This Is How I'm Supposed to Be
This Is How I'm Supposed To Be
Jimmy coughed irritatedly past the dryness in his throat. He craved a smoke. His head pounded, beating a tattoo on the inside of his skull. It drummed louder than the erratic rhythm blaring through the windows of rundown houses. He could hear raucous shouting and idiotic laughter, most likely the result of illegally purchased, watered down beer. In every other house there was a party going on, a party whose main goal was almost definitely to get someone into someone else's pants by the end of the night. His stomach churned at the thought, not in an unpleasant way. He ignored it.
Through the smog Jimmy strode, pale against the darkness. The stars cast him in a pale, sickly glow. His hair, gelled and forced into spikes, was starting to droop over his eyes. As he walked down the hill toward the mall, gravel and dirt worked it's way into his worn-out shoes. Walking through the dark, derelict neighborhood, he felt ten feet tall. He could walk into any house and instantly be accepted, revered, waited on. He hadn't bought a Coke in years, a smoke in five.
Overhead fluorescent lights buzzed as he shouldered his way into the strip mall. Wanting to be away from his world for a while, he kicked the bathroom door open and headed for one of the stalls. He shut and locked the door behind him.
All over the walls, on the ceiling, even the floor and the toilet itself, teenagers with self-righteously stolen opinions had carved and painted ignorant words. He drew out a sharpie almost automatically, and scrawled his Word over the faded lines of others. Others carved in red, in blue. His Word stood out on the brown-white stall, inky, glistening black. The letters shoved and jabbed the others away, and he knew, confidently, that these were the Words people would read. All others faded into the background.
From behind his ear he pulled a cigarette, and lighter from his pocket. He lit the smoke and took a long, slow drag. His eyes raked the walls surrounding him - surrounding him with privately public declaration of others, people he'd probably met, used. He recognized one set of writing, an ugly hot pink flourish on the door he hadn't noticed before.
I love him, it said, but I'm nothing to him.
He knew the girl who had written that. He knew it. Her face hovered just outside his reach, blurred around the edges, lank blond hair draped over too-thin shoulders. Whatsername? he thought, surprised to find he cared a little.
He took another drag of his smoke, and leaned in to the writing. He placed a fist on it, and started scrawling over it.
What was I to you? he wrote, in big, spiked letters that completely obliterated hers. What the fuck was I to you?
He paused, taking in his words. They took up half the wall space. Still leaning with one hand on the door to balance himself, he stuck the cigarette between his lips and wrote, You were nothing to me. He felt the smoke curl down his throat, burning inside his lungs. He felt the ache, the constant ache in his bones, and the anger that always boiled just below the surface. It all felt familiar; more than that, it felt right.
It feels good, he thought. It feels good to be king.
Through the smog Jimmy strode, pale against the darkness. The stars cast him in a pale, sickly glow. His hair, gelled and forced into spikes, was starting to droop over his eyes. As he walked down the hill toward the mall, gravel and dirt worked it's way into his worn-out shoes. Walking through the dark, derelict neighborhood, he felt ten feet tall. He could walk into any house and instantly be accepted, revered, waited on. He hadn't bought a Coke in years, a smoke in five.
Overhead fluorescent lights buzzed as he shouldered his way into the strip mall. Wanting to be away from his world for a while, he kicked the bathroom door open and headed for one of the stalls. He shut and locked the door behind him.
All over the walls, on the ceiling, even the floor and the toilet itself, teenagers with self-righteously stolen opinions had carved and painted ignorant words. He drew out a sharpie almost automatically, and scrawled his Word over the faded lines of others. Others carved in red, in blue. His Word stood out on the brown-white stall, inky, glistening black. The letters shoved and jabbed the others away, and he knew, confidently, that these were the Words people would read. All others faded into the background.
From behind his ear he pulled a cigarette, and lighter from his pocket. He lit the smoke and took a long, slow drag. His eyes raked the walls surrounding him - surrounding him with privately public declaration of others, people he'd probably met, used. He recognized one set of writing, an ugly hot pink flourish on the door he hadn't noticed before.
I love him, it said, but I'm nothing to him.
He knew the girl who had written that. He knew it. Her face hovered just outside his reach, blurred around the edges, lank blond hair draped over too-thin shoulders. Whatsername? he thought, surprised to find he cared a little.
He took another drag of his smoke, and leaned in to the writing. He placed a fist on it, and started scrawling over it.
What was I to you? he wrote, in big, spiked letters that completely obliterated hers. What the fuck was I to you?
He paused, taking in his words. They took up half the wall space. Still leaning with one hand on the door to balance himself, he stuck the cigarette between his lips and wrote, You were nothing to me. He felt the smoke curl down his throat, burning inside his lungs. He felt the ache, the constant ache in his bones, and the anger that always boiled just below the surface. It all felt familiar; more than that, it felt right.
It feels good, he thought. It feels good to be king.