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Act I: General Anesthetic; cool kids only. ask before posting, please!
Topic Started: Oct 6 2010, 01:45 AM (2,196 Views)
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throw that pussy like i'm famous
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((Jackson Ockley and Ilario Fiametta III continued from Unquestioned Answers))

“Shut it off.”

There was nervous shuffling beside him. An elbow grazed his and finally a click as the flashlight unlit. It was violently and coldly dark until their eyes adjusted. He could feel the smaller boy tense in the absence of brighter light. They were uncomfortably close, but Jackson could not dare himself to move. He felt they would both crumble if he did. They were spent in their ways: the Fiametta had spewed on for miles about every anxiety while Jackson’s throat caved further and further from disuse. He could feel something of them both seeping out and trailing behind them as they walked, even as they sat. He, at least, was not himself. He’d thought the back of his tongue eternally stained in coffee and smoke (there was a tugging at his chest and he ignored it) but now it left the reeks of salt water and vomit on his breath. He’d always been small but his meekness seemed inherited by his partner and on this different scale he felt impossibly, awkwardly tall. Worst was the cold. His bones were stiff with frost. He thought of the trash under the passenger’s seat of Cedric’s father’s Escalade in that first winter of not being Jack but Jackson (though Cedric would never know it) and how the cold slow trash didn’t feel like garbage at all when it was this cold and though he didn’t remember saying it out loud they both started laughing. It was an image that always resurfaced in the cold. Maybe the cold was a blessing. Maybe he’d warm only to find his bones felt like trash and the last of him was long gone.

The smaller boy jumped at the first click. Jackson hardly remembered taking the white plastic Zippo lighter from his pocket. He flicked again and more fire jumped up. He thought of doing the trick, the one where he set his palm on fire. He wondered if the boy would be impressed. He flicked one more time and slipped it back into his pocket. They were silent again.

He shivered. The other coughed. There were faint awful sounds somewhere in the growth. An animal and cooling prey. After a while, it stopped. It was lighter now. They were still. There was a tugging at his chest and he ignored it. They were still awake. They were silent again.

He went to speak but the stillness had invaded his throat. The smaller boy pulled his legs closer. They were silent again.

There were more noises. Shuffling in the woods, unanimal. They held their breath. It faded. They breathed. They were silent again.

There was a tugging at his chest. He ignored it.

It tugged again. He ignored it.

Finally, he could ignore it no more.

Jackson worked his shoulder back carefully but underestimated the stiffened damage. Ill thin pain shot through his back. He grunted. The other boy couldn’t apologize but the stench of bashful guilt was there. He worked the bag towards him, carefuller still, until the brown heavy thing was in his lap. His good hand dug. He knew the shape well by now, though this one in particular. It was wider and thinner and felt more expensive than his regular kind. They were, of course, more expensive. Kurt had made that very clear. No expense was spared for such a critical occasion. Jackson had been so angry at first. He wouldn’t even touch them. Then he did out of misery and tight-chested desperation and he knew Kurt was right and hated him for it. That one little space taunted him for the next week. He forced himself away. He was horrible and miserable and nobody noticed. He drank more coffee than ever.

Finally his finger jabbed at a stiff corner and he drew it out. Djarum Blacks. Nineteen of them. The smell of the cloves pawed at him even caged and at arm’s length. He delicately/deliberately flipped the box open, put it to his face and drew a fresh black deathstick out with his teeth while his more useless hand groped for his lighter. Click. The tobacco roared with fire. He drank deeply, expanded as far as possible. Held. Let go and the smoke carried it all off. He could feel foul relief across his face and chest and in a certain warm and vital swell.

You smoke like it means something to you, he had said. That’s what scares me.

He drew again
considered briefly.

Would he be offended? He could feel the doe-light eyes on him but not what they said. Would it matter if he was?
He let the sweet black stick hang between his knuckles and extended it to his left.

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