Sky's The Limit

xlvii

forty seven | ishaan

I was on my third blunt, unsure if I could get any higher than I already was. I marched on with my quest anyhow, hoping that if I got high enough, I'd never have to look sobriety in the face ever again.

In my elevated headspace, it was quiet. Finally quiet.

With a mind that usually mass produced thoughts as if Henry Ford himself saw to it, I found my remedy as quickly as I could. Since then, even my most pressing concerns were muted.

Silence became my best friend, even outside of my mind.

I hadn't spoken since Will's repast. Not even to Autumn.

"You not talkin' now?" was the last thing she asked after realizing that I hadn't responded to any of her attempts to converse.

I shook my head, and that was all she needed.

The conversation ended with her timid "okay," and that was it.

Since then, that's how we'd communicate. She'd come by when she could— between working and preparing for the fast-approaching fall semester— and keep me company for as long as she could.

As a man that could never get enough of her, any time that wasn't all the time didn't suffice.

But I didn't want to break my silence for something so petty, especially if it'd only lead us back to the same argument we always have.

That was a perk of being silent— no arguing. No bickering about shit that we always bicker about.

Shit, we didn't even argue about the engagement being called off.

It was hard not to— especially given the fact that it felt like Will's wish for our union seemed to go in vain— but in the end, what good would fighting about it have done?

It surely wouldn't have done me any favors.

But it definitely would've given me a place to pour all the things I was keeping submerged in my psyche.

That was the not-so-fun part of silence— the internal suffering.

I put up with it anyway, figuring that no matter how weighed down I became with my own bullshit, there was no feeling heavier than the loss of life.

So, the quest to sedate such agony journeyed on with another blunt.

The locks of my home were turned by an unexpected force, metallic jingling and heavy clicking entering my sanctuary of solitude before Autumn did the same.

"Honey, I'm home!" she chuckled, the door thudding as she used her weight to close it. Once the locks were re-engaged, she approached with a paper grocery bag and a smile in tote.

She greeted me affectionately despite my lips being preoccupied with the sealing of tobacco paper. Her sweet kisses were stamped all over my face before her brown paper bag was set on the coffee table, next to the guts of a cigarillo.

"You talkin' today?" she asked, squeezing in between me and the arm of the couch despite there being much more room for her to sit on the opposite side of me.

I shook my head, grabbing my lighter to reinforce the sealing of the weed-packed leaf.

"Okay. I see you got some actual clothes on today. You went to the studio?"

I shook my head.

She looked at the coffee table, noticing that there was more weed there today than yesterday, most of which was still in the baggie in which it came. "You must've just went to Branson's."