I Don't Hurt Anymore | Solo
[Summer 2004]
"You want to know something?" - "What?" - "You're kind of rad, Val." A bitter laugh errupted from chapped lips, even more bitter than the taste of liquor that burned the wounds and flooded the emptiness. Eyes darting towards the lanky boy next to her, posh jeans on red, rusty metal next to her ripped ones, stuffed into boots that she had worn for what felt like centuries. The bottle between them, 'borrowed' from his parent's stock, fading in the smoke she blew. Quiet for a second, she leaned back and watched a plane go by in the sky.
"What do you mean, I am rad, huh?" - "You're one of a kind." - "Ha, I bet." Her tone was a craze of desperation and wishes, melted together and dissolved by pain and alcohol. The boy next to her took a sip, his face made her laugh again. Another laugh that wasn't quite what a laugh should have been, eyes meeting for a matter of seconds, weight shifting on the thin metal until he laid beside her. "You're hard to get." - "That's a lie." - "No, I mean-" Smoke mixing in with the night sky, thoughts dancing in the wind along with nicotine.
"Who the fuck gets you, you know? I mean your mind." - "I don't know." - "See." Sighs, a long one, a short one and she closed her eyes, bit her lip from the pain and inhaled the bad with the good through her chapped lips. Below her eyes there were shadows, black ones from missing sleep and violet ones from missing the point. The car under her moved slightly up and down as she brought herself into a sitting position again and looked at him. "I'm screwed up, that is what I am." - "Yeah, maybe. But you're also kind of rad." She pulled her legs closer, filled her lungs with toxins again, dropped what was left of it onto the dirty Brooklyn ground.
"Can I look at it?" - "No." - "Maybe I can help you." - "You are helping me." She picked up the bottle and waved it before him. "It's over." - "It's never over, Val." - "Yeah it is. For now it is." Of course she knew it wasn't. It would never end, but tonight she was out of there to fog her brain and smoke and sit here with him. Potentially pass out in his childhood bedroom, wrapped in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles bedding, forever listening to this one tape. "You could get some new music for this car sometime soon, you know." - "Why? What's wrong with some Cash?" - "I don't hear it jingle." - "You like it." - "You stole it from your dad." - "That doesn't make you like it less." The same goddamn tape every time. I keep a close watch on this heart of mine, I keep my eyes wide open all the time. And she did walk the line. Hell she did.
Silent agreements lasted longer than spoken ones. He didn't tell her to go to the police or inform some random teacher. He was there with one phone call, with quiet comfort, a bottle of vodka and a paket of cigarettes. With good intentions, leaving empty promises at home, every time, pulling her out and making it possible to throw her back in. He didn't ask for anything, and if her filthy lips touched his soft ones right now, it was because she wanted to feel like she could make someone feel good, and if she pulled back a second later, he would pull out the nicotine to replace her lips on his. She pulled him down and she knew it, and she ruined someone who coud have gotten out of there - for it being one of them at all. "See? I think you don't even get yourself." - "Yeah. Guess so."