>You lie horizontally across the couch with your feet propped up against the arm rest and you can barely see past your knobby knees that clack together. Each breath feels like it tears a hole through your lungs as your shaky hands ash the cigarette as if nicotine could calm the storm that brews in your body. One month, 4 days 15 hours and 23 minutes of sobriety has never been wasted faster and the euphoria that should have lifted you swirls your head and you close your eyes from the motion sickness yet you haven’t moved a single inch yet.
>With a deep breath your body flinches and you grunt, your finger burning against the cherry of the Newport and you shift slightly, your hip digging into the shabby brown couch.
>You prefer existing over living any day of the week. This is better than having to feel.
>There is a rushing sound in your ears and you don’t know if it’s blood flow, or ocean currants or wind but you are numb. After 20 minutes of banging your head it took Tyria practically another 20 minutes just to clean you up and lie you down with her. Everything is white noise but the only thing that seems to slip through the cracks is Tyria’s voice though you can’t make out much of it. Your body slips between shaking angrily to a calm numbness as you take a deep breath, your eyes tracing the folds of her shirts as you tune in and out to her coos and shushes as she attempts to pacify you. You are not sure if you can keep this up.
> You are not so easy to tame. For now though, you sleep.
>The more they talk the more you you growl, your head shaking vigorously as you try to get the thoughts out but it only riles you up more and sends you into a shake. Your eyes go crimson and the growls only grow louder as the anger foams out our mouth like soap bubbles. Your head is practically splitting like a forked road as the two decisions roll in your mind and you slam your forehead against the wall repeatedly.
>Your stomach hurts but there is so much to experience before Papa sweeps you off the euphoric feeling and back to the cage it is and you refuse to let that happen. Not when everything smells this good. Not when there is this much space to run. Skuttling off the office desk, you run to the kitchen. Is this what it looks like? The big scary metal monster of fire that feeds you food? Carefully crawling past it as your claws tap against the wooden floor gently, you make your way to the fridge and hop to the counter as you reach across to get into the freezer.
>Wh....What is this? Frozen juices? Human scratchings on them say something that you just cannot comprehend for the life of you but ugly mutt on the box looks excited and so are you as you tear your way through them. Oh messiahs these are heavenly.
>Or at least try to for that matter. You have spent several hours attempting to pick up the pieces of your shattered prosthetic from the ground as you make shift a system by sticks and shredded piece of your shirt to hold it together. And you know it doesn’t work well but you’d rather figure it out at home. There’s goes 2,000 dollars down the fucking drain...
>Stumbling into the humble abode that is your large apartment by the time you make it back to your place, you stagger to the hallway. Your hands hover over the deep stab wound and you’re practically on your knee crawling to the bathroom now as you hoist yourself up onto the toilet seat and lean over to rummage through the cabinets for cleaning supplies, your forehead lying against the cool porcelain sink. Every swab of alcohol, every stitch to the wound, every wipe of warm water is pain as your body throbs, small beads of sweat and blood bubbling over the stitches of the stab wound and you wipe them away again..
>With a long grunted sigh, you reach over and turn on the tub water to room temperature as you gather yourself to shaky legs and waddle to the kitchen freezer for a bag a ice. Just as you make your way back, you peel off the rest of your shirt, emptying your pockets full of keys and loose lighters and packs of cigarettes as you peel off your pants and shorts before dumping the ice into the tub. Turning around, as you take a seat on the edge, you rip off the rest of the prosthetic and toss it across the room, before reaching for a square and a lighter.
>Just as you swing your leg over, you slowly submerge your body into the freezing cold water, the air rushing out of your lungs as your muscles flinch before relaxing. This cannot be an every night thing for you. I know. Not like it use to be. I refuse to let it happen again... Shaking your head, you lift the cigarette to your mouth and light it, long deep inhales of smoke filling your lungs as you let the back of your head rest against the tub, watching each slow intent exhale of smoke ribbon to the ceiling before vanishing in thin air.
