ROSSI WAS GOING TO DIE TONIGHT.
His foot pressed harder against the pedal, the swell of smoke pusling in his lungs, the ever-presenting stutter of his heart reminding him he was alive.
And he fucking hated it.
Rossi blinked the tears from his eyes. He wished that it would stop sputtering. Just for a moment. For a moment he could feel death tickle with crooked fingers. To taste satan's lips and hear him whisper "welcome home."
Rossi held his breath, hoping with flushed cheeks that the smoke would kill him faster.
He exhaled.
Not yet not yet not yet.
He wanted to laugh. It wasn't the smoke strangling him, but the self-hatred crooning in his gut. Feeding off of him like a fucking plague. It was loud, in his head, crooning and cackling at him, devouring him. It was disgusting. He was disgusting. The disgust was so thick in his mouth, he could stick his fingers down his throat and feel it pulsing between the walls of his flesh. Alive.
Rossi flicked his tongue around his cigarette, his pale fingers gripping the wheel a bit harder. This town, a town of ghosts, a town of porcelain-skinned girls and bloodied knuckled boys, had come to be the gas station of his self-hatred. If he were to make this a metaphor (Rossi was a slut for metaphors, unfortunately), he'd say that this Gas Station Town was the place he stopped daily to pump disgust into the hollows of his bones. Over and over and over until he couldn't breath. Until he had to remind himself he wasn't dead, not yet, but, God, did he want to be.
But then, there was the ocean.
It was on his right side. He continued to drive along the coast. Wind gushed wildly from his windows, tasting like salt thick on his tongue. He ran his hand through his soft curls. Rossi watched the ocean trip to keep up keep up keep up keep
Don't worry, he wanted to say.
I'll be home soon, he wanted to say.
He drove and drove and held his breath and cried. God, did he cry. He cried for his mother, who would never know him. For his father, who wished the best for him. For his sister, who loved him so much that it hurt him. He did not cry for himself. He did not have any tears left for himself.
He never did.
And maybe, rossi figured, that was what was wrong g with him. He left nothing for himself, he gave his all for other people, he took all from other people, too (for that selfish beast in his head, always talking talking talking. Get out get out get out, he wanted to scream) but never, ever left anything for himself.
He drove his stupid car along the coast and through town until all there was were jagged cliffs and an now angry ocean and a voice singing come home come home come home
we will love you
And that was all he wanted. An unending love. Rossi wanted an unending love. Was that too much, for a boy like him?
So he slowed down, stumbled out of his car, fell to his knees. Staggered to his feet. He moved as if he were underwater. Slowly, however not methodically. The moon wasn't out tonight. He noticed this because the moon always held him close, and it wasn't here tonight because it was waiting for him. The moon was just beneath the waves, swimming, sleeping, laughing, waiting.
The moon whispered come home, Rossi.
"I am," he whispered back, toes nearing the edge. The wind whipped at his dark clothes, ruffled his black hair, pinched his pale cheeks. He took one last drag of his smoke. Wiped his eyes. "I'm coming, i'm coming."
He stood fully at the edge now, the sea's fingers reaching towards him, itching at the rocks belong. Singing:
come
home we will
love
you
"Please." Rossi nodded again. The stars seemed to lean closer, breaths held in their flaming lungs. He yearned to touch them, tuck it between his ribs to fill the void.
Its okay, they whispered. You'll be okay.
"I believe, God, I believe you." Tears and snot pooled in the corners of his mouth, he tasted blood from where he bit his tongue.
He heard of Icarus. A boy who thought he could fly with wings his father crafted for him. Rossi's father thought the story was bullshit, but Rossi liked to think that one day, he could fly too. Rossi, dismally, did not. But he had lungs and he hoped that they were filled with enough smoke and hate and anger and disgust to drown him.
"I'm coming home," he said.
then
jumped.
NOTE:
so i didnt know if i was going to continue with this story, but i considered it, and i guess i am?? ill be reviewing the chapters, editing like i did this one, making it a bit less cluttered! (its hard because Rossi's head is sort of cluttered itself, so idk) hopefully you guys like it, because i really love these characters, i do, and i hope you do, too.
