Fleeting Concepts, Strung Together

◇Sing Apologies and Stare

~stand alone~

"What did you do?"

Heavy footsteps banged on the old wood of the porch. They stopped behind a shadow silhouetted from the faint blues of twilight, silvery light given by the stars while they work hard to shine in the moonless sky. A creak permeated silence as the man shifted in place.

The shadow slowly brought a cigarette to their lips. Orange flames burst into life at the flick of a lighter. Extinguished a second later to let the embers burn on their own. The answer is calm, tired, "I'm sorry."

"What, " He snarled, hand in a white-knuckled first halted mid rise, "Did you do?"

"I lit my cig." They popped a hip and stuck the tip of the worn-out sneaker in-between the wood railing, inhaling the smoke and heat, "The nicotine is taken in by the lungs, making them produce excess mucus and start degrading the tissue."

Air fogged in front of them, not smoke but their warm breath contrasting the cold. Boots thumped along the rotting wood; a tattered black glove grabbed the splintering railing — the man towered over the too-casual other slouched down.

"It forces them to work extra hard through the thickness compared to good ole air, hurts the delicate alveoli, that's what makes ya get less oxygen over time." They say flippantly, casual.

Gutteral, impatient, the man growled a warning. In the cabin, a few slamming doors could be heard. The tip of the cigarette glowed bright for a second with their inhale. A gust of wind blew back dark hair, a gentler updraft ferried away the trail of smoke.

Lips tugged in a ghost of a smile, "The nicotine hits the brain. Gives a small high and gets you addicted. But it goes back to the lungs. Paralyzes
the cilia — what keeps 'em clean. So, all the crap stuffed in 'ere coats the lungs. If ya smoke all the time, you slowly suffocate if the chemicals don't do ya in first."

Loud voices, one angry, the other breaks mid-word, echo somewhere from an open window.

The shadow takes another drag. They drop the butt and snuff it under a mud-caked shoe before squaring their shoulders to look into a murderous gaze. They ignore the red around the man's eyes. They ignore the glassy, too-bright blue. They just look into that glare, not sure what to feel.

"I know that. I know it. I've watched people go, slowly." Their voice becomes thick and try as they might it still wavers.

The man crumbles. Nothing more to show it than an aborted twitch to hide his hands, the slight clench of his jaw, "What happened?"

"We're too smart for our own good, ya know?" They rocked on their heels lightly.

If this were poetry, the flickering light from an old porch lantern would dance across the two people features. The wind would soothe the tense air and play with the open shutters to quite the sobbing coming from the kitchenette. The two on the porcb would glimpse at the sky and see the moonless, hollow lighting it gave and be reminded the silvery glow will return as it always does.

The faked aloofness drained from the dark haired one. If this were poetry, they would share a look with the man. Dark eyes shining in sorrow conveying the hurt, the turmoil, the guilt that their best just wasn't enough. Beautifully worded metaphors would string across an eternity shared in the look, and tired blue would soften. The two would come to an understanding.

Sadly, reality isn't filled with as much grace.

"We think too hard, " They continued, "Override base instinct, ya hear? We think."

Broken, defeated, the shadow would plead staring up at the man. At a loss of any more words.

Anger hid mourning, and the man scoffs at the shadow. Broken as well. They turn to help the others in the cabin. Leaving the other alone — piling all the blame stabbing into his heart and crowding his thoughts onto their shoulders.

This isn't poetry.

But the forest howls with the nightly cacophony, seeming to voice the cry of hurt the shadow muffled behind a deep breath and now impassive mask.

ooOooOooOooOooOooOooOoo

This was supposed to be a comparison to.... humans tendency towards self-destruction and smoking/drugs/poison(alcohol)/etc. tied to a mission (prison breakout? rebel rag-tag group attack?) failure where The Shadow whom is very much a person made a call the others might see as the wrong one.

Then a narrator appeared. I'm not sure where they came from. Anyway.

The Mute by Radical Face prompted The Look at the end and the chapter title.

~Edit~ My editing app had a field day in this with 'unclear anecdotes,' and I have made the executive decision (because I'm lazy) that The Shadow will remain genderless purely in spite of it. Are there other ways to address a person who uses they/them pronouns?