vent writing

vent writing???

tw: blood and self harm mentions //

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Inhale. Exhale.

It takes a couple tries for my shitty lighter to catch, and as it does I hear the loud POP of my cheap cigarette lighting wrong. I feel a quick sear of hot ash land on my finger. I drop my smoke as I stick my burnt knuckle into my mouth. I watch as it rolls underneath the guardrail of the balcony and plummets the seven storeys to the ground below.

I simply blink at it and light another one. What's the point.

It's freezing outside. I haven't slept properly in days. The cacophony of the freeway makes it hard to hear my own thoughts - but, right now, that's a blessing.

Still, the moon is bright enough to count my breaths in the chilly air.

Inhale. Exhale.

I know I'm going to have to turn around soon. Confront the consequences of my frustrations and headaches.

But for now, I have me, my smoke, and the moon.

It tastes like a driveway and it burns like hell. I don't feel like I'm in my body. I don't know how long I've been sitting out here.

I wait until my fingers are blistered and throbbing. They toy with another butt in the carton for a moment, but I feel sick.

Inhale. Exhale.

The bite from the air mixes with the heaviness in my lungs. Not pleasant, but I can feel it.

Turn around.

I try to keep my eyes on the ground as I slink inside. It doesn't work. Immediately I'm confronted with reflective shards littering the ground, peppered with crimson.

Idiot.

I can see fragments of myself all over the floor, but I can't recognize the person. The material behind what used to be a mirror is slightly carved and bent, but you can tell the fist that made it was weak. Slow. Empty.

I grab one of the pieces and feel another warm, painful rush of blood down my palm and wrist. I should clean this all up. But I'm so tired.

I lay down among the glittering shards and light another cigarette. I can pretend it's alright for one more night.

Inhale. Exhale.

CODE BY TESSISAMESS

november writing challenge: Day 3

Day 3: Grandma's House

Now send your character to his or her grumpy grandmother's house for a visit. Write the scene of your character's arrival.

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"Who the fuck is that?"

I stifle an easy laugh as I hear a rustling behind the old, beat-down door. A short, scrawny old lady with wildly unkempt hair peers at me through the bug screen littered with holes.

I offer a smile.

"Who the fuck are you?"

It takes a moment. Then I hear the howling, cackling belly laugh that doesn't look like it should come from a woman of her size. She throws open the door and ushers me inside.

"It's good to see you, gam," I smile as I lean in to give her a hug. I feel a sharp smack at the back of my head.

"Where the hell have you been? You're as bad as your goddamn father. You never visit. I could be dead, you know."

I rub the sore spot and give her a smart glance. "I'm glad you're not." She shakes her head at me and snorts. It's hard to believe that's her way of saying "thank you."

The walls in her trailer are yellow and peeling from how much she smokes. I watch as the 80 year old woman takes a massive rip from a bong as big as she is, and smoothly breathe it into the humid air. There's a few fans running, but the thick heat of the Ontario summer pays no mind.

There's a faint smell of cat pee and microwave meals in the air, too, but everyone in this park is so close together that the smells could be coming from anywhere. I sit down a little too hard on the couch, and gam snaps at me to be careful.

Then she packs me a bowl and we get high together.

I guess it took me a while to say anything, or maybe I had a look on my face. I don't know. I feel my grandma grip a bony hand around my shoulder.

"You're not always gonna be fuckin' miserable, kid."

I smile again. She probably sees through it - mothers and grandmothers just get that sort of thing - but she doesn't say anything else.

There's kids running around outside, enjoying the final weeks of August, and their drunk parents aren't far off, arguing about the proper way to start a grill or what time the smoke shop closes. Sometimes, in a rare second of stillness, a ricocheting gunshot can be heard as the nearby hunters fell their prey.

"Do you think the people around here are happy?" I ask her quietly. I expect another stream of profanities, but she gives me another belly laugh, quieter and deeper this time. I look at her, and expect her to say something profound. Some of that generational wisdom I've heard so much about.

Instead she replies, "how the hell should I know how other people feel?"

She cuts me off before I can give her a snappy reply. "You know what your problem is? You worry too much about others, and about all these ideals. Your heads been in the clouds since you were a boy. That can be good. But come back down and talk it out with us once and a while, yeah? Nobody's gonna help you if you can't come out and say it."

I bring my knees in a little closer to my chest. I almost expect another smack.

"Are you happy, gams?"

I see an eyeroll and a withering glance. After a moment, the edge of her lip cracks up, and I see her reaching for her unnecessarily giant water pipe again.

"I've got a dumbass grandson and all the weed I can smoke, kid. What else is there to be happy about?"

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A/N: Day 3 is LATE but here it is!!!! yay!!!!

CODE BY TESSISAMESS

its always moodboard hours

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