He was good. He was good, right? That was what he had said, and that was what he was sticking to, despite the awful untruth in terms of right then, right that second, despite the cold sweat that just wouldn’t go, despite the trembles in his voice, his hands, his lungs, despite the pitter patter of an anxious heart. He was good. He was. Slow, deep, purposed breaths came next, hiding the shaky ones, too deep to be normal yet not quite accented enough to be someone in dire need; somewhere in between, something like a boy or twenty three who just about knew how to handle himself in the middle of the street in front of a near stranger. Someone who knew this, who had done this. Slow, and even, and deep, but not now gasping. Not now drowning breaths.
'Home. Home,' Jasper repeated, almost softly, the word bringing a different thought instead. One of detachment, almost, one of balloons with no strings that would just fly up into space and never come back. That was him. A stringless balloon, really. He didn't quite fit anywhere, and he could never bring himself to stay long enough to learn to, and he never quite had a family apart from the people he met on the road. All there was to Jasper was a marked roadmap by his bedside, full of little red crosses, and some memories, it seemed, sometimes, and that just got to him.
What was he supposed to be without home? He’d had one until he was eight, and then he started to dread going after school, and his behaviour yo-yo’d between submissive and worse than ever at school, and he would jump at even the door slamming, but people wouldn’t dare to laugh because children see things that adults don’t, and somehow it seemed like every kid knew about Jasper. Since then, he hadn’t had a home, and he’d never been quite so alone. Still, just a moment after, he said, with all the numbness of novocaine itself, ‘Yeah. I should— I should be headin’ back to my flat, I should—- I really need t’put pants on ‘fore it gets light.’
What happened? What happened, indeed. What happened depended on when and how and who was asking, depended on many, many things. What did he say? Did he talk about his whole life, or how his friends were all real smart and graduating from what he saw when he checked in and he was just a busker and a bartender in some town in America, or how he was never sure what was going to happen to him next? He could say anything, really, he could say anything and it wouldn’t fall far from the tree.
'Nothin'. I 'ad a bad dream, 's'all.'
kianamaiart
snowghoul
pixelskylines
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
gracieabrams
