floratic:

TOLD  YOU .  BEEN  CLEAN  FOR  OVER  A  YEAR  NOW , DICKBAG .   this  is  almost  true ,  except  he’d  almost  relapsed  once ,  tried  to  take  one  too  many  happy  pills  than  the  psychiatrist  had  prescribed  him . but  it  was  only  an  – almost –  .  parrish  had  tugged  on  his  clambering  fingers  & screwed  the  cap  shut  again ,  tossed  the  orange  bottle  away  and  beyond  his  sight .   ‘ look , it’ll  be  fine .  i’m  here  now ,  &  i’m  not  going  to  let  those  nut - job  doctors  to  take  you  away  back  to  juvie  again ,  i’m  here ,  yeah ?’   

———-except  parrish  couldn’t  save  him  on  the  night  of  the  murder .  and  elliot  did  not  blame  him  either ,  even  god  couldn’t  have  helped  him  in  the  situation .  or  was  he  ever  present  in  his  life ?  there  certainly  was  nothing  but  terror  that  night .  it  had  swelled ,  expanded ,  then  burst  into  an  ever - lasting  maw  of  darkness  that  drenched  at  his  ankles ,  attempting  to  drag  him  down  until  he  would  drown  through  it’s  muffled  silence .  

( &  for  a  moment ,  he’d  seen  it  reflected  clearly  through  the  hollow  stare  of  his  father’s  eyes .  then  he  ran .  )     ❝ —– &  i’ve  got  a  place  to  go  to  already .  ❞    as  if  to  understand  the  intent  gaze  settling  over  the  scarred  blood  &  ruins  on  his  face ,  he  swings  his  face  away  ,  raising  a  hand  to  cradle  the  cut  of  his  jaw  in  quiet  apathy .    ❝ so ,  go  away . ❞    the  man  was  extending  a  hand  for  help ,  something  he  might  have  been  in  dire  need  of  now ,  but  the  glowering  suspicion  within  him  had  already  spiked ,  had  its  hackles  risen  like  a  threatened  cat  .  there  was  nowhere  to  stay ,  no  place  was  ever  safe  enough  to  stay  for  a  long  time .  it  would  only  be  a  limited  amount  of  time  before  the  cops  would  begin  their  searching  sniffing  through  the  cities  as  well ,  &  he  would  have  to  cross  to  another  city — ,  another  state  maybe . tonight , he  would  find  home  in  the  empty  chapel ,  glared  upon  by  jesus  on his  crucifix ,  unwelcome  shunned  from  his  home  like  a  sinner .  the  next  night , he  could  easily  hijack  some  bummer’s  car , borrow  it  just  for  the  night .  

❝  you  chase  me  down ,  demand  for  my  story .  know  where  parrish  is — ,  but  won’t  tell  me  where .  then  offer  to  help .  remind  me  why  i  shouldn’t  pull  my  knife  back  out .   ❞    it’s  an  empty  threat ,  &  he  knows  it  too  well .  he  was  far  too  exhausted , fatigue  burning  though  his  muscles  for  another  street  - brawl  or  a  dirty  fight .  but  he  continues  on ,  thumbing  for  the  switchblade  again  while  keeping  a  steady ,  leveled  gaze with  the  man  again .     ❝  your  name .  don’t  care  if  you  give  a  fake  one ,  just  give  me  something  that  i  can  tack  to  your  face , — so  whether  i  decide  to  gut  you  or  trust  you , i’ll  remember  you . ❞  

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Dickbag, huh? Well, bitch face, while we’re exchanging insults, let’s keep that sobriety up, cool? You’re not fucking overdosing in my bathroom. Trust me, I’ve been burned before…” He gave a lop-sided smile, tilting his head to th eside and allowing the joints in his neck to crack with a series of pops.

“You can keep callin’ me dickbag if you want,but traditionally I tend to go by Isaac Moreau. I know, I know, my name probably precedes me, right? I used to be hot shit, way back when. Got my name in the papers, for good things. Scholarships and shit. Yeah, this guy was a fucking academic. Good at it, too. Guess I buried that goody-two-shoes bastard in the ground.”

For a moment, the smile fades, and he’s staring off somewhere, just beyond Elliot’s head, but not looking directly at him. There’s the flicker of a memory, of a reflection he used to see in the mirror, a younger him, with skin clear of tattoos and his hair once neatly combed back and styled. His voice was unmarred by smoke, and he sat straight-backed at a family  table, listening to his father lecturing,his mother pushing him to do better in school, you think youll get by with grades like this? If you dont get those As, you dont get dinner. Followed by a slap on the cheek when he dared open his mouth to speak out of turn.

He’s snapped out of the trance by a passing truck’s loud and obnoxious horn, and he remembers just why he’s here in the first place. Freedom. Thats what you wanted, right?

Youre free, Adam said to him once, when the lights were low and there was little to say between them that didn’t involve the shedding of tears or the reliving of past mistakes. But are you any happier here than you were there? Whatll it take to make you happy again?

“Look, Mister Stubborn-Ass McGee, wait right here for a second, okay?” He turns away from Elliot for a moment, watching the streets outside of the alley with a careful eye, setting his sharp gaze on a passing hotdog vendor, who was shouting something unintelligible and waving around a bottle of water. He fast walks over to the man, practically throwing a few crumpled dollar bills in the harried man’s face, walking away with the bottle, soundtrack of the man’s frustrated shouts accompanying him as he walked back to Elliot.

“Here, dumbass. At least take some water. If you still wanna stab me, go ahead, I see the way you’re just itchin’ to bring that fucking cereal box prize knife out again. When I go down, I’ll drop the key to my apartment, so it’ll give you some place to go. Because we both know you don’t have anywhere, at least not somewhere that’s not a shady, disgusting shelter where who knows what’ll happen to you. I know, how can a creepy stranger like me’s house possibly be safe, right?”

He pauses, watches a stumbling man in shabby clothes crossing the street against the light, nearly being hit by several cab drivers who all beep at him in unison. The man simply yells a few expletives and wearily holds up his middle finger, and finally comes to the sidewalk, where he promptly vomits, gripping a street sign for support.

He jabs his finger in the direction he’s walking (more like shuffling), saying rather frankly, “But it beats slummin’ it with the dirty bums and the fuckin’ whores who roam the streets and prey on desperate, homeless kids. Trust me, I know how hard it is out there. In the shape you’re in, you’re dumber than I thought if you think you’re gonna last another night facing the gangs that roam around, dying for some little angel-faced babe to sink their un-brushed teeth into.”

“What’ll make you happy again, Isaac?” he hears Adam’s voice ringing in his mind, faint, but still there, despite all the time that had passed between them.

“Helping kids like me avoid what I’ve done to my life. Guess you might as well start calling me Peter Pan.”

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  1. helleborae reblogged this from floratic
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