps it was the outlandish confidence in the other, or perhaps it was the way alcohol had started to warm Ryan’s cheeks, but he couldn’t quite hide the amused grin as he watched the way his hand grabbed his arm before a firm handshake. He’d turn towards him as he sat, knees grazing his as he drowned out the rest of the bar and just focused his attention on Thad. “Hawkins born and raised I’m afraid, but I don’t always make it down to the drove of alcoholics.”
as if to answer the question, lucas tossed back the rest of his drink in one large gulp and flipped the glass over for good measure. he paused to ask the bartender for a second before leveling ryan with a long look and a one-shouldered shrug. “it just feels like i should be doing something, but i’m not sure what else to do, you know?” he thanked sam when he collected the empty glass and left another in its place. lucas took a smaller sip this time and spun the glass on the bartop, just to keep his hand occupied. he popped a couple pretzels from the communal bowl in front of him into his mouth. when was the last time he’d eaten? had he even had anything today? for as much as he was preaching to mike that he couldn’t take care of anyone unless he took care of himself, lucas wasn’t being much of a good example.
lucas sighed heavily, decided then and there that he wasn’t going to make much headway that night anyway, and sank further into his seat. “tell me something,” he said, nodding and waving his free hand to coax ryan along. “i need to take my mind off of it. tell me something that’s happened to you this week.” he didn’t care if it was a good thing or a bad thing at this point. lucas just wanted…an escape.
that felt selfish to him. he should be with mike and dustin, mapping out the places they’d already looked, but he was just so…fucking tired. when was the last time he’d slept more than a couple of hours? before the funeral? definitely before luke. well, he was going to fix that tonight, one way or another. but first, he was going to hang out with his buddy and knock back a few drinks. that would help, probably. it usually did.
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
He should be doing more, it was hard not to feel like he should be doing more when there were so many people around doing so much for the missing kid. Sure Ryan would join a search party here and there, who in Hawkins hadn’t joined their fair share at this point. Walking the same stretch of forest that had been walked a hundred times before, or wandering the side of the road looking- hoping for a sign. Anything. But at the days went on, it was getting harder to ignore the fact that there was just no signs. Nothing.
Still there were the handful that held nothing but hope, and really Ryan couldn’t fault them on that.
“Got up at two in the morning yesterday to help along one of our old girls giving birth to a calf.” The moment the words left Ryan’s mouth, brought the glass up to his lips trying to swallow them again with each sip. He was certain a baby cow wasn’t the thing Lucas wanted to hear when he asked the question, but these days Ryan’s life wasn’t much more than drinking, leaving other’s motel rooms as the sun rises, and well- the farm. But he figured at least it was something, some idle way of passing the time besides for talking about the weight of everything else. Which is probably why he still felt the need to add as an afterthought, “I still haven’t given her a name yet..”
Again he takes some moment to consider the week, or past few weeks since he’d last seen the man before him. It was as if these bar talks had become a regular form of catchup for them, “Speaking of old, the old man called the other day. Wanted to know how things were here, I told him Hawkins will always be Hawkins.”
with everything going on katherine insisted that now wasn’t the time for her mother to try and fix her love life. katherine was more than capable of finding a new partner but her mother clearly thought otherwise. so, she had agreed to go and with her offering to watch the kids for the evening it didn’t sounds as bad. but boy was she wrong… the night felt like it had drug on forever and she could admit that she wasn’t one for talking and that she didn’t mind listening. but, the guy just kept going on and on and on about himself until katherine faked an emergency with the kids and practically ran out the restaurant.
now she was here and safe at the hideaway… well as safe as she could be for now. she took a look around the bar and let out a sigh of relief. maybe this wasn’t the idle situation.. but the liquor store was closed and she was fresh out of wine. so, alas a run down bar for a drink… or two… or three had to do.
“thank you.. you really didn’t have to do that.” katherine said softly as she sat down on the stool next to him, “next round is on me, okay?” as soon as the drink was sat in front of her she took a swig… no more like a gulp. practically downing it in one go. she sat it on the old counter before resting her elbow on the counter and wiping her brow. maybe her headache will go away soon.
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
The whole of Hawkins would feel like it was starting to crumble around them, but it wasn’t the first time. This type of bad luck had welcomed it’s way to the town before, he just thought they’d have a break from it finally. But that didn’t seem to be the case, with a recent funeral and now a missing teenager, it was all starting to feel like the small town that should have been nothing more than sleepy, was starting to come down around them again.
“It’s no worries to me.” He didn’t want to tell the woman exactly that she looked like she needed it, even if she did. It just didn’t feel like the most polite thing to say. Instead he’d take a mouthful from his drink and thank the bartender, before looking over to the woman. “You look like someone who’s had a rough night.” It felt like perhaps the most polite way to word such a thing. Not that he’d blame anyone on Hawkins for having a rough night, week, month even. It just was with the way of things recently.
this was the last place lucas should be. the hideaway might have been a little lax in checking id’s, but why would a thirteen-year-old be hanging out in a dive bar at the edge of town? even so, he couldn’t help the hopeful glance towards the pool table in one corner of the room. when they’d been young, he and his friends had sometimes sneaked in and tried to look cool at the very same table. the scratch near the middle was still there from dustin fucking up a shot when they were fifteen. but there was just a group of high school seniors there tonight. if lucas looked hard enough, he could see his old basketball captain and ex-wife among them. when he blinked the exhaustion away, the ghosts faded back into his neighbors’ kids…and his former students.
on another day, lucas might have had some fun, sidled right up to the pool table and asked the kids if their parents knew where they were in his teacher voice. but he wasn’t in the mood for fun. he just wanted luke back. shoulders hunched, he headed for the bar with a stack of freshly-printed flyers with luke’s last baseball photo, a description, and mike’s phone number (and nancy’s…and dustin’s…and lucas’ own) tucked under one arm.
“hey, sam. do you think you could…?” the familiar bartender accepted aa few flyers from the stack and tacked one to the bulletin board behind the bartop. lucas didn’t miss the pitying look in the guy’s eye. he was about to leave. he had a few more places to stop by before heading home. but then a vaguely familiar voice pulled him out of his reverie. “oh.” he blinked at ryan, considered, and then dropped down onto his usual stool to ryan’s left. an extra flyer probably wasn’t going to do much to get luke back. and he could use a beer.
he set the flyers down on the sticky bar and accepted a sweating glass of amber liquid with too much foam on top for his liking, but downed half the beer without complaint. lucas exhaled on a sigh and turned the glass in his hands. “thanks, man. i needed this.” he tapped the warm glass with his thumb and turned his head to give his friend a sidelong glance. “how are you? it’s been a while.” it’d been a week, probably, but considering tuesday was usually unofficially reserved for a beer or ten with ryan, it felt like longer.
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
Ryan wouldn’t remember when it stopped feeling like he was living in the town, and when it would start feeling like he was something of a ghost himself. Haunting the same places, like an after thought. The town would feel like that all too easily, like it could open up the jaws of its mouth and swallow you whole. It had always been that way. You’d hear it in the hum of crickets at night, and see it in the chipping paint on the walls, like a current through the wind- that the town wanted to keep you.
He’d remember being a teen, boots crunching twigs in the forrest, running from the sheriffs flashlight with his heart pounding. Like the most thrilling thing on a Saturday night was sneaking to those secluded spots with too loud of music, and friends who’d each steal something from their parents liquor cabinets. Those types of gatherings that start small and the odd group of five, would grow into something larger. They’d laugh, helping friends over tree roots that tangle on the ground, and under branches that get in the way. Out running something that wouldn’t matter. Back when Hawkins felt like his own little rebels playground.
Now he sits in quiet, soaking up any sense of others around him. It was a long formed habit not to be alone, one that now Ryan lie in a silent and secluded house each night he doesn’t quite know how to handle.
“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want,” It felt like every time he came face to face with someone else searching, unless he was doing the exact same thing Ryan wouldn’t know what to say. He wasn’t good at pity, he was even worse at offering compassion most days. “You just looked-” He trails the sentence with a gesture, “How anyone would look.”
He can’t help the way his eyes trail to the flyers, the boy he’d seen around time a hundred times before. Hawkins was meant to be a safe town, wasn’t it? The kind of things you think in time, the kind of things that run through your mind as you grow older- as you forget. The kind that make you swallow the idea of noises you hear outside the window at night, or push back the thoughts of that irking feeling that you remember so well of being watched through the forest, or when the dark settles in too close at night. It was that Hawkins bad luck after all.
“Yeah, yeah I’m alright.” Which always feels more of a formality than anything along with the shadow of a smile he offered. “How’ve you been though?”
There had been a time where he would avoid any social situation where it would be just him in a crowd of people he was not really connected to. That growing tension in his spine, the awkwardness that spread through him being alone at social events, the quiet giggles and judgmental frowns when they noticed a twitch or two was something John had preferred to ignore. Over time, growing older perhaps, he stopped caring about opinions of (semi) strangers and he tried to do whatever the hell he felt like. However, he couldn’t help the slight, familiarly awkward sensation that came with walking into a bar by yourself.
He went straight for the bar for he had been thinking about a cold beer for the past couple of hours. Craving it, really. Or more so, craving the numb intoxication it might provide. Was that healthy? Probably not. Suddenly he wondered how good of an alcoholic he would make. John chuckled at the thought, fingers drumming absently on the wooden surface he was leaning against. Today was tough. Tensions in town ran high. He was grateful to be too distracted to catch all the talking that was happening; he’d heard enough of it all day.
But then he got pulled from his thought at what sounded like a familiar voice. His head turned sideways and his lips pressed into a smile. “Ha! So that’s what we are now, huh? Drinking buddies.” It sounded more pathetic than he intended. “Who would’ve imaged that 15 years ago.” Johnny added cynically with a scoff in a lighthearted sorta way. He invited himself to a stool now. His neck twitched painfully and a hand moved up to rub at the sore spot. “Thanks.” he nodded towards the drink that got placed in front of him.
“How are you? Still seeing that girl from last time? —What was her name again… S..Sandra? Sandy?” he frowned in thought. Ah, whatever, he had never been good with names. “Ginger?”
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
Ryan’s attention would shift away from his glass for just a moment to look to the man now at his side who scoffed at the suggestion of a friend, giving it more thought than Ryan had ever considered the way something was said before in his life. But that was just it, Ryan had never been great with his words in the first place. They always just seemed to get in the way of what he actually wanted to say, or more so he’d never quite know how to say it. Instead most of his conversations these days would be amused laughs, and nods of agreement, the kind of conversations that worked much better when another person would be carrying it. It hadn’t always been the case for Ryan though, he hadn’t always been so engaging.
He didn’t have much to say to the other’s tangent, considering Ryan thought it more a throwaway term. “I can call you an acquaintance next time if that would make you feel better?” Ryan’s eyebrow quirked at the other for a moment, the cynicism wasn’t missed. “It’s just so much more of a mouthful.”
Drink between his lips, he could have choked at Johnny’s next question. A wide smile curling the corners of his lips, that he attempts to swallow down with the drink. But the amusement still laced his tone, “Why are you interested in her?” Ryan wasn’t about to correct the man, he wasn’t about to tell him he wouldn’t even remember whatever woman he might have coincidently been talking to last time they were at the bar. “She’s probably more your type, I don’t really like red heads.”
𝐖𝐇𝐎: thad bradshaw & @farmings
𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓: gay s being gay
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: hawkins hottest night club is….the hideaway!
thad was more of a cold beer on the porch after a long day of work kind of guy. cocktails and champagne were his past, he was a working class man now and he did working class things! he probably couldn’t survive the likes of hawkins without crafting his carefully assembled small town aesthetic. and while thad didn’t necessarily have to vocabulary to communicate that, he fully leaned into that aspect of his life.
he’d gotten off work late though, not because his boss had asked him to stay, but the old fifties camaro in the shop was a beauty, and he could hardly keep his hands off of it. thad didn’t even care if he didn’t get paid extra to do all of the little extra touches and tunings he was doing, anything to keep the car in the shop just a couple of days longer.
anyhow, the sun had already set, so there was no point in sitting on his porch. to the hideaway it was! he ordered a beer and watched the game on the little tv in the corner and traipsed around the bar, even playing a couple of games of pool here and there. thad treated the hideaway like he did every other place he did– like he owned it. thad was in a great mood! it was a great night! except for one little problem, the farmhand in the corner that he’d never seen a day in his life simply wouldn’t look at him!
eventually, enough hours passed, enough alcohol was consumed, and enough people had filtered out of the hideaway for thad to march up to him, leaning against the bar. he glanced at ryan, brows raised as he boldly claimed, “you’re ignoring me. why?” then took a sip of his drink.
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
Ryan wouldn’t admit as much, but he’d enjoy the company, or the illusion of it anyway. Sat around those who idly chatter and music that plays quietly beneath it all, pool balls clinking against one another as they bound about the table. Something that fills the room with anything but silence, it was why he’d find himself there most night. Even if he was sitting alone. There was an ease to being surrounded by others, something that the silence of his home wouldn’t offer. But that didn’t mean he had to talk to people to enjoy the company.
The man leaning against the bar besides him came as a surprise, enough of one for Ryan to glance over in his direction taking in the sight of him. He’d attempt to swallow the amusement he felt towards the incredibly bold claim the other presented. A claim like that spikes all kinds of thoughts racing through a man’s mind- the first and more forefront thought is that the statement was something you’d say to another who has a reason to be ignoring you. He’d recount his memory, if this stranger standing before him was someone maybe he should remember, after all he wouldn’t be the most sober every time he took someone home.
But he’d take in the man’s features, his stance, the way the words left his mouth, and finally Ryan would ask, “Do I know you well enough to be ignoring you?”
when the stranger approached him, mike was immediately combative, “a flashlight?” he scoffed in a way that said are you a moron? he knew that he was being a little…much, but he’d probably have the decency not to make fun of a man who’s son was missing. he even held his arms out in defense, like an animal telling the humans to stay back! he rolled his shoulders back to try and make himself look taller. mike was no good at fighting, but he could at least make himself look big.
the strangers slow drawl and steady responses gave mike time to actually breathe and he calmed down, just a little bit. enough to not be so defensive, but still have a bit of his guard up. “sorry um…” he gripped the back of his neck and let his hand fall, “sorry, tough week.” he shrunk into himself as much as he could, frowning and turning his back on the people who had gathered instead. he hoped they would go away. mike lowered his voice and unsuccessfully tried to appear normal, “um, yeah, well, you see, the thing about that is unless you have batteries or another flashlight, i don’t think you can help me out.”
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
It was something Ryan would never know, the ocean inside the other’s chest coursing with the storm of emotions that would spill out in this moment. Perhaps there was something similar he understood, pain, loss, heartache. But not this. Whatever it was that Mike was currently feeling that made him so rigid, made him arch up in defence at even the slightest gesture in his direction. But what Ryan knew, is that he couldn’t blame him for the outpour of emotions.
He’d remain there, something steady in the store unfazed by the every ounce of the other man’s body screamed to get back. Ryan wouldn’t accept his apology, he wouldn’t even address the unnecessary thing, partially because he didn’t have the words for it to begin with. Instead he’d focus on the practicality, the smallest thing he could do to help, to let Mike know that it was alright. He lands on the simplest thing, both getting away from the prying eyes of those in the store, and hopefully a solution. “I don’t have spare batteries on hand, but I got a flashlight or two in my truck if that’s alright?”
Hawkins always seemed chipped and frayed at the edges, one of those towns tourists and those passing through would call quaint. Small town charm. Only that was just the thing, people were never just stopping by for a visit. This town, in all of its decaying buildings would have a way of sinking its claws into you. Summer night's humidity still clinging to the air, damply and warm it would settle against the night as something thick. Lingering. There were always things lingering here, the kind you would make a point of to ignore.
It wasn't any better inside of The Hideaway, there were the ever obvious things everyone was doing a poor job of avoiding discussing. After all a town like this thrived in gossip. Amongst the dim lights, where condensation settled on table tops from patrons drinks, and the night only seemed to grow later by the hour, Ryan sat at the same spot at the bar he normally would. A hand idly resting on his glass, swirling the last remaining remnants of his drink. He'd only make a sideways glance to the person who came up to stand beside him before asking the bartender, "Another please. And one for my friend here."
𝐖𝐇𝐎: mike wheeler & open!
𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓: nurse he got out again
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: …melvald’s…., afternoon, one week since luke’s disappearance
mike wasn’t a perfect dad, but he was doing his best. he’d always been doing his best. god knows he couldn’t have done it without the help of…everyone. him and luke were at odds more often than not, but that didn’t even matter anymore. mike would give anything…do anything if it meant so much as a another slammed door in his face. a hug. he thought he was comfortable with his loss, that he knew how to work under pressure, but the way he paced his empty house and hawkins p.d at all hours of the day indicated he clearly didn’t. mike wasn’t sleeping, hardly eating, floating around everywhere he could in hawkins like luke might show up any second. he didn’t want statistics about missing children from hawkins p.d, he wanted his son.
more than that, he wanted joyce around. mike figured she was probably the only person who understood what he was feeling. he wanted el around too, they hadn’t been able to find will without her. how did they stand a chance of finding luke? even will would’ve been a comfort, firsthand experience to help. but instead, their whole operation felt like it was chugging along with one wheel and tons of bent rims. mike didn’t know how many times he could scream in powell’s face to find his son, or how deep in the woods he’d have to go before turning back. nancy had given him a firm talking to about how he couldn’t find luke if he wasn’t taking care of himself, and after crying in his sister’s arms for a while, mike went home after and slept a couple of hours in luke’s bed.
the next morning came and mike was at hawkin’s p.d first thing in the morning, then he dug around the woods a little bit when he realized his flashlight was dead. how long had it been dead? how come mike hadn’t noticed? he tore for his car, cutting off other vehicles on the road as he ran to melvald’s for some batteries. history repeated in motion, mike tore through the store, exhibiting no restraint. he shoved past other patrons screaming nonsense, “i need batteries to find my son! my son is missing! move!” he threw items off shelves, unable to find the D batteries he was looking for. maybe they were behind these items? “fuck. fuck! fuck you!” mike yelled, first to the shelves then to the patrons who had stopped to side eye him. didn’t they know? didn’t they care? “how can you all walk around like everything is fine! huh? well i hope your fucking kids go missing! i hope you never find them!” he dug into the crowd before his final shout, “help me find these fucking batteries or keep shopping!” mike pointed his finger at a woman, “and put your phone down! stop that! don’t– don’t call anyone! i mean it!”
Wooden panels lift and splinter, the paint on the outside bubbles and flaked under the years of sun and humidity that meet it each summer. The house creaks with the weight of ghosts. He has to remember to breathe in moments like this. These moments of silence that settle like an ever present shadow. The radio chimes from the kitchen, distant chatter that only seems to make the whole place feel that much more hollow. For the silence was never the background, it was a greedy thing. It's the same every night, dim yellowing lights above barley illuminating the room, artificial voices chattering away from another room as if it could be another person. Crickets just outside the windows singing to the night, and moths beating against the glass panels trying to find a way in. And Ryan stood in the kitchen, beer in hand as his eyes search the room for a new project.
He wasn't even listening to the radio, switched to some world news that always had something to talk about. But Ryan couldn't stop listening to the constant drip from the tap, water droplets against metal. It almost turned to a walking beat, a slow steady pace, only to slow right down and almost stop. But it was never gone. He probably had some plumbers tape in the shed, a quick fix. He even had all the tools he needed to do the proper job, but thought he'd rather an excuse to leave the house even if just for a moment.
The last thing he was expecting at Melvald’s was to bare witness to the emotional breakdown of Mike Wheeler. Eyes bore down to the man, whispers passing lips through the store, and he couldn't help but look to the man and know the pain radiating from him. Ryan would be soft in the same way a dull ache would be, leaning down beside the man, his movements so cautious. Too careful, but he wasn't much more than a stranger. Or as much as you could be in Hawkins. "Hey," the attempt to keep his voice a careful tone, "Why don't you tell me what you need the batteries for, I might be able to help."
[BRANDON SKLENAR, CIS MAN, HE/HIM] When’s the last time anyone heard anything about [RYAN JACKSON]? Old friends remember them as [ATTENTIVE & STOIC] but also [WITHDRAWN & RESTLESS], no wonder they’re still known as [THE FARMER] around town. Today, in 2006, they are [39] and some people say they remind them of [SWIRLING DUST MOTES IN A SUNBEAM ; A DULL ACHE WHERE YOU’LL NEVER FORGET THE PAIN ; DIGGING THROUGH THE COUCH CUSHIONS FOR SPARE CHANGE ].
a wild screaming weight, trapped inside your belly ; knees in the dirt as you pray to gods who do not answer ; shattered glass against your own bones ; gravel tossing beneath you as you trek ; pressing fingertips into bruises ; a honey coloured sky ; swirling dust motes in sunbeams ; coffee stained mugs lingering on windowsills ; digging through couch cushions for spare change ; a suffocating humidity at dusk ; tree branches grazing your bare skin ; the warning signs carved your skin ; an unmade bed ; mud on the soles of your shoes ; silence of a honey suckle morning ; tell the stars to consume you ; scars on your palms and the insides of your fingers ; the taste of rust in your mouth, blood on your tongue ; a dull ache where you’ll never forget the pain ;
HISTORY
Born under a sodden moon with the bite of night’s air threatening your skin so bare. Fists curled, covered in blood, yet even as a child you didn’t scream. Almost as if you didn’t know how, no matter how much you felt that creature inside you, that winged beast beating against your ribcage begging to be freed. You never find a sound for it.
There’s silence in the mornings, a stillness to the sky that turns from dark to find the first waft of ether. You think that breaking light becomes a part of you, blues finding way for the rose coloured horizon. Your shoulder aches most mornings, shattered and pieced back together- more and more of you starts to feel like pieces of a man patched together. Silver slither of scars against your skin, telling stories you wish didn’t remember so easily. Unhealable wounds you’re so full of.
But before that, before war- you were a boy. Bruises against your arms, and gravel filled grazes on your knees. A bandaid haphazardly covering wounds that still bleed. Your father would wake your brother and yourself each morning before the rising sun, it felt the moment you were old enough to walk you were helping him heap bales of hay to feed the livestock, and tend to the crops that dig their roots into the soil. You’d mend the machinery that always seemed near broken, and find calluses forming on your hands. Dirt under your fingernails, and eyes tired even then- your body learns the shape of becoming a man under years of labour. And your brother would be there by your side, you two would share stories of one day moving out, one day going beyond all this- you always knew that was more of his dream though. You’d never be much of a dreamer.
He would take the two of you on adventures around the town, secret hideouts in the forest, and lakes that seem so secluded and isolated from the world. The kind of places that only kids could find so magical, with foliage under your boots, and trees that graze your skin as you pass. It was an afternoon the two of you were collecting firewood, searching for fallen logs that the two of you came across an old mine. It would soon become your favourite place to explore- spiders calling themselves home amongst the rotting wood that holds the structure, and old rusted tools left by people long ago. It would become a whole fun world the two of you would start making up stories about- stories about the past, and stories to tell each other of those things lurking, waiting. Hiding.
You wish you’d known of danger then, perhaps then you wouldn’t have lost him. Under the rubble, clawing, dirt filling your lungs as you heave for air. Dust and piles of rubble on top of you. This was the first time you thought you were going to die- where the earth swallowed you whole, its talons sinking into your sides. That was the day you made it out and your brother never did. You searched, your fingers red and sliced. Dirt covering every ounce of you, and you screamed- you cried out until it turned dark. It was the same week of your eighth birthday, when you got home they sent a search party for him and tried to tend to your wounds. But you barely allowed it, all you wanted to do was search.
Your parents were never quite the same after his funeral. A burnt umber landscape where you stood by his graveside, a handful of dirt thrown over his coffin feeling so inappropriate. And you whisper to him “I will always be afraid.” You’re not sure you ever stopped tasting copper in your mouth. Their fighting only grew worse within the first few months, and you almost felt the worse days were when they didn’t even have the energy to fight. Silent shells of people who once were, within a year their marriage would fall apart completely. Your mother would leave, she’d pack her bags and move interstate to go be with her sister. Eventually she would fade even in your life, you could never blame her though.
The years would go on, you would still be helping your father herd the cattle, and move scraps from the yard. Despite the aching silence that settles on the house. You were never incredible at school, the teachers would always say though that you’d just never apply yourself. Perhaps they were just being kind, pitying you. You’d act out in small bouts, mostly against authority, and those who thought they could say something behind your back. But it would land you in a good number of fights, split knuckles bandaged together, and split lips. But it always felt better than pity.
Stumbling home late from parties in the middle of nowhere, or from abandoned parking lots. Stolen bottles of booze, and the night sky stretching above. Some nights you’d think you hear something from the bushes, or catch a glimpse of something racing through the fields. Shadows, you think to yourself. Just the shadows of something playing tricks with your eyes.
They say even the silence of the night has a voice, and we feel the percussion of it like a split lip. Perhaps you leave because you feel that if you stay you’ll rot, or perhaps you’re looking for an escape from it all. From everything that was happening, from the intangible way the town seems to constantly swallow more. Even itself after the earthquake. You enlist when you’re old enough, your father had asked for it for years- and you know you’re not good for much else. And you didn’t have much to lose.
The war would become your home on and off for years, you’d work your way up the ranks. You were a corporal by your mid 20’s, fighting this fight that wasn’t even your own. Sometimes even now it’s hard to leave the battlefields, the way it swarms your dreams and clings to your back like a ghost you can’t shake. You stir awake most nights drenched in sweat, moonlight streaming through your windows. The horizon glowing so faint. Even now you’re home you swear you hear things if you listen close enough at night, creatures that don’t sound like yours out in the field. Some mornings you swear you count one less cow than the week before.
TIME CAPSULE
A bottle of moonshine from his highschool friend down the road, with a handwritten sticker label “get trashed x”
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