Post by Mama Oak on Jan 3, 2014 0:08:09 GMT -5
The sweet buzz of nicotine swirled behind her eyes and made her hand quiver as she started to type. Or maybe it was the wine. One-handed and clumsy, her fingers taped at the keys absently, a smile of sheer oblivion pulling across her lips as she took another drag of the cancer-stick; trying not to think at all about what her drunken conscious was attempting to articulate. She definitely shouldn't be trying to write, Dallas knew, but still the fingers of her right hand flew over the keys in a drunken grace (that she was nearly certain was a romantic delusion of her blurring mind). Meanwhile, her left hand flicked the accumulating ash from the cigarette's end. All at once, as she glanced up from the keyboard to watch curiously as the black words materialized (almost with no real instruction from her brain) on the white backdrop of her Word document, Dallas realized she was awfully tired. But then, she had been tired all week. In fact, she had slept more than two-thirds of the last seven days, give or take — she didn't care enough to pause and actually count the wasted hours. Legs folded beneath her, the girl smiled bitterly and (for a moment) let her head loll to the side. But remembering the cigarette in her hand, she opened her eyes with a small giggle. How silly it would be of her, to fall asleep and consequently burn down the house. What, oh what, would dearest Mommy think?
Dallas hadn't been doing well lately. She, herself, might even venture to claim that she was rather jaded. But she was only seventeen after all, so how could that be? Eyes narrowing, she stopped her typing and opened a new tab on her internet browser to look up the meaning of the word 'jaded'. Did it mean what she thought it did? Was she using it right? As her slow, dial-up modem loaded the page at an agonizing pace that she had grown used to over the years, she laughed at herself. Why should it matter if she was using the word right? There was a ninety-seven percent chance that the entirety of what she was writing didn't make sense. Although it seemed rather coherent to her now, she would wake up in the morning (probably a bit sore, but honestly no more sore than she had felt waking up every other day this week), read through the mess she had sloppily-articulated, and shake her head with what could only be a saddened sense of shameful amusement. Seeing that the Google search results had loaded, she minimized her Word document and read over the concise web definition. Yes, she decided... yes, 'jaded' would work. The word had had a little more of a depressing and heavy connotation when she had chosen it, but it would do nonetheless.
Seeing that the half-smoked cigarette she had salvaged from her mother's bedroom ashtray had lived the remainder of its life, Dallas studied it thoughtfully. Then, pouring a little of the sweet wine into her empty coffee cup, she made to toss the burning butt into the swirling, red-violet depths. But the blazing cherry (the last breath of the cigarette's life, seeking to escape its inevitable extinguish-ment) fell off and toppled onto her keyboard, nestling itself between the line of neatly-spaced numbers and the similarly-spaced function keys. Well, shoot. For a moment she watched it smolder, not quite knowing yet what to do. But then, fearing it would bore an unmistakable mark upon the keyboard, she quickly picked up the entire device and flipped it over the coffee cup, smiling proudly at the quick, sizzling sound of the embers dying in the wine.
After a time of prideful contemplation, Dallas's hands — both of them now — returned to the keyboard, where they laid lightly... naturally... upon the home keys. After a long moment of staring blankly at the screen though, she gave up, swigged the last of the red wine, and pushed from her desk. Stepping over the sleeping dog in the middle of the living room floor, she ambled to the kitchen, tossed the bottle into the trashcan (where it collided noisily with the other emptied bottle of better-tasting red), and proceeded to the refrigerator, where she took out the only remaining bottle. She didn't particularly like the bitter taste of white wine, but at this point she no longer cared. She would finish this one, too. Her mother would be angry with her when she got home in three days, but to hell with it.
Pulling the cork free with her teeth, randomly reminding herself to brush and floss them before she passed out for the night, Dallas paused to listen to the sad song playing on the stereo. She had downloaded it earlier, cried to it for a good few minutes, and then put it on repeat. For the last two hours, the same three minutes and forty-six seconds had been on constant loop, and still the words could get to her. Feeling her face contort and her eyes water, she lifted the bottle to her lips and let the liquid slide down her throat. But it only took a tiny sip before she was shaking her head, replacing the cork, and returning the wine to its shelf. Nope, she couldn't do the white. Her mother could have the white. Perhaps her leaving it would lessen the fury when it came. At least she didn't drink all of the wine.
With a weighing glance at the half-emptied pot of coffee across the kitchen, Dallas took the gallon of 'Arizona Tea' instead and forced herself to the cabinet for a cup. By the time she returned to her computer desk and the open Word document, the melancholy song had replayed itself twice. A message notification blinked on her phone, but she didn't pay it any attention. At times like this, she made it a point not to push her blubbering self-deprecation upon those very few people who were gracious enough to put up with her at all. Instead, she leaned over to choose a different song and tried again to type. But the words were no longer flowing as freely as they had been, so she saved the document and began looking through the rest of her open windows; the images of celebrities and cats that she could edit into signatures, avatars, and templates. Because that was always something to do. That was her usual distraction. And she couldn't go to sleep, not yet. She had wasted too much of her holiday break trying to sleep off whatever funk had been looming over her for months, following just a hairsbreadth behind her every movement and waiting for her to stumble so it could finally descend and consume her — no, she could stay awake a little longer. Maybe even find another half-smoked cigarette, if she was lucky.
But one wandering look about her computer desk, and her eye caught the sharp gleam of the box-cutter she had found in her mother's room when scrounging for her first smoke. She had forgotten that she had grabbed it, rather instinctively, and brought it to the computer with her. It had stayed where she had abandoned it (where she had exchanged it for a lighter), simply waiting to catch her gaze.
Her lips parted. It had been so long since she had sought that type of release... so long since she had lingered in the afterglow of that sweet, throbbing pain...
As she realized the temptation and the fact she was actually considering it, Dallas shoved herself from the computer desk with an angry cry and was immediately on her feet, pulling her long hair into a quick, messy pony-tail. The tears were on her cheeks, but she was completely silent; lips pressed in a firm frown of determination, too tight to permit any sobs. When her hair was sloppily-secured, she moved hastily to the kitchen and plucked the quarter of a cigarette from the ashtray. Then, with a heavy stride, she made for the front door. Pausing at her computer desk (and making certain not to glance at the taunting razor-blade), she grabbed the hoody that lay draped on the back of her chair, unplugged her phone from where it was charging, dropped it in her pocket, swiped up her mother's lighter, threw open the front door and stepped, unblinkingly, into the cold, January night. Closing the door behind her and placing the cigarette between her lips, she shrugged on the hoody and made her way to the sidewalk. With no particular direction in mind, she simply began to walk. After lighting the cigarette and inhaling a relieved breath of steadying nicotine, she returned the lighter to her pocket and wiped the tears from her cheeks.
She'd be okay. She usually was, after awhile. The fresh air would do it, surely. Eventually.
Dallas hadn't been doing well lately. She, herself, might even venture to claim that she was rather jaded. But she was only seventeen after all, so how could that be? Eyes narrowing, she stopped her typing and opened a new tab on her internet browser to look up the meaning of the word 'jaded'. Did it mean what she thought it did? Was she using it right? As her slow, dial-up modem loaded the page at an agonizing pace that she had grown used to over the years, she laughed at herself. Why should it matter if she was using the word right? There was a ninety-seven percent chance that the entirety of what she was writing didn't make sense. Although it seemed rather coherent to her now, she would wake up in the morning (probably a bit sore, but honestly no more sore than she had felt waking up every other day this week), read through the mess she had sloppily-articulated, and shake her head with what could only be a saddened sense of shameful amusement. Seeing that the Google search results had loaded, she minimized her Word document and read over the concise web definition. Yes, she decided... yes, 'jaded' would work. The word had had a little more of a depressing and heavy connotation when she had chosen it, but it would do nonetheless.
Seeing that the half-smoked cigarette she had salvaged from her mother's bedroom ashtray had lived the remainder of its life, Dallas studied it thoughtfully. Then, pouring a little of the sweet wine into her empty coffee cup, she made to toss the burning butt into the swirling, red-violet depths. But the blazing cherry (the last breath of the cigarette's life, seeking to escape its inevitable extinguish-ment) fell off and toppled onto her keyboard, nestling itself between the line of neatly-spaced numbers and the similarly-spaced function keys. Well, shoot. For a moment she watched it smolder, not quite knowing yet what to do. But then, fearing it would bore an unmistakable mark upon the keyboard, she quickly picked up the entire device and flipped it over the coffee cup, smiling proudly at the quick, sizzling sound of the embers dying in the wine.
After a time of prideful contemplation, Dallas's hands — both of them now — returned to the keyboard, where they laid lightly... naturally... upon the home keys. After a long moment of staring blankly at the screen though, she gave up, swigged the last of the red wine, and pushed from her desk. Stepping over the sleeping dog in the middle of the living room floor, she ambled to the kitchen, tossed the bottle into the trashcan (where it collided noisily with the other emptied bottle of better-tasting red), and proceeded to the refrigerator, where she took out the only remaining bottle. She didn't particularly like the bitter taste of white wine, but at this point she no longer cared. She would finish this one, too. Her mother would be angry with her when she got home in three days, but to hell with it.
Pulling the cork free with her teeth, randomly reminding herself to brush and floss them before she passed out for the night, Dallas paused to listen to the sad song playing on the stereo. She had downloaded it earlier, cried to it for a good few minutes, and then put it on repeat. For the last two hours, the same three minutes and forty-six seconds had been on constant loop, and still the words could get to her. Feeling her face contort and her eyes water, she lifted the bottle to her lips and let the liquid slide down her throat. But it only took a tiny sip before she was shaking her head, replacing the cork, and returning the wine to its shelf. Nope, she couldn't do the white. Her mother could have the white. Perhaps her leaving it would lessen the fury when it came. At least she didn't drink all of the wine.
With a weighing glance at the half-emptied pot of coffee across the kitchen, Dallas took the gallon of 'Arizona Tea' instead and forced herself to the cabinet for a cup. By the time she returned to her computer desk and the open Word document, the melancholy song had replayed itself twice. A message notification blinked on her phone, but she didn't pay it any attention. At times like this, she made it a point not to push her blubbering self-deprecation upon those very few people who were gracious enough to put up with her at all. Instead, she leaned over to choose a different song and tried again to type. But the words were no longer flowing as freely as they had been, so she saved the document and began looking through the rest of her open windows; the images of celebrities and cats that she could edit into signatures, avatars, and templates. Because that was always something to do. That was her usual distraction. And she couldn't go to sleep, not yet. She had wasted too much of her holiday break trying to sleep off whatever funk had been looming over her for months, following just a hairsbreadth behind her every movement and waiting for her to stumble so it could finally descend and consume her — no, she could stay awake a little longer. Maybe even find another half-smoked cigarette, if she was lucky.
But one wandering look about her computer desk, and her eye caught the sharp gleam of the box-cutter she had found in her mother's room when scrounging for her first smoke. She had forgotten that she had grabbed it, rather instinctively, and brought it to the computer with her. It had stayed where she had abandoned it (where she had exchanged it for a lighter), simply waiting to catch her gaze.
Her lips parted. It had been so long since she had sought that type of release... so long since she had lingered in the afterglow of that sweet, throbbing pain...
As she realized the temptation and the fact she was actually considering it, Dallas shoved herself from the computer desk with an angry cry and was immediately on her feet, pulling her long hair into a quick, messy pony-tail. The tears were on her cheeks, but she was completely silent; lips pressed in a firm frown of determination, too tight to permit any sobs. When her hair was sloppily-secured, she moved hastily to the kitchen and plucked the quarter of a cigarette from the ashtray. Then, with a heavy stride, she made for the front door. Pausing at her computer desk (and making certain not to glance at the taunting razor-blade), she grabbed the hoody that lay draped on the back of her chair, unplugged her phone from where it was charging, dropped it in her pocket, swiped up her mother's lighter, threw open the front door and stepped, unblinkingly, into the cold, January night. Closing the door behind her and placing the cigarette between her lips, she shrugged on the hoody and made her way to the sidewalk. With no particular direction in mind, she simply began to walk. After lighting the cigarette and inhaling a relieved breath of steadying nicotine, she returned the lighter to her pocket and wiped the tears from her cheeks.
She'd be okay. She usually was, after awhile. The fresh air would do it, surely. Eventually.