Categories > Original > Drama0 Reviews
"Bent over the running filth, he wiped his lips and glanced up at the stars."
And nothing. No beauty, no salvation, no freeing release.
His dream remained stagnant, raging around his organs, tensing his muscles as it refused to be purged, expressed. Overwhelmed, mind seething with the thoughtless agony of vision, he gripped the notebook, staring horribly at the black paper, taking in its whiteness and threw it, leaping up with it as it flew across the room. Hitting the floor with it, knees banged roughly on the wood as the chair crashed over his thighs. Anxiously he clawed at it, forcing the furniture off, eyes stunned, staring at it, stiff, still, taking it in silently, lips twisting about without sound. Finally, abruptly, he stood and ran down into the streets, petrified, eyes blazing, overcome with a strange nausea head whipping wildly about to take it all in. He jumped as a car flashed neon by his side. Eyes suddenly young, animal. Staring up at the city he craved fire to warm his skin, to peel it back and meld it to concrete, only destruction could cast the scales and terrible image from his eyes now, too active, too brilliant at night. He kneeled down to the buildings and vomited harshly, choking on the convulsions of his miserable state, gasping for air around the white bile.
Bent over the running filth, he wiped his lips and glanced up at the stars. Cold and immaculate they taunted him, perfect, untainted by the air he was steeped in, free of the ramifications of his birth. The pale light held his gaze, entranced he rose slowly from the pavement and fled with a terrible fascination seared into his eyes, consuming their own brilliance reflected, renewed in intensity. He ran. Once out of town he crouched in the faint darkness to catch his breath. Staring he could see his hands faintly, outlined by the weak light of the stars, now fading with the night. His breath came hard, shoulders shaking heavily as he wept suddenly, looking up at a blank sky. He dug his nails around his temples, reveling in the faint twinge of pain as he gouged the waxy skin, riled with sweat and cold. He let the choking rasp of his crying pull him down and curled up there to wait for morning, pitching forward. He fell asleep heavily, sobbing, wrapped in the dirt and dreamed of an immaculate chaos and an end.
"Hey kid, wake up"
He grimaced, cringing lethargically at the boot nudging his ribcage itchy with old sweat, and groaned softly. His eyes were crusted over with dirt and tears, stinging as he opened them. Hovering over him was a leering middle-aged man, grimy in faded denim.
"You shouldn't be laying there on the road like that son, good way to get hit"
He spoke slowly. The boy shrugged his shoulders, stretching the heat out of his stiff limbs.
There hadn't been an end to it yet, just another dragging chalky stillness, forcing him back to himself again and again. The man scratched his head, staring at the boy's skinny frame and filthy jeans, still damp from the night air.
"Do you need a ride? I'm not going far kid, but I could get you outta this sun at least. Fry you where you stand its so hot."
You couldn't tell the city stood in a desert from inside its limits, The boy stared silently past the road into the sheer glimmering heat.
He wondered how long he could go without water.
"You sure?" It's pretty ho-"
"I don't need a ride"
The man frowned, puzzled at the boy's distant tone. Unconsciously insulted he climbed back into his truck and pulled out.
"Alright kid, your funeral"
He drove away suddenly and inexplicably repulsed at the thin frame stretched along the road, staring blankly at the sun in his mirror.