Post by Orca on Aug 22, 2011 22:53:21 GMT -5
Reminiscing was for sissies.
He kept himself away from it -- from thinking, remember, regretting -- by remaining occupied as best he could. With no one around anymore, it was harder than he'd originally thought, but he did his best, and he had to say, he did pretty good at not thinking back over, well, anything. Cigarettes helped, and booze helped more, but he didn't like to be drunk all the time, because although he craved that one part of intoxication where his head was thick and his body burned and he wanted to touch touch touch everything, there was also that part where he felt like crying and even after that there was the part that ended with his head in a toilet, vomiting noisily while no one at all held his hair back.
Cigarettes, though, they couldn't do any of that (regrettably), and so he relied on them like a drug (in some ways, weren't they?). Sometimes the places he went to buy them didn't carry the kind he liked, and in those cases he picked up something else, not caring much as long as it was cheap and cleared the anxiety from his mind.
A meow distracted him as he flicked at his lighter, and he paused in lighting the smoke in his mouth to glance down at the kitten beside him, all feline disapproval and tense whiskers. A snicker broke through the boy's lips, and he patted the kitten's head before continuing on with his ritual. On his other side, he could feel the kitten's brother stretch and then curl up again against him, not as bothered as the other by the gray smoke that now flavored the sky in front of them. There was another, but she was more independent than these two; when they got hungry they went meowing to him, but she went off and hunted herself something, not willing to rely on a wolf for her supper. He was friendly enough with her, and she wouldn't hesitate to curl up in his lap on occasion, but as she'd told him with several terse snaps of her tail, she could take care of herself, thank you very much, and he wasn't about to infringe on that.
Their mother was dead; he'd seen her corpse, half-chewed and thrown against a dumpster. He hadn't done it, oh no, but he'd always had a soft spot for cats (and besides, he was like 100% sure their dad was the old battle-scarred tom that used to hang out with him all the time). Somehow, this turned into him taking the little family in. How wonderfully disney that felt.
The lycan leaned back, stretching so that the warm wood of the bench pressed tight against his shoulder-blades. There was a pop somewhere, and he straightened, blowing out another stream of baby-killing air as he did so. Felt good, days like this, as long as he didn't think. If he started thinking, he wouldn't stop, and he would got lost in what if's and why didn't until the sun went down.
Resting his elbows on his legs, Orca stared down at his battered shoes, tousled brown hair falling past teal eyes and obscuring them from view. He retrieved the cigarette from his mouth with a regular sort of casual ease, took a breath of almost-clean air, and coughed, nausea pulling hard and fast at his throat 'til he was sure he was about to puke. He didn't, though, but he remained half bent over like that, barely aware of the kittens pawing concernedly at his side or the steps of human-folk traveling by. To them, he was invisible, just another dead-beat kid hanging out and wasting air. He didn't mind that so much. He didn't mind anything at all.
[4 mister stabby first plox]
He kept himself away from it -- from thinking, remember, regretting -- by remaining occupied as best he could. With no one around anymore, it was harder than he'd originally thought, but he did his best, and he had to say, he did pretty good at not thinking back over, well, anything. Cigarettes helped, and booze helped more, but he didn't like to be drunk all the time, because although he craved that one part of intoxication where his head was thick and his body burned and he wanted to touch touch touch everything, there was also that part where he felt like crying and even after that there was the part that ended with his head in a toilet, vomiting noisily while no one at all held his hair back.
Cigarettes, though, they couldn't do any of that (regrettably), and so he relied on them like a drug (in some ways, weren't they?). Sometimes the places he went to buy them didn't carry the kind he liked, and in those cases he picked up something else, not caring much as long as it was cheap and cleared the anxiety from his mind.
A meow distracted him as he flicked at his lighter, and he paused in lighting the smoke in his mouth to glance down at the kitten beside him, all feline disapproval and tense whiskers. A snicker broke through the boy's lips, and he patted the kitten's head before continuing on with his ritual. On his other side, he could feel the kitten's brother stretch and then curl up again against him, not as bothered as the other by the gray smoke that now flavored the sky in front of them. There was another, but she was more independent than these two; when they got hungry they went meowing to him, but she went off and hunted herself something, not willing to rely on a wolf for her supper. He was friendly enough with her, and she wouldn't hesitate to curl up in his lap on occasion, but as she'd told him with several terse snaps of her tail, she could take care of herself, thank you very much, and he wasn't about to infringe on that.
Their mother was dead; he'd seen her corpse, half-chewed and thrown against a dumpster. He hadn't done it, oh no, but he'd always had a soft spot for cats (and besides, he was like 100% sure their dad was the old battle-scarred tom that used to hang out with him all the time). Somehow, this turned into him taking the little family in. How wonderfully disney that felt.
The lycan leaned back, stretching so that the warm wood of the bench pressed tight against his shoulder-blades. There was a pop somewhere, and he straightened, blowing out another stream of baby-killing air as he did so. Felt good, days like this, as long as he didn't think. If he started thinking, he wouldn't stop, and he would got lost in what if's and why didn't until the sun went down.
Resting his elbows on his legs, Orca stared down at his battered shoes, tousled brown hair falling past teal eyes and obscuring them from view. He retrieved the cigarette from his mouth with a regular sort of casual ease, took a breath of almost-clean air, and coughed, nausea pulling hard and fast at his throat 'til he was sure he was about to puke. He didn't, though, but he remained half bent over like that, barely aware of the kittens pawing concernedly at his side or the steps of human-folk traveling by. To them, he was invisible, just another dead-beat kid hanging out and wasting air. He didn't mind that so much. He didn't mind anything at all.
[4 mister stabby first plox]