An excerpt from a novel in progress about two homeless teenagers struggling with addiction and the destruction of loving an addict. More to come!
Another cigarette, a bottle of wine, and another cigarette. Walking through the boulevard, the neon lights casts my shadow upon the pavement. The letters spell out death. “Nude girls” another way to numb another sense. Budweiser on tap, another sense dulled, “rocket donuts” eating away reality, eating away suffering. Each sidewalk is a pattern, repeating, but differentiated. Cigarette buds, gum steamrolled to the pavement. An hour until the next class, another arbitrary declaration of my “knowledge.”
The vices vary from person to person. Drug, drink, caffeine, food, sex. I think, you think, they think, I think, we have a freedom of choice, but if the only choices given to us are A, B, or C, how much free will is there?
We walk, bus, ride, run, to the same classes, the same grocer, our routines are cemented like the walls of the catacomb. Sealing in a predestined fate, we walk down the same halls, purchase the same goods, read the same text. It’s like we’re all pieces to a puzzle we’ve finished dozens of time before.
The repetition is enough to make you nauseated.
Even vagabonds, unrestrained from day to day routine escape to the same locations, eat out of the same dumpster, always eating a similar morsel, the unwanted can goods that once again, weren’t eaten.
To rebel from the conventional is to follow a path that’s been treaded a thousand times before. We rebel to join the other rebels conforming to black clothing and angry music. We rebel in bright vibrant colors from all the other rebels sick of hypocritical rebellion.
Variety is as limited from switching from A to C to B, but at the end of it all, we’ll always have to return to one of these options. In the end variety is deception. In the end there are only so many paths to walk down, only so few words to choose.
As members of this redundancy, we must fool ourselves into believing that the next wall of this cage is different from the wall we stared at before.
But every bit of ash flicked from the cigarette tip is indecipherable from the next. In the end even colors, even art returns to the primary colors.
We’re born, we live, we die. In a way it’s beautiful, in a way it’s confining, but more appropriately,
The landscape to repeats on a reel. Life is limited to the categories we give it, and in the end if Torbin walks into a bar, a strip club, a book store, or a restaurant, he’ll always return to Samantha’s side.
She is as much his as the hair fused within the fibers of his scalp. Even in her final monologue she’ll fit into the warm python palm of his hand.
“Do you have to do that?”
Torbin stares at a dark cloud, in an otherwise blue sky.
“Stop cracking your fingers.”
Torbin holds his hand in the other slowly popping each knuckle out of place.
She clenches her jaw, slapping his hands out from in front of him.
Even in anguish, he likes to watch the contours of her face contort. He’s in love with her soft balled fist. Samantha hears a “POP” from Torbin’s side.
“God dammit Torbin, again?”
Another of Torbin’s smirks and he nudges her off the sidewalk.