pretty chapped lips : malum :

4.3

There wasn't some kind of dramatic confrontation. There was no yelling, no tears shed with emotions running high and wild: I think we both had enough of that the night prior. I didn't see a point in making a scene - more, I was too afraid that he could so easily snap to hating me got calling out his actions. So, I decided against it, maybe in spite of my better judgement.

Due to this, I wasn't even the one to mention it in the first place.

"I'm sorry."

It was drifting closer to night, the sun close to setting as it stole away the light we had been basking in for far longer than I had realised. In that decrepit old park, with lonesome swing sets that lay unused and unloved was where we spent the better part of the day. We sat perilously atop the old jungle gym that had long since began falling apart, legs through the bars and arms folded on once useful rails. He spoke so suddenly, without reason it seemed, that I wondered if he had even said anything at all and it was only my mind playing tricks once again.

"It's fine." I think I shrugged, even if I barely remember the action it was more than likely. Edging closer to something you should, feeling the barbs of the wire brushing skin and still they push: off handed is the only real response to have.

"You shouldn't let yourself be pushed around so easy, take lead of your own life - shit - stop letting people do it for you."

I wanted to be offended. I knew that was a normal response to someone insinuating that I was practically a puppet. But even if it hurt to realise, he was right. Like always, he was right and it was the most infuriating thing I've ever experienced in my life.

I could only sigh, watching the side of his face as no matter how I wanted him too, he wouldn't turn to face me. "Why does it concern you what I do or don't do?"

"Because I cant keep pushing you around and try to convince myself you want this shit life too."

There was silence. Like the birds, the cars and even the rusting leaves knew not to disturb the moment. I didnt say anything, but i tried. I tried to find the words, tried to wrap my mind around his words instead of letting them surround me like a fog so dense I couldnt see a hand in front of my face much less his blank expression.

"No one is ever really themselves once they get on something - are they?"

It was as if he was talking to himself as despite the question that past his lips hung between us, he didnt even pass a glance in my direction.

"You become someone - something - different. More extreme, to say the least. The worst part of yourself possible comes out to put on a show and wreak havoc on what youve struggled for with the best of yourself. But I guess its worth it sometimes."

"Is it?"

I wasnt sure if I really understood what he was talking about. It was like reading Shakespeare, almost understanding but never completely, just enough to get by and ride along to the next character interaction or monologue to dissect.

He still didnt look to me. Staring straight ahead like the sun set could tell him the answers hes been searching for.

"Maybe, maybe not." He faded off once again like bad connection. "Its just..."

"Not worth hurting people for?" When he finally looked at me, I couldnt understand the look in his eyes. It was sadness, but something else. Something strong like pain and maybe even something as deep as regret.

"Its not something you can just stop, Michael. You know that, right?" And I noticed it then, the change. The shift in his tone, his guard like the change in the tide. The shine to his eyes from more than the setting suns light, the white of his knuckles gripping the bar and how he seemed to be there. "Because trying isnt always good enough. Sometimes people aren't strong enough."

I was only sixteen years old, and he was just nineteen. And I realised then, when I took his hand from the railing it clung to and let it grip mine instead, that our ages were never the point. Because at sixteen I felt so low I swore I tasted burning flesh from drowning in the earths core. And because he was nineteen years old and afraid of what he had become to try and escape who he was.

I was just a kid; but I realised in that moment, when he clung to my hand like a life line the first time he let me see him cry: that so was he.

"We'll be strong enough."