Status: my camp nano submission - already completed.
Fireworks
One
Dear you,
They played one of your songs on the radio today, I cried until I couldn’t breathe.
Please come back.
Love, me
I lean my head back against the cool brick building, my lungs wince with every breath I take of the cigarette but I barely notice, my skin itches and I scratch at it desperately trying to lessen the familiar pull.
I pull at the skin on my arm trying to ignore that familiar burn the one that haunts me and reminds me that maybe I am not as okay as I pretend. The familiar burn on my skin is one that in the past year I have come to love and hate, it is my body begging for something stronger than a cigarette, something wonderful.
I close my eyes and try to find some cool air on this hot day. “You aren’t allowed to smoke here,” The voice pulls me away from my secluded thoughts and sends me reeling back to reality, for that fact alone I hate the owner of the voice.
I glance to my side, a boy with a long overgrown Mohawk and more track marks than someone of his age should really have stands beside me not looking at me but not looking away either. In an attempt to cover the track marks tattoos line his arms and a sweater is pushed up to his elbows, but I know. I know because I have those same marks, the ones that despite what I tell myself scream I am much more than a causal user.
Upon his face sits an irritating smirk, I think it might be the fact that I am starting to sweat and this cigarette is not nearly strong enough that makes me hate him instantly and snap a retort.
“Thanks for the concern but I’m fine,” He laughs and takes the cigarette from my lips; it looks like fireworks between his lips as it lights up the dark shade we are resting under. It reminds me of Fourth of July cookouts at my grandparents, when just as my cousins have started fighting and my grandparents have burnt the food, a little bit of perfection shoots into the sky and takes us all away from our petty squabbles, drugs are like that, fireworks that is.
He offers me the cigarette back and pushes a hand through his hair in a manner that I’d seen a million strung out boys doing before, itching for their next dose and a little bit of something extra. Like fireworks at my grandparents each year that get bigger and grander, drugs are just like that, after every hit the high gets smaller so the dose gets bigger.
Unlike drugs I don’t think you can overdose on fireworks, you can get burnt and that seems an awful risk for something so magical. Someone once described me as a wild horse, said I tasted like hesitation and impossibility. I think they were right; I am a wild horse free and untameable. With a wild mane and no shoes on my feet I run from any kind of commitment and stability because like a wild horse I spook so easily.
I don’t think being a wild horse is a bad thing, they live wonderful adventure filled lives, they are born and die utterly alone and that sounds fine with me. I don’t want to be domesticated and tied down to empty promises and sickening kisses.
It is because my mother doesn’t understand my free spirit and the war waging in me at any given minute to simply flee that I am standing outside of this stupid building. Hiding my cigarette and trying to avoid going inside.
The boy says nothing more simply tilting his head in a gesture of formality I haven’t seen displayed in the past century. I can’t help but crack a smile at the stupidity of the gesture. I stub out my cigarette and make my way outside; I had assumed the boy with a fireworks mouth was like me, a wild horse being contained by some awful oppressor and not an oppressor himself in horse’s clothing.
I guess you can’t judge people by their cigarette preference, fireworks sits across from me sending me a smile before turning to Maggie and discussing something I can’t quiet here. I’m not sure why it annoys me so much that fireworks is on the opposing team, maybe because he had shared a forbidden cigarette with me, something I can only get my boyfriend to do when he is high and we have just fucked.
Meth-head Maggie as I have come to refer to the head counsellor at this addict’s anonymous group is a ‘reformed’ drug user. She loves to tell the story of how her near death experience and then subsequent determination to get clean led her here.
Maggie likes to start every meeting with words of wisdom; she always tells us that the first few months are the hardest. I don’t believe her, the rest of my life is what is going to be the hardest part.
Every seat in the trust circle is now full with kids in various states of detox, some fresh like me and others seasoned like Maggie. More than a few people turn to stare at me but I refuse to acknowledge them, the less I interact in these sessions the better.
Firework claps his hands together demanding attention, I refuse to look at him but I can feel his eyes trained on me willing me to stare and accept his help. If he thinks sharing a cigarette is all it takes to get my trust he is sadly mistaken.
Maggie is watching Fireworks the way a hawk stalks its prey like she is planning on devouring him the second she gets the chance; I think I catch her salivating at one point. Fireworks completely informal slumps forward in his chair and greets everyone with a casual wave and a ‘hey’. I can tell why Maggie has used him for the trust circle, unlike Maggie he does not scream narc, he seems the kind of boy you would share a needle with not hide one from.
Instantly all the girls are hypnotised by his lopsided grin and dark blue eyes. I refuse to look at them because they are the same colour as the waves at the beach, and just like waves they bring you in before they spit you out.
“I guess we’ll start this meeting, my name is Jax,” and then as if we are all close friends he divulges a secret I would never imagine spitting out, “I am a reformed drug addict, my drug of choice,” I cannot help but stare into his eyes. They are deep like the ocean and I think I can taste the salty water just staring at them, even from across the room. “Was heroin, I started using when I was thirteen, drugs in my house weren’t a big problem, my dad did them so I guess it was just natural for me to pick up his habits when he died of a heart attack,”
Fireworks or Jax motions to the next person who goes about sharing his story, he looks like he has been through this process more than once. He has bags under his eyes and more than enough jitters to start an earthquake. I look down at my legs and realise they are jumping in a faster rhythm that that boys, this unsettles me.
Everyone in the circle shares their story to a degree, mostly it is name and addiction, we have to say the clichéd ‘hello [insert name]’ after every introduction and I think my ears are starting to bleed. It is finally the turn of the girl next to me.
“I am Meng,”
“Hello Meng,”
She pauses and takes a deep breath scratching with her stubby nails at a bleeding cut. It reminds me of the one on my wrist and I cannot understand why my body is torturing me with withdrawal symptoms since I was never addicted in the first place. I chalk it up to anxiety at being so completely out of my element – I’m not sure if I believe myself.
“I started taking drugs when I was fifteen and taking some advanced classes, it started with caffeine pills and then it moved to my brothers ADHD medication and from there it spun completely out of control,” She looks so ashamed as she admits to stealing from her parents to fund her problem. I don’t think she should feel all that guilty considering it was their pressures that pushed her to take drugs in the first place.
I know even before she says anything that she has been using ice, she has scratches on her face and are her nails are too short, they have been trimmed so they are not lethal. It is my turn and I don’t particularly want to share my story because I’m not sure when everything got so fucked up.
Fireworks is encouraging me to speak and spill my deep dark secrets with his eyes but I don’t, no one here really cares anyway. “My name is Bentley-Grace,” There is no point in trying to cover my tracks and change my name, it is obvious who I am and I think I hear a collective oh, everybody realises.
I am her.
“Hello Bentley- Grace,” everyone says in the same monotone that strengthens my thoughts of no one giving a shit. After nearly a minute of silence Fireworks realises I am not building up to exposing every inch of myself to him and these strangers and takes matters into his own hands.
“What are you here for? What is your addiction Bentley-Grace,” I know he is using my name at the end of the sentence to make it seem like this conversation is so much more personal than it really is, he is trying to engage me. I know every trick in the book and I am not going to fall for such a blatant attempt at manipulation.
“Caffeine,” there are a few giggles from the group and despite the deep glare Maggie sends me Fireworks is one of the people laughing. His eyes crinkle slightly in the corners and he wears that stupid lopsided grin – I think I hear Maggie, who has taken a seat next to Fireworks, sigh contently.
“And”
And? And what Bentley, what are you really addicted to? I know the answer but I don’t dare breathe it aloud, I mutter a small barely audible “Name it,” but the truth sits on my tongue, my one true addiction, is freedom of course.
They played one of your songs on the radio today, I cried until I couldn’t breathe.
Please come back.
Love, me
I lean my head back against the cool brick building, my lungs wince with every breath I take of the cigarette but I barely notice, my skin itches and I scratch at it desperately trying to lessen the familiar pull.
I pull at the skin on my arm trying to ignore that familiar burn the one that haunts me and reminds me that maybe I am not as okay as I pretend. The familiar burn on my skin is one that in the past year I have come to love and hate, it is my body begging for something stronger than a cigarette, something wonderful.
I close my eyes and try to find some cool air on this hot day. “You aren’t allowed to smoke here,” The voice pulls me away from my secluded thoughts and sends me reeling back to reality, for that fact alone I hate the owner of the voice.
I glance to my side, a boy with a long overgrown Mohawk and more track marks than someone of his age should really have stands beside me not looking at me but not looking away either. In an attempt to cover the track marks tattoos line his arms and a sweater is pushed up to his elbows, but I know. I know because I have those same marks, the ones that despite what I tell myself scream I am much more than a causal user.
Upon his face sits an irritating smirk, I think it might be the fact that I am starting to sweat and this cigarette is not nearly strong enough that makes me hate him instantly and snap a retort.
“Thanks for the concern but I’m fine,” He laughs and takes the cigarette from my lips; it looks like fireworks between his lips as it lights up the dark shade we are resting under. It reminds me of Fourth of July cookouts at my grandparents, when just as my cousins have started fighting and my grandparents have burnt the food, a little bit of perfection shoots into the sky and takes us all away from our petty squabbles, drugs are like that, fireworks that is.
He offers me the cigarette back and pushes a hand through his hair in a manner that I’d seen a million strung out boys doing before, itching for their next dose and a little bit of something extra. Like fireworks at my grandparents each year that get bigger and grander, drugs are just like that, after every hit the high gets smaller so the dose gets bigger.
Unlike drugs I don’t think you can overdose on fireworks, you can get burnt and that seems an awful risk for something so magical. Someone once described me as a wild horse, said I tasted like hesitation and impossibility. I think they were right; I am a wild horse free and untameable. With a wild mane and no shoes on my feet I run from any kind of commitment and stability because like a wild horse I spook so easily.
I don’t think being a wild horse is a bad thing, they live wonderful adventure filled lives, they are born and die utterly alone and that sounds fine with me. I don’t want to be domesticated and tied down to empty promises and sickening kisses.
It is because my mother doesn’t understand my free spirit and the war waging in me at any given minute to simply flee that I am standing outside of this stupid building. Hiding my cigarette and trying to avoid going inside.
The boy says nothing more simply tilting his head in a gesture of formality I haven’t seen displayed in the past century. I can’t help but crack a smile at the stupidity of the gesture. I stub out my cigarette and make my way outside; I had assumed the boy with a fireworks mouth was like me, a wild horse being contained by some awful oppressor and not an oppressor himself in horse’s clothing.
I guess you can’t judge people by their cigarette preference, fireworks sits across from me sending me a smile before turning to Maggie and discussing something I can’t quiet here. I’m not sure why it annoys me so much that fireworks is on the opposing team, maybe because he had shared a forbidden cigarette with me, something I can only get my boyfriend to do when he is high and we have just fucked.
Meth-head Maggie as I have come to refer to the head counsellor at this addict’s anonymous group is a ‘reformed’ drug user. She loves to tell the story of how her near death experience and then subsequent determination to get clean led her here.
Maggie likes to start every meeting with words of wisdom; she always tells us that the first few months are the hardest. I don’t believe her, the rest of my life is what is going to be the hardest part.
Every seat in the trust circle is now full with kids in various states of detox, some fresh like me and others seasoned like Maggie. More than a few people turn to stare at me but I refuse to acknowledge them, the less I interact in these sessions the better.
Firework claps his hands together demanding attention, I refuse to look at him but I can feel his eyes trained on me willing me to stare and accept his help. If he thinks sharing a cigarette is all it takes to get my trust he is sadly mistaken.
Maggie is watching Fireworks the way a hawk stalks its prey like she is planning on devouring him the second she gets the chance; I think I catch her salivating at one point. Fireworks completely informal slumps forward in his chair and greets everyone with a casual wave and a ‘hey’. I can tell why Maggie has used him for the trust circle, unlike Maggie he does not scream narc, he seems the kind of boy you would share a needle with not hide one from.
Instantly all the girls are hypnotised by his lopsided grin and dark blue eyes. I refuse to look at them because they are the same colour as the waves at the beach, and just like waves they bring you in before they spit you out.
“I guess we’ll start this meeting, my name is Jax,” and then as if we are all close friends he divulges a secret I would never imagine spitting out, “I am a reformed drug addict, my drug of choice,” I cannot help but stare into his eyes. They are deep like the ocean and I think I can taste the salty water just staring at them, even from across the room. “Was heroin, I started using when I was thirteen, drugs in my house weren’t a big problem, my dad did them so I guess it was just natural for me to pick up his habits when he died of a heart attack,”
Fireworks or Jax motions to the next person who goes about sharing his story, he looks like he has been through this process more than once. He has bags under his eyes and more than enough jitters to start an earthquake. I look down at my legs and realise they are jumping in a faster rhythm that that boys, this unsettles me.
Everyone in the circle shares their story to a degree, mostly it is name and addiction, we have to say the clichéd ‘hello [insert name]’ after every introduction and I think my ears are starting to bleed. It is finally the turn of the girl next to me.
“I am Meng,”
“Hello Meng,”
She pauses and takes a deep breath scratching with her stubby nails at a bleeding cut. It reminds me of the one on my wrist and I cannot understand why my body is torturing me with withdrawal symptoms since I was never addicted in the first place. I chalk it up to anxiety at being so completely out of my element – I’m not sure if I believe myself.
“I started taking drugs when I was fifteen and taking some advanced classes, it started with caffeine pills and then it moved to my brothers ADHD medication and from there it spun completely out of control,” She looks so ashamed as she admits to stealing from her parents to fund her problem. I don’t think she should feel all that guilty considering it was their pressures that pushed her to take drugs in the first place.
I know even before she says anything that she has been using ice, she has scratches on her face and are her nails are too short, they have been trimmed so they are not lethal. It is my turn and I don’t particularly want to share my story because I’m not sure when everything got so fucked up.
Fireworks is encouraging me to speak and spill my deep dark secrets with his eyes but I don’t, no one here really cares anyway. “My name is Bentley-Grace,” There is no point in trying to cover my tracks and change my name, it is obvious who I am and I think I hear a collective oh, everybody realises.
I am her.
“Hello Bentley- Grace,” everyone says in the same monotone that strengthens my thoughts of no one giving a shit. After nearly a minute of silence Fireworks realises I am not building up to exposing every inch of myself to him and these strangers and takes matters into his own hands.
“What are you here for? What is your addiction Bentley-Grace,” I know he is using my name at the end of the sentence to make it seem like this conversation is so much more personal than it really is, he is trying to engage me. I know every trick in the book and I am not going to fall for such a blatant attempt at manipulation.
“Caffeine,” there are a few giggles from the group and despite the deep glare Maggie sends me Fireworks is one of the people laughing. His eyes crinkle slightly in the corners and he wears that stupid lopsided grin – I think I hear Maggie, who has taken a seat next to Fireworks, sigh contently.
“And”
And? And what Bentley, what are you really addicted to? I know the answer but I don’t dare breathe it aloud, I mutter a small barely audible “Name it,” but the truth sits on my tongue, my one true addiction, is freedom of course.