Dirty Sneakers

I wonder if I seem silly to you, sitting here, trying to smoke a cigarette, and I don't smoke. Every time I take a drag I cough and wince at the pain in my lungs, cursing under my breath. You would probably appreciate it more than I do. You turn your head to the side, watching me. Your eyes seem to question, what's the point? Because it kills me just a little bit, every time.

I'm alone now, in a world of grief, spite, and desolation. The colors of my eyes shift to a stony gray, narrowing to watch nothing in the empty distance. I'm far away, angry and plotting some one's death, perhaps my own. Can anyone understand this solitude? Lamely attempting to smoke a cigarette I bummed off a stranger, I'm numb to everything except this ache. Some where on the fringe of sensation, I'm afraid I'm scaring you. My eyes focus again, and I look up at you and smile.

I smile to remind you I haven't forgotten you, and that I haven't forgotten myself, and I'm not crazy. I run my fingers back through my shoulder-length black hair, rub the re-growing once-shaven fuzz at the back of my neck, and stand from my position on the edge of the sidewalk. Your hand comes to rest on my shoulder, a comforting gesture, and that's how I know you've been paying attention. My eyes are planted on the ground, and I'm still not quite in this world, I refuse to be. I feel portions of my stony exterior melting away, showing the reality. I'm only a little too fragile; I think you knew that all along. Finishing my cigarette I drop it on the ground, squash the smoldering stub beneath my boot.

"Dylan," your name emerges from my mouth, my voice hoarse and sad. You look at me, almost startled that I acknowledged your existence. Before I can collapse you wrap your young arms around me, support me with your broad shoulders, holding me tightly. I can sense your concern, and your ineptitude, unsure of what to do or say.

"It's okay, Nothing," you whisper into my hair, desperately, even though your not sure it is. That's what friends are for, really.

I break down in your arms, and hurting so god damned much I wish I could keep pretending I were made of stone, of ice. I can't anymore though. I still have images of Jason in my head, chasing themselves around. I can still hear his voice, telling me he loves me, looking at me with those sweet brown eyes and asking me that bitter-sweet question. Do you love me? I loved him sometimes just because he was some one the world and god had forgotten. I loved him because it was my purpose to remember.

How long will it be before I allow myself to think of the reality, to acknowledge why I'm crying, why you're holding me this way? Some things I just don't want to remember, and right now I wish I was one of those girls who could forget themselves in drugs, in pills, in alcohol, in anything. I spent too much of my time playing those games with Jason though, and the rabbit hole was just too deep. The pain is too much, we're all too young, and none of us are ready.

You're wiping my eyes, soothing me and petting my hair, and I remember that I have to pull myself together. Breathing deeply, standing up straight, I wipe my nose on my torn, ragged, white, stained, woven cotton sweater. Jason loved this sweater; I sob at the thought, and then shake the tears away. Looking up at you through the veil of water in my eyes I see the sad look on your face, and I wish suddenly that this were all a stupid dream. He was your friend too.

I square my shoulders and take your strong hand in my small, soft one, and I squeeze tightly. Urging you gently, I walk back toward my house. I don't want to go home. I cough bitterly in the chilly winter air, staring at the ground while we walk, thanking every step that I chose to run as far as I did. I hear you take a deep breath, feel you look up at the sky while we walk.

"Don't let it drag you down."

I let go of your hand because I need space between me and you, if I'm going to listen, if I'm going to think.

"I mean it, please, you know. We all knew how he was. I know that look on your face," you sigh deeply, shove your hands deep into your pockets. It sweeps me up in an instant how much I mean to you, and tears fill my eyes. I was already set on my own death, subconsciously, and suddenly I know that is an option I can not take. There is no choice for me, I have to keep living. I have to keep living. Stopping in my tracks, I choke on air, look up, look at the ground, and shake my head. I want to scream. I want to blame some one; no, I want it to be my fault, because it easier to hate myself. I want it to be okay but it isn't, and it can't be.

"You have to stay with me, okay. I don't care what any one says okay they'll just have to-have to-have. they'll just have to get over it, okay? I-I can't be alone, rather...Please, just say you will, oh god, just promise me," my cheeks have become the river beds of my tears. You shrug a little, your hands still in your pockets.

"I just won't go home tonight, who gives cares if I get in trouble, nothing new."

I hug you tightly, squeezing your thin body of every drop of comfort I can gain.

"Thanks," I whisper desperately against the fabric of your shirt, and I've decided to stay alive. I wonder if you know how much pain I've been carrying inside me, how hard this is to carry too. I spend the rest of my walk home staring at my dirty black chuck shoes, wondering if anything would ever get better.