Can We Stay Lost On Our Way Home?

I studied closely at the piece of paper that lay in front of me; lines of graphite coming down and crossing one another like an intersection, like the cars that passed by or like an angry driver honking at another being that had just cut him off. Some shades were darker, while some were light and soft as if a delicate feather brushed against the thin layer.
This is what I did mostly, creating a scene of anything that had crossed my mind that day, or an hour ago, or even months ago. Sometimes it was someone I saw that just glowed an optimistic aura; like the man I saw one day in the park with his son. He held his head up high and he walked proudly, smiling at everyone. He’d lift up his little boy In the air and spin him around holding his wrists; letting the boy go just slightly off his feet. Or even little kids that were full of joy and their hearts so pure. They were oblivious to the chaos that went on in New York and most were absolutely care free. People intrigued me, which was why I was drawing the woman who was feeding the pigeons tiny pieces of bread.

The light of my lamp rained down onto the pencil grasped in my hand and the paper that lay on the oak wood of my desk; the lamp being my only source of light in my dark room.
I was completely at peace; it was a bit late though. No sounds could be heard from upstairs or in my room. I liked it like this, because I wasn’t around the aura of sounds; glasses clinking, the blaring TV, or the sounds of obnoxious vehicles making their way noisily down the street.

That is until I heard the front door in the living room slam open, I was scared that it had broken the wall.

“Hey Mikey!” I knew that voice too well, I could make out who it was in no matter what condition because that voice was in our house every fucking day.
He’d come at night- late really, whenever he was drunk or high and came here to crash the night because he was too stupid to know his own address when he was intoxicated like this.

I heard Mikey’s mumbled voice coming from upstairs, probably giving him the old lecture about him being quiet and going straight to bed. It annoyed all of us really. My parents because they happen to go to bed early before me and Mikey. I being the one sketching or painting and Mikey who was spread across the couch in front of the flickering of the TV watching some show.

I let out a large sigh and dropped my pencil on the desk rubbing my face frustrated.

Frank Iero.

Frank was his name; the one who’d bash me on my work or just insulted me for no reason. I couldn’t really care though because everything he said was either untrue or just plain stupid and it didn’t make sense. I’m not even sure what happened to him- well, being his old self I guess you could say. He once was this really down to earth guy, and he was fun to hang out with before he came this bitter douche.

To this day I have no fucking clue why he hates me so much, we used to be close- but not as close as he was with Mikey.

They have been friends since 3rd grade and still, now that Mikey’s nineteen they’re still close. Frank now wasn’t the one that I used to talk to, the one I’d laugh with and share things with. He wasn’t one of the guys I would ever befriend because I wasn’t a fan of drugs and alcohol.

Sure, I’ve tried those things; none of it being worth my time. I found other ways to be happy; and that was art, I didn’t need anything to consume myself to ignite my body with a foreign high.

I listened closely upstairs to hear if Mikey had taken him to bed in the extra room or not, but I was wrong. I only heard mumbles of his voice trying to get out a coherent message, and probably failing miserably.

Footsteps walked along the hardwood floors as I listened; there was a pause and then a door slam. Telling me he’d gone to sleep.

I shook the feeling of Frank in my house and carried on into my mind, drawing the face of an elder sitting on the bench in the park where she gingerly threw those tiny bits of bread onto the ground. Birds flew overhead and some pecked at the little specks on the ground, the day was the final of Spring where the sun shone brightly warming the faces occupying the park. She had her cane nestled next to her supported by the bench, trees surrounded as faces were distant in the park; the bike rider that strode easily on the beautiful day of New York City.

I continued to improve and made minor touch-ups before looking back at it, satisfied with the work.

My eyes felt heavy and I decided to get some sleep afterward, a yawn escaping my mouth. I was too lazy to change so I decided to just sleep in my day clothes.
I put my drawing in a black leather folder I carried around with me as I headed to the bathroom just feet away from my bed.

I quickly brushed my teeth then finally headed off to bed.

I knew what would be coming in the morning, Frank whining about his headache or that he felt like shit. My mom, Donna, knew the routine already. Some nights he would come completely smashed and in the morning she would feed him and care for him like it was nothing, it was a morning anyway.

I walked into the kitchen greeted by the smell of pancakes, Dad was sitting at the end, small glasses pressed to his noise and kept to himself while he ate a bite after another. Mikey was sat next to him chatting next to Frank while drinking his orange juice.

“Oh good morning, honey!” My mom smiled at me from behind the stove where she mended the ingredients. I smiled at her in return, “Mornin’, mom.”

I made my way and sat down at the free chair, “Mornin’ Dad, Mikey.” I said as I sat down. “…Frank.” I finally muttered hesitantly. I knew the guy hated me, but still it was polite to wish someone some greetings. Whenever I’d say something to him he’d either completely ignore me or just make some remark- he was pretty childish.

It was like he didn’t even hear it.