Status: It's likely that this story will never be finished, let alone started. I hardly ever get on. For the sake of those who subscribed though I'm not going to delete it.
Cardiac Clockwork
One.
"Quit smoking." They'd tell you.
Little did they know they were always promptly ignored - because from what you'd been told all your life, you were in perfect health. They could blame little Frank Iero - your neighbor, and in a bit of a twisted way he seemed your kid brother. He was the one to get you hooked in the first place. And to think - he was nearly four years younger than you were.
The hood of the tattered sweatshirt was pulled over your head to hide a mess of black ribbon-silk hair as you step step stepped along the streets of Belleville. Worn and torn Chuck Taylors creak creak creaked in synchronization with your movement over the sidewalk, and while one hand rested in your hollow pullover the other held a cigarette loosely between your index and middle finger. Occasionally you brought it up to your colorless lips to inhale its sweet, toxic addiction. Cool, crisp Jersey air carried away the chemical oxygen residue from exhaling.
Your baby-blue irises peered up from behind ink coated eyelids to see melting snow blocking a matching a blue sky hiding behind residences and street lamps and salted, cracking curbs. The sun broke through January clouds just enough to make you squint your eyes in order to interpret the hue covering wood on hinges, signaling you'd reached your destination.
Turning left took you up a too familiar walkway. Muscles and ligaments and joints shifted to pull your legs up three small stairs and bring your fist parallel to the door to create sound, pound pound pounding against crimson enveloped maple, confirming your arrival.
The sounds of patterned rhythm and vibrations of booming bass guitar were silenced immediately upon impact and replaced by footsteps trading back and forth across hollow hardwood. The boy would stop just before the foyer by habit, though, for fear of opening the door to an utter stranger or villain.
"Alice?" He called, knowing he couldn't bee seen through the little square window embedded in the wood.
"Every time, Mikey." You answered back, smiling acutely.
Inside, tired lungs sighed in relief before footsteps began again, this time turning away from the foyer. "'S'unlocked!" He shouted again, giving your fingers permission to curl over the gold knob, your wrist to release the hold of the frame by turning, and your body to step into the chilled Way household.
Little did they know they were always promptly ignored - because from what you'd been told all your life, you were in perfect health. They could blame little Frank Iero - your neighbor, and in a bit of a twisted way he seemed your kid brother. He was the one to get you hooked in the first place. And to think - he was nearly four years younger than you were.
The hood of the tattered sweatshirt was pulled over your head to hide a mess of black ribbon-silk hair as you step step stepped along the streets of Belleville. Worn and torn Chuck Taylors creak creak creaked in synchronization with your movement over the sidewalk, and while one hand rested in your hollow pullover the other held a cigarette loosely between your index and middle finger. Occasionally you brought it up to your colorless lips to inhale its sweet, toxic addiction. Cool, crisp Jersey air carried away the chemical oxygen residue from exhaling.
Your baby-blue irises peered up from behind ink coated eyelids to see melting snow blocking a matching a blue sky hiding behind residences and street lamps and salted, cracking curbs. The sun broke through January clouds just enough to make you squint your eyes in order to interpret the hue covering wood on hinges, signaling you'd reached your destination.
Turning left took you up a too familiar walkway. Muscles and ligaments and joints shifted to pull your legs up three small stairs and bring your fist parallel to the door to create sound, pound pound pounding against crimson enveloped maple, confirming your arrival.
The sounds of patterned rhythm and vibrations of booming bass guitar were silenced immediately upon impact and replaced by footsteps trading back and forth across hollow hardwood. The boy would stop just before the foyer by habit, though, for fear of opening the door to an utter stranger or villain.
"Alice?" He called, knowing he couldn't bee seen through the little square window embedded in the wood.
"Every time, Mikey." You answered back, smiling acutely.
Inside, tired lungs sighed in relief before footsteps began again, this time turning away from the foyer. "'S'unlocked!" He shouted again, giving your fingers permission to curl over the gold knob, your wrist to release the hold of the frame by turning, and your body to step into the chilled Way household.