“A hangover is when you open your eyes in the morning and wish you hadn't”
Day 141, Tuesday, October 20th
Post Office Paddock
I look off into the setting sun's fading colors as I sit on some wooden fence at the back of some barn in town. As I lean forward, my feet secure my balance against the rails while my elbows prop up the rest of me. All of it held up by the bottle of alcohol in my hands. I swallow down the swollen throat and stinging eyes. Down where it belongs and deserves to be. Fucker keeps rising no matter how many times I swallow. My eyes focus on the clouds above the distance hills. The clouds are a beautiful bloody orange from the fading sun. So beautiful... The chuckle that escapes sounds too much like a sob.
We traveled so much. All I remember in the beginning was traveling. I was born into it. That's all life was to me. The caravans and climates changed frequently. Sometimes we were even on foot. Fuck that 'sometimes'...always. I didn't understand what she was doing at the time but now as I think back, bile rises. I still can't do it like her. My face is filled with rage when I do those things. Her's was so calm. No thought, just gutting a fish as fast as you can so you can move onto the next one. I stood in the over-sized cloak she made me wear on the road, frozen with more than just the frigid air as she knelt next to the men she ran through. Going through their pockets and belongings while they lay helpless, their eyes wide as they watched it happen while choking on their own blood. The men would mouth pleas as she snapped their fingers at the base of the hand. Do that, and the rings come off a lot easier when you cut off the fingers with a knife. I was always learning, no matter where we went.
I stand off to the side, enough behind my mother that I have to lean to see around her. The temple is cold, but warmer than the road. I am not even tall enough to reach her hip. I know this because I remember reaching up for her. Trying to at least grab her hand. She would swat me away, her whisper harsh as she tells me how rude and weak it looks. Instead I stand, throat swelling as she talks with men. Men with long white facial hair, just sitting and listening to her. Always with eyes on me. As if they have never seen a child before. None of it made sense. It never did. What were they talking about? I can't remember. They only thing I do remember...was her telling them, "I want her to look as she is supposed to, not like a fucking freak."
The night comes and its cold enough to make a fire out in the field. Never could understand why people need a fire at night if it's warm. People always act so differently when the sun goes down. Most of the time to my advantage so who the fuck cares.
I passed the time by smoking and spitting every other drink I took into the fire for cheap entertainment. I don't remember what was so funny, but I was laughing a lot, falling onto my back while I was sitting at the fire. I don't remember why I was angry, throwing my empty bottles off into the night. I remember looking for that fence to sit on again, instead I walked right into it, falling forward over the fence and on the other side onto my back. I must have passed out pretty hard. I hope I didn't land in shit... I start to balance myself up with my elbows as I realize how thirsty I am. For fuck's sake, I swear those birds sound different in the morning. They pierce into your brain deep enough that you wanna kill yourself. Oh shit that just made me think, I hope I didn't drop any of my weapons.
Sun rises, pierces my head more than the fucking birds. I'm left looking at the colors of the dawn's sky. The swelling in my throat builds, I try and spit the taste of bile out of my mouth but it's too dry. What fucking ugly colors...
[Open to Luke]
Post Office Paddock
I look off into the setting sun's fading colors as I sit on some wooden fence at the back of some barn in town. As I lean forward, my feet secure my balance against the rails while my elbows prop up the rest of me. All of it held up by the bottle of alcohol in my hands. I swallow down the swollen throat and stinging eyes. Down where it belongs and deserves to be. Fucker keeps rising no matter how many times I swallow. My eyes focus on the clouds above the distance hills. The clouds are a beautiful bloody orange from the fading sun. So beautiful... The chuckle that escapes sounds too much like a sob.
We traveled so much. All I remember in the beginning was traveling. I was born into it. That's all life was to me. The caravans and climates changed frequently. Sometimes we were even on foot. Fuck that 'sometimes'...always. I didn't understand what she was doing at the time but now as I think back, bile rises. I still can't do it like her. My face is filled with rage when I do those things. Her's was so calm. No thought, just gutting a fish as fast as you can so you can move onto the next one. I stood in the over-sized cloak she made me wear on the road, frozen with more than just the frigid air as she knelt next to the men she ran through. Going through their pockets and belongings while they lay helpless, their eyes wide as they watched it happen while choking on their own blood. The men would mouth pleas as she snapped their fingers at the base of the hand. Do that, and the rings come off a lot easier when you cut off the fingers with a knife. I was always learning, no matter where we went.
I stand off to the side, enough behind my mother that I have to lean to see around her. The temple is cold, but warmer than the road. I am not even tall enough to reach her hip. I know this because I remember reaching up for her. Trying to at least grab her hand. She would swat me away, her whisper harsh as she tells me how rude and weak it looks. Instead I stand, throat swelling as she talks with men. Men with long white facial hair, just sitting and listening to her. Always with eyes on me. As if they have never seen a child before. None of it made sense. It never did. What were they talking about? I can't remember. They only thing I do remember...was her telling them, "I want her to look as she is supposed to, not like a fucking freak."
The night comes and its cold enough to make a fire out in the field. Never could understand why people need a fire at night if it's warm. People always act so differently when the sun goes down. Most of the time to my advantage so who the fuck cares.
I passed the time by smoking and spitting every other drink I took into the fire for cheap entertainment. I don't remember what was so funny, but I was laughing a lot, falling onto my back while I was sitting at the fire. I don't remember why I was angry, throwing my empty bottles off into the night. I remember looking for that fence to sit on again, instead I walked right into it, falling forward over the fence and on the other side onto my back. I must have passed out pretty hard. I hope I didn't land in shit... I start to balance myself up with my elbows as I realize how thirsty I am. For fuck's sake, I swear those birds sound different in the morning. They pierce into your brain deep enough that you wanna kill yourself. Oh shit that just made me think, I hope I didn't drop any of my weapons.
Sun rises, pierces my head more than the fucking birds. I'm left looking at the colors of the dawn's sky. The swelling in my throat builds, I try and spit the taste of bile out of my mouth but it's too dry. What fucking ugly colors...
[Open to Luke]