Baby, I Make the Corner Cry
You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain
"Don't you talk at all," the dark haired one asks loudly.
I shrug. Not much. Almost never. I never saw a need to.
"Can you talk," the blonde asks curiously.
I can talk, I tell myself. It's the choice not to. Go without talking, and people automatically assume you're saying what they want you to. It's like you never have to disappoint anybody. I shrug, but I think it's the smirk painted on my lips that gives away the answer.
"What's your name," the dark haired one asks abruptly. She's annoying. The smile leaves my face- I have no interest in replying to the request.
"You can tell us," the floral scented one says with a sweet, innocent smile.
The red head looks up from under her hair for a quick glance, before shooting her eyes back to the pavement.
The dark-haired one huffs loudly, taking a swig out of her bottle. "There's no point in asking. He's not going to say anything He probably can't even moan..."
"Marcy, shut up," the flowery girl says.
"Leave him alone," the red haired girl says quietly. Her voice is smooth, like the hum of a television over the dinner table. Everyone turns to look at her.
The dark haired one, Marcy, is glaring at her. She stops in her tracks and I sense heat. Her mouth is formed into a scowl and suddenly, she throws the half-empty bottle at the red-head, missing by a long shot as it smashes to the ground into a million tiny pieces, fiery liquid forming into the puddles from the earlier rain, reminding me of your shattered mirrors scattered around you body. I shake the thought away.
"You stupid little brat," Marcy yells at the nearly microscopic being in front of her. "What did you say to me? Look what you did!"
My heart is beating quicker. Everyone is watching Marcy, who is nearly twice the size of the red head. They don't know what to do- I don't really care as long as something happens. It's like I am caught up in the anticipation, like witnessing a car crash. The moment is so unfathomable that you merely forget to look away, but instead stand with your eyes glued to the wreck, waiting to see what the outcome is.
Marcy's brick-weighted palm flies forward to collide with the red head's cheek like a belt. Time stands still.
"Marcy, it's alright," the blonde says, putting an abrupt end to the violent moment. "I'll give you mine." She hands out yet another strong smelling bottle from her purse.
"The little bitch thinks she can throw me her useless little comments, like I'm her little slave or something! Unbelievable... I'm gonna show you one day, stupid little shit," and she takes the bottle from the blond before continuing down the road, muttering useless drunken comments.
The red haired girl's small skeletal hand glides up to touch the red blotch of skin on her face. She still doesn't say anything. She decides to stay small and insignificant. She is interesting- She knows what it is to simply be small. Is this all there is to life? Drunken violence and attempts to make lives better; to keep you strong through lies of confidence? This isn't confidence, this is a fucking machine.
"Sam, it's alright," the blonde says in an almost motherly tone. Her hand disappears from my arm, instead gently encasing the friend's face. Sam; the red headed girl's name is Sam. "Common," the blonde continues. "Let's not ruin a perfectly good evening. You know how Marcy gets, you just have to ignore her."
Sam fakes a smile, and everything seems to go back to normal, like some sort of secret pact. The flower girl wraps her arm around Sam, I assume trying to comfort her, and once again it's me and the blonde. I can't help but think that it must be rude for them not to have introduced themselves.
"So... What is your name," the blond asks quietly. Curiously. I suppose not quiet enough, because the flower girl turns around, as if pondering.
"Well," she says, her voice feminine and soft unlike Marcy's. "He looks like a Dylan to me. Or maybe a Zack..."
"If you ask me, he looks like a Dick," Marcy says loudly, breaking out into a fit of her own laughter afterward.
I suppose this is the moment when everybody gives up, and I wonder if my intentions ever were to tell them my name. The blonde looks at me and leans near my ear, her body pressed intensely against mine and says, "Well... My name's Molly if it makes any difference."
Her voice sends comfortable vibrations through my ear. It's hypnotizing. I turn to look at her, slightly confused at her intentions. But she's already nearly a foot away- looking into my eyes; my soul- before her hand is gone from my arm again and she turns to lead the way down the dingy, damp street. Suddenly I miss the echo of cheap rubber against the pavement. It is as if there is too much noise- The laughter of immature young girls; The clicking of heels; The swishing of forbidden liquid in bottles; The sounds of my thoughts; The sounds of my every delicate action, moving only forward, trying desperately not to look back as the wind passes by me, sending shivers up my spine. Yet, I take one last longing, forbidden look down the rows of purple street lights before turning on my heel and following behind them.
I shrug. Not much. Almost never. I never saw a need to.
"Can you talk," the blonde asks curiously.
I can talk, I tell myself. It's the choice not to. Go without talking, and people automatically assume you're saying what they want you to. It's like you never have to disappoint anybody. I shrug, but I think it's the smirk painted on my lips that gives away the answer.
"What's your name," the dark haired one asks abruptly. She's annoying. The smile leaves my face- I have no interest in replying to the request.
"You can tell us," the floral scented one says with a sweet, innocent smile.
The red head looks up from under her hair for a quick glance, before shooting her eyes back to the pavement.
The dark-haired one huffs loudly, taking a swig out of her bottle. "There's no point in asking. He's not going to say anything He probably can't even moan..."
"Marcy, shut up," the flowery girl says.
"Leave him alone," the red haired girl says quietly. Her voice is smooth, like the hum of a television over the dinner table. Everyone turns to look at her.
The dark haired one, Marcy, is glaring at her. She stops in her tracks and I sense heat. Her mouth is formed into a scowl and suddenly, she throws the half-empty bottle at the red-head, missing by a long shot as it smashes to the ground into a million tiny pieces, fiery liquid forming into the puddles from the earlier rain, reminding me of your shattered mirrors scattered around you body. I shake the thought away.
"You stupid little brat," Marcy yells at the nearly microscopic being in front of her. "What did you say to me? Look what you did!"
My heart is beating quicker. Everyone is watching Marcy, who is nearly twice the size of the red head. They don't know what to do- I don't really care as long as something happens. It's like I am caught up in the anticipation, like witnessing a car crash. The moment is so unfathomable that you merely forget to look away, but instead stand with your eyes glued to the wreck, waiting to see what the outcome is.
Marcy's brick-weighted palm flies forward to collide with the red head's cheek like a belt. Time stands still.
"Marcy, it's alright," the blonde says, putting an abrupt end to the violent moment. "I'll give you mine." She hands out yet another strong smelling bottle from her purse.
"The little bitch thinks she can throw me her useless little comments, like I'm her little slave or something! Unbelievable... I'm gonna show you one day, stupid little shit," and she takes the bottle from the blond before continuing down the road, muttering useless drunken comments.
The red haired girl's small skeletal hand glides up to touch the red blotch of skin on her face. She still doesn't say anything. She decides to stay small and insignificant. She is interesting- She knows what it is to simply be small. Is this all there is to life? Drunken violence and attempts to make lives better; to keep you strong through lies of confidence? This isn't confidence, this is a fucking machine.
"Sam, it's alright," the blonde says in an almost motherly tone. Her hand disappears from my arm, instead gently encasing the friend's face. Sam; the red headed girl's name is Sam. "Common," the blonde continues. "Let's not ruin a perfectly good evening. You know how Marcy gets, you just have to ignore her."
Sam fakes a smile, and everything seems to go back to normal, like some sort of secret pact. The flower girl wraps her arm around Sam, I assume trying to comfort her, and once again it's me and the blonde. I can't help but think that it must be rude for them not to have introduced themselves.
"So... What is your name," the blond asks quietly. Curiously. I suppose not quiet enough, because the flower girl turns around, as if pondering.
"Well," she says, her voice feminine and soft unlike Marcy's. "He looks like a Dylan to me. Or maybe a Zack..."
"If you ask me, he looks like a Dick," Marcy says loudly, breaking out into a fit of her own laughter afterward.
I suppose this is the moment when everybody gives up, and I wonder if my intentions ever were to tell them my name. The blonde looks at me and leans near my ear, her body pressed intensely against mine and says, "Well... My name's Molly if it makes any difference."
Her voice sends comfortable vibrations through my ear. It's hypnotizing. I turn to look at her, slightly confused at her intentions. But she's already nearly a foot away- looking into my eyes; my soul- before her hand is gone from my arm again and she turns to lead the way down the dingy, damp street. Suddenly I miss the echo of cheap rubber against the pavement. It is as if there is too much noise- The laughter of immature young girls; The clicking of heels; The swishing of forbidden liquid in bottles; The sounds of my thoughts; The sounds of my every delicate action, moving only forward, trying desperately not to look back as the wind passes by me, sending shivers up my spine. Yet, I take one last longing, forbidden look down the rows of purple street lights before turning on my heel and following behind them.