rp sunday: need ✖ i'd warn that you should leave before you're seen with me
What do you need? and How many people do you have to talk to to get it?
All secrets are weighted. He's used to the feel of them, the pressure--you don't tattle, you take them to the grave. The culture of sharing is so foreign to him, all these people rushing to tell everyone about their secrets, things that, on further reflection, he realizes they don't even regard that way. It's probably supposed to be that way and it's another thing his parents robbed him of.
His voice.
But sometimes -- no, all of the time, he wants that, it's just easier to hide it, but sometimes that weight gets too much and he can almost literally feel himself suffocating. Not anymore, see, he doesn't need to breathe anymore, but before. Now it just feels like a vise around his lungs. He has known cravings (oh how he's known cravings) and this is the worst one: to want to be listened to.
There are other vices to take its place. When it gets too bad, he goes looking for those.
These kinds of clubs--he rarely comes to them anymore, they lost their appeal so long ago (how is it he feels so old, anyway?) unless he needs something, like he does now. He instantly recognizes at least ten faces, which is ten too many. Even if he didn't he'd know right away who to go to. The first face he goes to is exactly his type: older, scruffy, no good. "Are you holding?" he asks him and gets a head-shake and a quick explanation--just out of jail, not looking to go back. It's been a while. "Who is?" He lingers after he's pointed in the right direction; I'm not using you, that says, I'm your friend, tell me some more about your kids. Why he cares so much about the opinion a guy named Butch has about him, he has no idea. Narcissism. Probably.
When Butch is done talking he moves, finds the face pointed out to him, wonders if he has enough on him for this. Probably, and then some. He leans against the wall, lets his head loll to the side, and prepares his best Boo Boo Kitty Face, hoping that the reason Butch went to jail wasn't related to this.
"Hi. Butch told me you could help me out."
All secrets are weighted. He's used to the feel of them, the pressure--you don't tattle, you take them to the grave. The culture of sharing is so foreign to him, all these people rushing to tell everyone about their secrets, things that, on further reflection, he realizes they don't even regard that way. It's probably supposed to be that way and it's another thing his parents robbed him of.
His voice.
But sometimes -- no, all of the time, he wants that, it's just easier to hide it, but sometimes that weight gets too much and he can almost literally feel himself suffocating. Not anymore, see, he doesn't need to breathe anymore, but before. Now it just feels like a vise around his lungs. He has known cravings (oh how he's known cravings) and this is the worst one: to want to be listened to.
There are other vices to take its place. When it gets too bad, he goes looking for those.
These kinds of clubs--he rarely comes to them anymore, they lost their appeal so long ago (how is it he feels so old, anyway?) unless he needs something, like he does now. He instantly recognizes at least ten faces, which is ten too many. Even if he didn't he'd know right away who to go to. The first face he goes to is exactly his type: older, scruffy, no good. "Are you holding?" he asks him and gets a head-shake and a quick explanation--just out of jail, not looking to go back. It's been a while. "Who is?" He lingers after he's pointed in the right direction; I'm not using you, that says, I'm your friend, tell me some more about your kids. Why he cares so much about the opinion a guy named Butch has about him, he has no idea. Narcissism. Probably.
When Butch is done talking he moves, finds the face pointed out to him, wonders if he has enough on him for this. Probably, and then some. He leans against the wall, lets his head loll to the side, and prepares his best Boo Boo Kitty Face, hoping that the reason Butch went to jail wasn't related to this.
"Hi. Butch told me you could help me out."