"You, my dear, have the soul of a writer."
I cringed before glancing at him with a scowl. "You mean the soul of a poet?"
"No. God, no. You're the furthest thing from a poet. Whereas a poem has the capability of designing a truth endowed with ribbo...
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AT LEAST SOMEBODY MADE A FEW BUCKS
I suppose I've accepted the inevitable destruction of a broken system. My life has never fully been my own, whether it comes in the form of being a woman or a person of color or being of lower class or coming from a frequently targeted religion—there was always someone that had a piece of me, that kept me from experiencing the fulfilling existence of a human being born on Earth. How does one find the will to continue on, knowing they'll never live in the freedom that God had intended? Well, if I didn't have the crutch of a bottle, there isn't a whole lot of promise that I wouldn't be six feet under by now.
Then fucking vampires decided to unveiled themselves, and suddenly even being human wasn't good enough.
There are days when it can really start to get to me, that even drinking can't soothe the discontempt I have towards my own existence. Where everything just feels as though it's closing in. Often, it can be anything that pushes me off the edge, just as long as it rubs me in the exact wrong way at the exact right time; a rude scowl, a condescending sneer, the mumbles of an ignorant remark.
When situations like what's going on is happening, where I'm facing Hell and I have no control, it isn't very far fetched to imagine that shit like this is fully capable of pushing me off the fucking ledge.
So there I was, chain-smoking cigarettes until I felt lightheaded, wondering just how the fuck I was supposed to get out of this one. I completely forgot that I had someone waiting on me until the door swung open and Sam began to frantically scan over the parking lot. When he found me sitting with my back pressed against the building, my legs pulled up so my chin could rest on my knees, he made no attempt to hide an exhale of relief, letting himself crumble beside me as he let his head fall in his hands.
He pushed his sun-kissed hair back, the sweat and grease from working in the humid kitchen during a summer's evening slicking it into place with only a few strands falling back over his forehead. Even in the dim light of the moon, it was evident on his face just how overworked the man was. Long nights with little else to show but dark circles and creasing wrinkles deepened by stress, the smell of charred oil and spilled liquor a constant linger emitting off his pores.
He extended out his legs, propping himself back on his elbows and allowing his head fall back so he could face the stars. "Can I bum-"
I didn't let him finish, already tossing the cigarette pack onto his thighs. He glanced at me from the corner of his eye, perking a brow.
"Feel free to take a couple for later," I offered.
"No need. Thank you kindly, though." Sam replied, plucking out a cancer stick. "Four years without a cigarette," he sighed as he flicked the lighter.
I cringed and asked warily, "Should I not have just done that?"
"Naw. If not you, I would've just grabbed from the carton Terry keeps behind the cash register." He took a long drag, savoring the smoking before pushing it out between slightly parted lips. "I was bein' a lil' dramatic, this ain't the first cig I've had since quitting four years back." He looked at the cherry. "The first few were in secret, you know? If no one knew, it's easier to lie to myself about ever havin' 'em. I guess this the first one I had in company in four years, and now I gotta really think if I wanna be a smoker again." He sighed to himself, his tired eyes crinkling with both internal repulse and conflict.
