[Naruto] Breathe
Jul. 1st, 2010 11:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aconitedollDisclaimer: I don't own anyone.
A/N: That general disclaimer still applies, of course. The slip from 3rd person POV to 1st person POV and back to 3rd person is intended.
Summary: Everywhere and nowhere. There is a beautiful tragic nightmare in this city and it will never end. •ℵ• very very AU •ℵ• drug abuse •ℵ• implied sex •ℵ• character deaths
The train rattles through the station and the clock ticks past the hour and a mass of black and grey and white rushes out open doors as another mass of black and grey and white – drowning in water, drip-drip against the cracking concrete smeared with mud and the sticky residue of spilled soda – pushes and shoves to get on. The voice over the intercom cracks and the speakers distort the words until they come out cold, mechanical, broken down to the basics.
(This is the train that follows the tracks to nowhere and everywhere, regurgitating faceless masses and swallowing another load as the city goes round and round and spins and pulses to a thousand different beats.)
The city is drowning. The taxi seats are covered in plastic that sticks to his clothing. Smoke drifts back from the front and the driver grunts something, swerving. The watery windows distort the scenery and the dying neon lights are formless blurs of colour, red-green-yellow-blue-purple-white – and then there is nothing, music breaking against the door and splintering, loud, foreign, a jumbled mess of words and beats and screams.
It is night-time and the city dies as it comes to life again. Men in suits with ties wrapped snugly around their necks disappear into doors beneath flashing lights and women walk the sidewalks and their stilettos go 'click-click' against the slippery ground. One falls and clambers to her feet and her fishnet stockings are ripped. Ash floats on a small puddle and girls plastered with make-up and boys high on powders and pills run through cigarettes and bottles of beer hang from fingers smeared red and lighters flicker in the doorways.
The door opens and the air is wet, heavy with decay and sin and life. Suits and briefcases pour out from a hole in the ground and the city shudders and drops another level.
(Hello – welcome - are you here to stay? Right this way, sir, take the elevator, it goes much faster.)
There is a needle in a plastic bag in his pocket and the tip bleeds red and drop-drop-drop the cap is full and it spills out. Underground, the air tastes stale and filtered, artificial. Fluorescent lights flicker on-off-on-off-on and the metal bench against the wall is damp and cold.
Money burns a hole in his pocket, bills neatly folded in a black wallet of ash. It is an old station, one ATM shoved next to the staircase next to newspapers and vending machines. A man feeds the machine a card and it is spit back out but there are no bills and the woman with painted red lips and manicured hands purses her lips and white-knuckled hands grip the strap of her purse.
Wet. He can smell the water comes down the stairs and a dying ember tumbles down and a girl stumbles down, thin t-shirt plastered to her skin. Blond hair sticks to orange-yellow skin and the light of the train washes her out before she is ever real.
The clock strikes eight-nine-ten. The train rattles by and it is dead, hollow with empty windows.
The boy sits on the bench and watches the staircase and waits and life blurs around him.
(The door is wide open and there is a sliver of light on the peeling wallpaper and the shabby carpet. Walk in. Sit. Watch.
The television is already on. It drones in the quiet – war here, terror there, and a boy lies dead somewhere with a pocket of white and a bag of thin sharp metal and smoke curls around his body still from the cigarettes burning a hole in the floorboards.)
Midnight. The fairy-tale trembles and shatters. The music pours out loud and fragmented and the air sinks with heat and water and sin. The neon flickers through the rain and the city flies into delirium, shadows crawling over asphalt, a secret buried in the back-alleys where men prowl with cold hands.
He runs. Stumbles over the trash swept to the wide of the road and fall neatly into the ground, down the tiled off-white stairs. The dream is dying, the wind rushes past his ears, and he shoved plastic into the hungry mouth of an old tired machine and curls into the bench.
It is very late. It is very early. Give and take, fire for smoke for fire, and "Hello" dissolves into that smoke and floats up into the air, slams into the metal of the passing train. "Goodbye" sounds that much prettier.
One boy breaths in and the other laughs.
One boy breaths out and the other laughs.
There is a mirror on the far far wall, smeared with fingerprints. Their reflections blur and waver around the edges.
(Play a game - six-pence and a pocket full of rye you have nothing to lose – and the barrel of the gun is cold after the heat of smoke and lips press against yours in a clumsy kiss.
Bang.
Empty. A needle presses icy against blue lines.)
"Do I know you?"
Shrug. Inhale a mouthful of wispy patterns in the air and breathe it out. "Does it matter?"
The policeman stumbles by, tripping over plastic bags, onto the train. The woman with long red hair laughs and her skirt catches in the door and rips. A cigarette goes flying and it lands on the scrap of wet denim.
"Not really, no." Your cigarette is dying. Your lighter blooms fire and it licks at white-and-brown and you let your cigarette burn between your fingers until the ashes brush your skin.
The smoke that curls around us is heavier now. Two boys in an underground room with pockets full of burning money are easy to overlook but you still look around. Your hand trembles.
"Want some?" Smile. There is a quiet stupor in my veins and it pulses lazily and your fingers close around the smoking joint but your lips still say no.
Choke. Sputter. Cough. Your outrage is a dull imitation of the lightning and thunder above ground and it dies. Does the smoke slip and slide through your veins like it does mine, steal into your heart and lungs and mute the world?
"Sure."
("Would you like to dance?"
There is no music but it does not matter because the city has a beat of its own, erratic and chaotic and foreign. It is starting to die but the walls and the floor still hum with it.
There is a beautiful tragic nightmare in this city.)
Time blurs. The rain is starting to die once more and the train comes rattling past and its doors are open, inviting. Come. Your fingers burn around my wrist and we both go, down down down the platform. It is a very empty train. There is still smoke in my chest and it curls lazily and burrows deep. The doors slide shut with a hiss of air and there is a finality in the click when they lock that I do not recognize.
Something plastic is in your hand. The lights dance wildly and the walls close in and start to crush – what – but the train is out now and the cigarette is in my hand – hand-rolled, not store-bought, but who cares anymore? – your lips are warm and soft and you taste of smoke. Another breath of it. Your eyes burn dark behind the hazy grey floating in the air.
"You left this behind." Your voice laughs at me and your eyes swirl behind the smoke. Take another mouthful and breathe it in and the joint is hanging from your hand again and the train is rattling into another station. Rain has drowned this one.
Your third kiss tastes of smoke and poison. Swallow. There is a little pill somewhere in that smoke and it slides down my throat and it should be a concern but the last of the second cigarette tastes of fire and smoke and the third one even more so.
(The mirror is fogged and cracked. There is a needle in the sink and a vial on the counter.
There is a trail of wet clothing from the door to the shower – who follows these pebbles? – but even now there is smoke in the air and it does not matter. You can not breathe. I can not breathe.
The water runs hot but the tiles of the wall are cool and we slip and slide against it and the smoke fills our lungs and curls in us.)
Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Ash scatters across the yellowing linoleum of the floor and the stub of a cigarette rolls into the corner when the train jolts to a stop. The last of the cigarettes is burning through the seat-covers and the stench of burning plastic is killing the haze.
Stop. Don't go. Not yet.
The train rattles by and the concrete pillars of the platform shake. No smoke. No fire. Your eyes are bright in the gloom of the empty station. Can you feel it yet, nervous energy in your veins, blood boiling? The pill slips easily from my mouth to yours.
Swallow.
The technicolour brilliance of the fading posters and the muddy steps dissolves in the rain and vague twisted shapes in red and green and yellow take its place. Girls with melting make-up painted over their faces and women playing dress-up with the children grab at my shirt, your arms.
No. Not interested. Get away. Don't touch me. Run.
Your words disappear in the wind but you still laugh and collapse against a car and your eyes burn bright. "Hey, hey, let's go somewhere fun!"
Grin. My fingers twitch and my hand trembles and the memory of smoke rolls over my tongue. "Sure."
Glass-like-snow covers the sidewalk and the street. There is exhilaration in my veins and the world is full of bright muted swirling colours tonight. The city shudders beneath our feet.
It screams. No-one is there to listen. No-one cares.
(Something wails far behind, snarling flashing lights glued to a vulture. The windows are broken and rains pelts the seats and the car swerves left and right and leaves behind a mess of twisted metal and blood-smeared asphalt.
This is art. This – laugh and scream in exhilaration and let the world collapse and dance to the ruinous beat – is life.
The car explodes before it runs off the road into the murky river. No more fire. No more evidence.
Laugh and swallow technicolour packed into small white pills. "Let's do that again."
"… sure." Today. Tomorrow. Forever. The world seems small now, crushed into plastic bags.
This nightmare grows and twists and the city screams and writhes. Smile for the camera. The white door swims and the hallway behind is long and dark and very empty.)
There is a reflection in the mirror behind you. My eyes are your eyes are my eyes – blue-black-red-blue all blur into one – but this mirror is a broken one. It must be.
Our eyes are very empty. They shatter and there are empty vials on the floor and tiny bags full of white powder and smoke curls in the air once again. It makes hazy indistinct patterns. Can you breathe it still?
Your fingers fumble on tiny black buttons and they rip off and scatter over the carpet. Your belt disappeared beneath the stairs. Mine is thrown over the ceiling fan. The tip of an empty needle scores a long thin line of red down my chest.
More. Each breath tastes of smoke and poison that curls in my veins. It is hard to breathe around it. "More. Now."
Miss the vein. Brilliant sharp pain shoots up my arm. Your weight is heavy on my legs. Smoke travels from you to me and the needle is empty and stupor swims in my veins and drowns out everything else. The carpet is soft and you burn against me.
Scream. More. More. MORE.
The drawers are very empty. Take another cigarette from the pile and dip it into the fire and down a glass of cold water.
More. I want more.
Something roars in the distance and the lights of the city are drowning in it. There is a roiling wave of black hovering somewhere outside. Do you see it too?
(There is a train that rattles down old metal tracks to oblivion in a dream. Inhale and exhale and let the ashes fall wherever. It is the night before the morning after the end and the world is a fragile place in our hands.
Someone screams outside. Eyes close and the nightmare becomes your dream to make.)
There is a boy with black hair and black eyes. There is a boy with blond hair and blue eyes. They overlap, blur together and come apart, and leave behind bits and pieces of themselves in each other. White powder lies scattered over the floor and the cigarettes are crushed and smoking and there is a broken vial in the corner and an empty needle in a cup.
"Hey."
It's very quiet. The rain falls loud and a door is opening somewhere. "What?"
He can not breathe anymore. The air is heavy and it starts to crush and the cigarette smoking on the table and the needle on the bed are very bright in his eyes.
"… what's your name?" He sits and leans against the wall and the world spins. The needle falls and pricks his hand.
"… Taka."
One boy hands another a smoking cigarette and steals a breath of smoke in a red kiss. The other smiles very emptily and his eyes are broken mirrors.
"… liar." Breathe in and out, shallow and slow. The rain is very loud now.
One more breath. His eyes slide shut and never open again. The cigarette burns to ashes in his hand.
The room is very empty.
(Pause. Stop. Fast forward.
Play another game. This nightmare grows more beautiful with time and the tragedy is only half-complete.
The barrel of the gun is cold after the smoke. It is hard to breathe and hold the gun in place, the weight of another boy with black hair and black eyes heavy. There are two reflections in the mirror and one is an imperfect copy of the other. His lips are soft and smoke curls into your mouth. You cough.
Bang.
His hands are very warm and red. He smiles and smoke curls from the barrel and the cigarette burns pale skin and the empty vial cuts it open and it weeps red.)
There is a train that rattles shakily along metal tracks that lead to everywhere and nowhere, in a living dying city that spins round and round to a foreign chaotic beat that pulses heavy and loud.
A nightmare blooms fresh sharp red and grows steadily more beautiful.
A/N: That general disclaimer still applies, of course. The slip from 3rd person POV to 1st person POV and back to 3rd person is intended.
Summary: Everywhere and nowhere. There is a beautiful tragic nightmare in this city and it will never end. •ℵ• very very AU •ℵ• drug abuse •ℵ• implied sex •ℵ• character deaths
The train rattles through the station and the clock ticks past the hour and a mass of black and grey and white rushes out open doors as another mass of black and grey and white – drowning in water, drip-drip against the cracking concrete smeared with mud and the sticky residue of spilled soda – pushes and shoves to get on. The voice over the intercom cracks and the speakers distort the words until they come out cold, mechanical, broken down to the basics.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
(This is the train that follows the tracks to nowhere and everywhere, regurgitating faceless masses and swallowing another load as the city goes round and round and spins and pulses to a thousand different beats.)
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
The city is drowning. The taxi seats are covered in plastic that sticks to his clothing. Smoke drifts back from the front and the driver grunts something, swerving. The watery windows distort the scenery and the dying neon lights are formless blurs of colour, red-green-yellow-blue-purple-white – and then there is nothing, music breaking against the door and splintering, loud, foreign, a jumbled mess of words and beats and screams.
It is night-time and the city dies as it comes to life again. Men in suits with ties wrapped snugly around their necks disappear into doors beneath flashing lights and women walk the sidewalks and their stilettos go 'click-click' against the slippery ground. One falls and clambers to her feet and her fishnet stockings are ripped. Ash floats on a small puddle and girls plastered with make-up and boys high on powders and pills run through cigarettes and bottles of beer hang from fingers smeared red and lighters flicker in the doorways.
The door opens and the air is wet, heavy with decay and sin and life. Suits and briefcases pour out from a hole in the ground and the city shudders and drops another level.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
(Hello – welcome - are you here to stay? Right this way, sir, take the elevator, it goes much faster.)
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
There is a needle in a plastic bag in his pocket and the tip bleeds red and drop-drop-drop the cap is full and it spills out. Underground, the air tastes stale and filtered, artificial. Fluorescent lights flicker on-off-on-off-on and the metal bench against the wall is damp and cold.
Money burns a hole in his pocket, bills neatly folded in a black wallet of ash. It is an old station, one ATM shoved next to the staircase next to newspapers and vending machines. A man feeds the machine a card and it is spit back out but there are no bills and the woman with painted red lips and manicured hands purses her lips and white-knuckled hands grip the strap of her purse.
Wet. He can smell the water comes down the stairs and a dying ember tumbles down and a girl stumbles down, thin t-shirt plastered to her skin. Blond hair sticks to orange-yellow skin and the light of the train washes her out before she is ever real.
The clock strikes eight-nine-ten. The train rattles by and it is dead, hollow with empty windows.
The boy sits on the bench and watches the staircase and waits and life blurs around him.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
(The door is wide open and there is a sliver of light on the peeling wallpaper and the shabby carpet. Walk in. Sit. Watch.
The television is already on. It drones in the quiet – war here, terror there, and a boy lies dead somewhere with a pocket of white and a bag of thin sharp metal and smoke curls around his body still from the cigarettes burning a hole in the floorboards.)
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
Midnight. The fairy-tale trembles and shatters. The music pours out loud and fragmented and the air sinks with heat and water and sin. The neon flickers through the rain and the city flies into delirium, shadows crawling over asphalt, a secret buried in the back-alleys where men prowl with cold hands.
He runs. Stumbles over the trash swept to the wide of the road and fall neatly into the ground, down the tiled off-white stairs. The dream is dying, the wind rushes past his ears, and he shoved plastic into the hungry mouth of an old tired machine and curls into the bench.
It is very late. It is very early. Give and take, fire for smoke for fire, and "Hello" dissolves into that smoke and floats up into the air, slams into the metal of the passing train. "Goodbye" sounds that much prettier.
One boy breaths in and the other laughs.
One boy breaths out and the other laughs.
There is a mirror on the far far wall, smeared with fingerprints. Their reflections blur and waver around the edges.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
(Play a game - six-pence and a pocket full of rye you have nothing to lose – and the barrel of the gun is cold after the heat of smoke and lips press against yours in a clumsy kiss.
Bang.
Empty. A needle presses icy against blue lines.)
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
"Do I know you?"
Shrug. Inhale a mouthful of wispy patterns in the air and breathe it out. "Does it matter?"
The policeman stumbles by, tripping over plastic bags, onto the train. The woman with long red hair laughs and her skirt catches in the door and rips. A cigarette goes flying and it lands on the scrap of wet denim.
"Not really, no." Your cigarette is dying. Your lighter blooms fire and it licks at white-and-brown and you let your cigarette burn between your fingers until the ashes brush your skin.
The smoke that curls around us is heavier now. Two boys in an underground room with pockets full of burning money are easy to overlook but you still look around. Your hand trembles.
"Want some?" Smile. There is a quiet stupor in my veins and it pulses lazily and your fingers close around the smoking joint but your lips still say no.
Choke. Sputter. Cough. Your outrage is a dull imitation of the lightning and thunder above ground and it dies. Does the smoke slip and slide through your veins like it does mine, steal into your heart and lungs and mute the world?
"Sure."
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
("Would you like to dance?"
There is no music but it does not matter because the city has a beat of its own, erratic and chaotic and foreign. It is starting to die but the walls and the floor still hum with it.
There is a beautiful tragic nightmare in this city.)
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
Time blurs. The rain is starting to die once more and the train comes rattling past and its doors are open, inviting. Come. Your fingers burn around my wrist and we both go, down down down the platform. It is a very empty train. There is still smoke in my chest and it curls lazily and burrows deep. The doors slide shut with a hiss of air and there is a finality in the click when they lock that I do not recognize.
Something plastic is in your hand. The lights dance wildly and the walls close in and start to crush – what – but the train is out now and the cigarette is in my hand – hand-rolled, not store-bought, but who cares anymore? – your lips are warm and soft and you taste of smoke. Another breath of it. Your eyes burn dark behind the hazy grey floating in the air.
"You left this behind." Your voice laughs at me and your eyes swirl behind the smoke. Take another mouthful and breathe it in and the joint is hanging from your hand again and the train is rattling into another station. Rain has drowned this one.
Your third kiss tastes of smoke and poison. Swallow. There is a little pill somewhere in that smoke and it slides down my throat and it should be a concern but the last of the second cigarette tastes of fire and smoke and the third one even more so.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
(The mirror is fogged and cracked. There is a needle in the sink and a vial on the counter.
There is a trail of wet clothing from the door to the shower – who follows these pebbles? – but even now there is smoke in the air and it does not matter. You can not breathe. I can not breathe.
The water runs hot but the tiles of the wall are cool and we slip and slide against it and the smoke fills our lungs and curls in us.)
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Ash scatters across the yellowing linoleum of the floor and the stub of a cigarette rolls into the corner when the train jolts to a stop. The last of the cigarettes is burning through the seat-covers and the stench of burning plastic is killing the haze.
Stop. Don't go. Not yet.
The train rattles by and the concrete pillars of the platform shake. No smoke. No fire. Your eyes are bright in the gloom of the empty station. Can you feel it yet, nervous energy in your veins, blood boiling? The pill slips easily from my mouth to yours.
Swallow.
The technicolour brilliance of the fading posters and the muddy steps dissolves in the rain and vague twisted shapes in red and green and yellow take its place. Girls with melting make-up painted over their faces and women playing dress-up with the children grab at my shirt, your arms.
No. Not interested. Get away. Don't touch me. Run.
Your words disappear in the wind but you still laugh and collapse against a car and your eyes burn bright. "Hey, hey, let's go somewhere fun!"
Grin. My fingers twitch and my hand trembles and the memory of smoke rolls over my tongue. "Sure."
Glass-like-snow covers the sidewalk and the street. There is exhilaration in my veins and the world is full of bright muted swirling colours tonight. The city shudders beneath our feet.
It screams. No-one is there to listen. No-one cares.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
(Something wails far behind, snarling flashing lights glued to a vulture. The windows are broken and rains pelts the seats and the car swerves left and right and leaves behind a mess of twisted metal and blood-smeared asphalt.
This is art. This – laugh and scream in exhilaration and let the world collapse and dance to the ruinous beat – is life.
The car explodes before it runs off the road into the murky river. No more fire. No more evidence.
Laugh and swallow technicolour packed into small white pills. "Let's do that again."
"… sure." Today. Tomorrow. Forever. The world seems small now, crushed into plastic bags.
This nightmare grows and twists and the city screams and writhes. Smile for the camera. The white door swims and the hallway behind is long and dark and very empty.)
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
There is a reflection in the mirror behind you. My eyes are your eyes are my eyes – blue-black-red-blue all blur into one – but this mirror is a broken one. It must be.
Our eyes are very empty. They shatter and there are empty vials on the floor and tiny bags full of white powder and smoke curls in the air once again. It makes hazy indistinct patterns. Can you breathe it still?
Your fingers fumble on tiny black buttons and they rip off and scatter over the carpet. Your belt disappeared beneath the stairs. Mine is thrown over the ceiling fan. The tip of an empty needle scores a long thin line of red down my chest.
More. Each breath tastes of smoke and poison that curls in my veins. It is hard to breathe around it. "More. Now."
Miss the vein. Brilliant sharp pain shoots up my arm. Your weight is heavy on my legs. Smoke travels from you to me and the needle is empty and stupor swims in my veins and drowns out everything else. The carpet is soft and you burn against me.
Scream. More. More. MORE.
The drawers are very empty. Take another cigarette from the pile and dip it into the fire and down a glass of cold water.
More. I want more.
Something roars in the distance and the lights of the city are drowning in it. There is a roiling wave of black hovering somewhere outside. Do you see it too?
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
(There is a train that rattles down old metal tracks to oblivion in a dream. Inhale and exhale and let the ashes fall wherever. It is the night before the morning after the end and the world is a fragile place in our hands.
Someone screams outside. Eyes close and the nightmare becomes your dream to make.)
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
There is a boy with black hair and black eyes. There is a boy with blond hair and blue eyes. They overlap, blur together and come apart, and leave behind bits and pieces of themselves in each other. White powder lies scattered over the floor and the cigarettes are crushed and smoking and there is a broken vial in the corner and an empty needle in a cup.
"Hey."
It's very quiet. The rain falls loud and a door is opening somewhere. "What?"
He can not breathe anymore. The air is heavy and it starts to crush and the cigarette smoking on the table and the needle on the bed are very bright in his eyes.
"… what's your name?" He sits and leans against the wall and the world spins. The needle falls and pricks his hand.
"… Taka."
One boy hands another a smoking cigarette and steals a breath of smoke in a red kiss. The other smiles very emptily and his eyes are broken mirrors.
"… liar." Breathe in and out, shallow and slow. The rain is very loud now.
One more breath. His eyes slide shut and never open again. The cigarette burns to ashes in his hand.
The room is very empty.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
(Pause. Stop. Fast forward.
Play another game. This nightmare grows more beautiful with time and the tragedy is only half-complete.
The barrel of the gun is cold after the smoke. It is hard to breathe and hold the gun in place, the weight of another boy with black hair and black eyes heavy. There are two reflections in the mirror and one is an imperfect copy of the other. His lips are soft and smoke curls into your mouth. You cough.
Bang.
His hands are very warm and red. He smiles and smoke curls from the barrel and the cigarette burns pale skin and the empty vial cuts it open and it weeps red.)
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
There is a train that rattles shakily along metal tracks that lead to everywhere and nowhere, in a living dying city that spins round and round to a foreign chaotic beat that pulses heavy and loud.
A nightmare blooms fresh sharp red and grows steadily more beautiful.
