Status: a c t i v e and de bezt story.
Little Unknown
Deux.
With unruly hair of black and brown; blue irises squinting against the sunlight, Noah awoke. It was too fucking bright. Ruffling his fingers through his shaggy locks, making them even messier as his sight slowly got used to the morning sun.
The teen rolled off his abdomen, pushing himself up and the ripped covers off. Sitting on the end of his broken twin—the mattress worn almost flat—he scratched his elbows. It was a strange habit, something he did out of boredom without even feeling an itch. Noah reached for his dwindling pack of Marlboros and lighter, tearing one of the cancer sticks from the red and white pack.
As the youth sucked smoke into his lungs, he looked around the room. Books without much of a place to go were piled everywhere—on the small desk, the floor, the nightstand. Little trinkets and knick-knacks sat on top of some of those stacks. He supposed the books and small objects gave the ashen washed place some color, for everything else in his room was white—everything.
Noah puffed on his cigarette and peered out of the window before him—just a few feet away. It was partially covered by wan blinds. Outside was dying greenery, now yellow, and in the middle of his front yard stood a thin tree, young and surrounded by an imbedded tire at its base. His mother was quite the innovator.
He sucked one last time on the butt of his Marlboro before smashing it, unfinished, into the ashtray on the floor; the pale carpet around it littered with grey and black specks. All was so old and already seen to this boy of sixteen—everything unending.
The teen rolled off his abdomen, pushing himself up and the ripped covers off. Sitting on the end of his broken twin—the mattress worn almost flat—he scratched his elbows. It was a strange habit, something he did out of boredom without even feeling an itch. Noah reached for his dwindling pack of Marlboros and lighter, tearing one of the cancer sticks from the red and white pack.
As the youth sucked smoke into his lungs, he looked around the room. Books without much of a place to go were piled everywhere—on the small desk, the floor, the nightstand. Little trinkets and knick-knacks sat on top of some of those stacks. He supposed the books and small objects gave the ashen washed place some color, for everything else in his room was white—everything.
Noah puffed on his cigarette and peered out of the window before him—just a few feet away. It was partially covered by wan blinds. Outside was dying greenery, now yellow, and in the middle of his front yard stood a thin tree, young and surrounded by an imbedded tire at its base. His mother was quite the innovator.
He sucked one last time on the butt of his Marlboro before smashing it, unfinished, into the ashtray on the floor; the pale carpet around it littered with grey and black specks. All was so old and already seen to this boy of sixteen—everything unending.