Euphoria
no one else.
The crack of the lighter sounded like a gunshot at point-blank range. It was clearly evident that Anthony was the only one who heard it. No one else even batted an eyelash, though their eyes were already mirror images of half-crest moons.
His pupils enlarged rapidly, giving the impression of two aborning quarters, but no one took notice to this either. Theirs were already the same way, dueling with his own.
Anthony had always adored the equilibrium between consciousness and euphoria. It'd become a safe-haven, a second home at best. It was his antidote for the nights that proved to be the hardest to get through, the mornings he wanted to do anything but face the day...anything but face her.
She'd found a way to embed herself into his skin.
He wasn't one to complain.
She was there; permanent, temporary, he didn't care. As long as she circulated through his blood stream every day he actually dared to wake up he would be okay. She'd provide every amino acid, every proper white and red cell count, everything he'd need. She'd keep him alive and breathing.
She had to.
There was no one else.
He began seeing double; two of everything, sometimes three. This was so familiar, so goddamn familiar to him that it didn't matter. It didn't make a difference if he clambered to his bed, wishing he would stop being such a coward. It didn't make a difference if he walked there, wishing he would stop being such a fucking coward.
Needing someone like oxygen and water in your lungs are entirely different. Anthony knew this difference by heart; it's the only one that mattered.
It seemed foolish to him that he'd ever express these things to her. Surely she'd laugh at his less-than-perfect posture, his unkempt mass of facial hair, his logic behind what a modern romance would consist of.
But she didn't know, she didn't even have the slightest clue of how much she meant to Anthony. She was his sanctum, keeping him safely hidden from no one but himself.
That's just how Anthony's life was: a chronic mixture of narcotics, an ever-so-inviting dose of self-loathing, and apathy. There was so right way to go about it. It was just something that happened, however inconvenient it'd turn out to be.
Anthony blinked, trying to repel the two Claires that were inching closer to him. Through the smoke and his hazy eyes he could easily tell it was her. He could always tell.
There were two Claires that were gently placing their lips on his. There were two Claires that were slowly undoing the buttons of his plaid, worn out shirt. There were two Claires that were painfully making him become unfamiliarly sober.
But that was euphoria.
And so was she.
His pupils enlarged rapidly, giving the impression of two aborning quarters, but no one took notice to this either. Theirs were already the same way, dueling with his own.
Anthony had always adored the equilibrium between consciousness and euphoria. It'd become a safe-haven, a second home at best. It was his antidote for the nights that proved to be the hardest to get through, the mornings he wanted to do anything but face the day...anything but face her.
She'd found a way to embed herself into his skin.
He wasn't one to complain.
She was there; permanent, temporary, he didn't care. As long as she circulated through his blood stream every day he actually dared to wake up he would be okay. She'd provide every amino acid, every proper white and red cell count, everything he'd need. She'd keep him alive and breathing.
She had to.
There was no one else.
He began seeing double; two of everything, sometimes three. This was so familiar, so goddamn familiar to him that it didn't matter. It didn't make a difference if he clambered to his bed, wishing he would stop being such a coward. It didn't make a difference if he walked there, wishing he would stop being such a fucking coward.
Needing someone like oxygen and water in your lungs are entirely different. Anthony knew this difference by heart; it's the only one that mattered.
It seemed foolish to him that he'd ever express these things to her. Surely she'd laugh at his less-than-perfect posture, his unkempt mass of facial hair, his logic behind what a modern romance would consist of.
But she didn't know, she didn't even have the slightest clue of how much she meant to Anthony. She was his sanctum, keeping him safely hidden from no one but himself.
That's just how Anthony's life was: a chronic mixture of narcotics, an ever-so-inviting dose of self-loathing, and apathy. There was so right way to go about it. It was just something that happened, however inconvenient it'd turn out to be.
Anthony blinked, trying to repel the two Claires that were inching closer to him. Through the smoke and his hazy eyes he could easily tell it was her. He could always tell.
There were two Claires that were gently placing their lips on his. There were two Claires that were slowly undoing the buttons of his plaid, worn out shirt. There were two Claires that were painfully making him become unfamiliarly sober.
But that was euphoria.
And so was she.
♠ ♠ ♠
Grabbed this from my (very) old Quizilla account and decided to edit it a bit and post it here. Obviously it's way different from what I usually write. Let me know what you think?