Beautiful Disaster

Beautiful Disaster Chapter 13

                “Wee brah’der hid all the good shoite.”  

                I blink. “I suppose I can’t imagine why.”

                Ian seems to be unfazed taking another swallow as he turns down the trail; apparently somehow less drunken then he was hours ago.

                “Wait!” I call out moving in align with his stride. “Where does this trail lead to?”  

                The forest is growing thicker seemingly endless with trees and creepers.

                He spreads a hand through his thick ringlets downing another gulp. His lips plumb from the sweeten burn dawning down his throat. Drops scatter down his chin falling aimlessly on his shirt. Ian moves in long strides as I walk twice as fast to keep up. Before he answers he makes a grunt of dissatisfaction before dropping the glass bottle in the bushes.  

                “Troy didn’t already show yer?”  

                I shake my head. “No.”

                Wiping his sleeve against his mouth, Ian grumbles. “Not too surprised. Waaat a dumb arse he is.”

                My face cringes. “Okay, well—”

                “Look,” Ian begins tugging out a cigarette from his pants pocket. He bends it back into shape and spits off a few pieces of dirt, before popping it between his lips. In his back pocket he grabs out a lighter. “Troy over thinks, over analyzes, and over dramatics everything.”

                And that’s coming from the guy who gets himself drunk probably on a daily basis.

                “You ain’t going to get a thing outta’ him.” He inhales and then lets out a long breath of smoke.

                The smell clenches my nostrils. “I kinda’ got that part.” My words are tight clasped by impatience and obvious annoyance from the smell of the smoke. I turn my face away inhaling the sweet air next to me.

                 Ian chuckles. “You never did like the smell of cigarettes.” He doesn’t even bother to be polite and put it out, but rather continues to mindlessly smoke down the sweet addiction. Another puff of smoke fumes around his face which is crested with layers of cool ease and alleviation.     

                Ignoring the fact of how he can possibly know that, I ask once again. “Where does this trail lead to?” Ian doesn’t answer but rather concentrates on the sweet inhales and the pleasurable exhales he releases from his cigarette. “You’re not going to answer me are you?”

                He smiles as he liberates a puff of wretched fumes.

                “You’re a jackass. Why won’t you just tell me?”

                Shaking his head, he shrugs his shoulders.

                We elude into a lapsing silence of constant crunch, crunch beneath our feet, the singing of the nocturnal specimens, and the slight breeze brushing over the humid air. I cross my arms, bite my lip, and attempt not to say—“Alright, fine. Then how long is this trail?” As much as I love the evening walk, Ian is just ruining it with no resourceful answers to my questions. But even more so with his God awful cigarette. 

                Tossing the burnt out cigarette off to the side, Ian points a finger up ahead.

                Within the near distance, the trees begin to thin fanning around opened premises. The brightly lit moon gazes down shining a soft glow overhead. It ignites a natural emission of light brightening a soft brilliance to what lies ahead.