❝in which he reminisces the boy he loved❞
― *
Anthony Ashford is the embodiment of every parent's worst nightmare: pickpocketing, smoking, and wreaking havoc wherever he goes. He's familiar with fights, swearing at elderly couples down the street i...
... maybe when i was a kid, i was dropped on my head, yeah, that would make some sense...
from: nothing but thieves, ❝ soda❞ 🎼
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[ APRIL 19, 2023 ]
Dear K —my North Star,
We met in a police cell.
But, I couldn't remember how I ended up there or the reason for being confined in that cell.
You see, I had a problem of being physically present, but mentally absent. It felt like I was tethered to my body by a fragile thread, my mind slipping into an abyss. Everything would dissolve into darkness, a void where time lost its meaning. I struggled to grasp fragments of reality, but it was like trying to catch smoke between my fingers. My therapist called it a blackout — a label that fell short of capturing the sheer emptiness that enveloped me during those episodes. The night I met you marked the longest blackout I had ever experienced— two hours. I didn't know what I had done during those two hours to end up in Harlow Falls Police Station.
The smell of vomit, sweat and alcohol was unbearable. It made my skin crawl with irritation. My face was covered in bruises and I had blood in my fingernails. Every inch of my body throbbed with pain. Telephones rang, sirens blared in the air, intercom announcements filled the station, and the continuous opening and closing of doors made my head spin.
It felt like my head was going to explode.
Then, in that moment, your first words to me painted the beginning of our story:
"You look terrible."
My gaze shifted toward you, gracefully seated in the adjacent cell. Blonde tendrils, still damp, framed your face in gentle, curling waves. In those green eyes of yours, a delicate dance of emotions played, slipping through my fingers like elusive notes of a love song. You appeared immaculate — too pristine for any wrongdoing. Sparkling white shoes, a crisply ironed shirt, and those elegant wide-leg jeans, too refined for the confines of a jail. And in your hands, a sketchbook; you looked out of place.
I had no idea who you were or why you were bothering me. Irritation fueled my response. "And you look like shit." I shot back, wincing as pain flared with the movement of my jaw.
A smirk played on your lips as your eyes darted between my face and whatever was on that sketchbook. "We both know that's not true. I happen to be quite handsome."
Instantly, I hated you.
You radiated an air of self-importance, and your posture screamed arrogance. I had no desire to engage in conversation, but you seemed to believe everyone loved to hear you talk, so you continued.
