Malachi (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} going_cheap) wrote,@ 2006-02-01 12:39:00 |
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Malachi - It's Good to Have a Plan
Title: It's Good to Have a Plan
Verse/characters: Rare Birds, Malachi
Prompt: 008 - Weeks
Word Count: 513
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Malachi is eighteen-years-old. He's been in the park for a few weeks, spending his time tricking to score drugs, doing drugs, wash, rinse, repeat. His muse mommy is disappointed in his behavior. Warnings for mention of prositution and drug use.
When the days can’t be counted on his hands anymore, and he forgets when Saturday comes and what day the Soup Girl is coming with Styrofoam cups of salty noodles, Malachi starts making up stories.
He makes up stories in the shadows of the brush and the pine trees next to the tennis courts. He makes up stories under the footpath bridge where the sleeping bags don’t belong to anyone and you just share them because they keep the bugs off at night. He makes up stories on the park benches that circle the mosaic on the hill, and he makes up stories when he’s pushing down his jeans and making sex noises against his arm.
All the stories start the same way, up the stairs to Joshua’s apartment. The overhead light flickers and buzzes, surrounded by two sheer moths that can’t find their way out to the moon. His shoes clip clop like hooves against the concrete steps and he zigzags along, crossing from one worn-out wooden handrail to the next until he finds himself on the second floor. He walks down the hall, following the narrow path of two stained floorboards that creak faintly. When he looks up, he reads the letter and number on the door out loud, just to make sure he has the right one. A4 in tarnished brass, hanging crooked where one little nail has rusted away.
He knocks on the door, takes two steps back, and waits for the noises that tell him that Joshua is home, tucked safely away in his apartment. Joshua has a fridge full of orange juice and a window that’s always open.
When the door creaks the story changes. Sometimes he bolts away, terrified as a cat dodging the wheels of a motorbike down the back alley. Sometimes he looks up and sees nothing but an empty apartment with empty walls and cold, abandoned air. Sometimes he kneels before Joshua’s surprised form, reaching out with steady hands to offer the boy the signs of his contrition. He lays out a little plastic bag, a square of foil, a dulled syringe and a purple lighter—-arranged like the sacrament against the floorboards at Joshua’s feet. Sometimes he reaches inside of himself and offers each tight breath he takes, his words balled up and locked away because he’s forgotten how to speak and only Joshua can put his hands on him and let him breathe free.
Swinging before dawn on the hard plastic seat at the playground, Malachi rehearses his vows under his breath, his fingers tight on the chains at his side and his shoes leaving deep furrows in the rock-candy sand at his feet. He closes his eyes, lashes fading into the dark smudged lines he’s scrawled carefully with a broken Cover Girl liner that rolls around at the bottom of his backpack. He tilts his chin until he can feel the chill of the swing's chain through his hair where he rests his head above his hand and lets the empty story end with Joshua’s warm hands touching his face.
Title: It's Good to Have a Plan
Verse/characters: Rare Birds, Malachi
Prompt: 008 - Weeks
Word Count: 513
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Malachi is eighteen-years-old. He's been in the park for a few weeks, spending his time tricking to score drugs, doing drugs, wash, rinse, repeat. His muse mommy is disappointed in his behavior. Warnings for mention of prositution and drug use.
When the days can’t be counted on his hands anymore, and he forgets when Saturday comes and what day the Soup Girl is coming with Styrofoam cups of salty noodles, Malachi starts making up stories.
He makes up stories in the shadows of the brush and the pine trees next to the tennis courts. He makes up stories under the footpath bridge where the sleeping bags don’t belong to anyone and you just share them because they keep the bugs off at night. He makes up stories on the park benches that circle the mosaic on the hill, and he makes up stories when he’s pushing down his jeans and making sex noises against his arm.
All the stories start the same way, up the stairs to Joshua’s apartment. The overhead light flickers and buzzes, surrounded by two sheer moths that can’t find their way out to the moon. His shoes clip clop like hooves against the concrete steps and he zigzags along, crossing from one worn-out wooden handrail to the next until he finds himself on the second floor. He walks down the hall, following the narrow path of two stained floorboards that creak faintly. When he looks up, he reads the letter and number on the door out loud, just to make sure he has the right one. A4 in tarnished brass, hanging crooked where one little nail has rusted away.
He knocks on the door, takes two steps back, and waits for the noises that tell him that Joshua is home, tucked safely away in his apartment. Joshua has a fridge full of orange juice and a window that’s always open.
When the door creaks the story changes. Sometimes he bolts away, terrified as a cat dodging the wheels of a motorbike down the back alley. Sometimes he looks up and sees nothing but an empty apartment with empty walls and cold, abandoned air. Sometimes he kneels before Joshua’s surprised form, reaching out with steady hands to offer the boy the signs of his contrition. He lays out a little plastic bag, a square of foil, a dulled syringe and a purple lighter—-arranged like the sacrament against the floorboards at Joshua’s feet. Sometimes he reaches inside of himself and offers each tight breath he takes, his words balled up and locked away because he’s forgotten how to speak and only Joshua can put his hands on him and let him breathe free.
Swinging before dawn on the hard plastic seat at the playground, Malachi rehearses his vows under his breath, his fingers tight on the chains at his side and his shoes leaving deep furrows in the rock-candy sand at his feet. He closes his eyes, lashes fading into the dark smudged lines he’s scrawled carefully with a broken Cover Girl liner that rolls around at the bottom of his backpack. He tilts his chin until he can feel the chill of the swing's chain through his hair where he rests his head above his hand and lets the empty story end with Joshua’s warm hands touching his face.
