What Now ⇔ Muke ✓

[22] Cigarettes

LUKE

In my eyes, everything is an art. From the swirling blue river back in Greenwood to the industrialized buildings towering in the city, marked with grease and struggles that most people classify as ugly. I don't see the train tracks as just a mode of transportation-I see the rigid lines with rusted edges, sparks flying from the metal rails as the train's wheel scrapes against the steel. I can imagine the sparkling sky, adorned with puffs of white clouds, painted on a canvas to hang in a highly priced museum for onlookers to admire. In my eyes, the blandest and the most hideous of things can categorize as art. Death is an art as well, in a completely non-dismal way. With so many ways to achieve it, so many different backstories, so many ways to fall, how can it not be an art?

The drive back to the city was awkward, to say the least. I had leaned against the window and stared out at the blurs of green trees for the long hours spent in the car, while my family was left to suffocate in the thick tension. None of us spoke, letting our wordless thoughts fill the silent air.

Now, I lift my head a little to stare out at the city flourishing around me, gazing at the tall buildings and busy people and flashing stoplights all combining into one big mess that I now hate. I hate it all, I hate every bit of it. I hate how there is not one tree in sight, not one bird flying around my head and not one piece of soft grass to step on under my shoe. My mum peers back at me, wanting to see a relieved expression of my face now that I am home, but this isn't home. This isn't a home at all to me, not anymore. I remain like a ghastly statue, grey skin ornamented with stone fingers that are too frail to move.

The car rolls in front of the small apartment building in the middle of the busy streets, people strolling in front of the tall double doors. Liz shuts off the engine and clears her throat, opening her car door and getting out to retrieve my suitcase from the back of the car.

Jack and Ben follow her moves, but I stay still in the backseat, my head too heavy to lift from the cold window. My feet are tombstones, curled under me as I cower in the safety of the car while my family urges me with disappointed voices to get out.

I blink away the hazy feeling from my eyes and wrap my fingers around the neck of my guitar, using my other hand to pick up the cajon drum. They're the only belongings that I really care about now that everything else has been ripped away from my grasp.

My family watches me with perplexed eyes as I drag myself with slow movements to the front of the apartment building, pulling open the handle with fragile fingers. I can feel them coming up behind me, prepared to catch me in case I fall over from the weight of everything on my shoulders, but I just readjust my grip on the instruments and push through the doors, heading straight towards the elevator in the corner of the lobby.

Thankfully, the elevator is empty when I step onto the carpeted flooring, and I press my back against the wall, setting down the guitar and the drum temporarily as the doors close. There is no shitty elevator music to help clear up the tumbling emotions in my brain, and so I stand and suffocate in the silence. The inner workings on my mind weave together in the threadwork of a quilt that can't seem to asphyxiate my toxic thoughts, and I clench my jaw, struggling to remain sane in the all too quiet confinement of the elevator.

I'm relieved when the doors slide open with a creak, revealing the familiar hallway that leads to our small apartment. I stand there for a moment, staring out at the rows of doors before picking up my things and moving out from the claustrophobic area, moving down the silent hallway before approaching our apartment door. I pick out the key from my pocket, where my mother had slid it into, and push the jagged key into the lock before twisting it, pushing the door forward with stiff arms.

The room looks virtually untouched from the months ago that we left in a frenzy, suitcases being dragged out the door in preparation to leave the city behind. I stare at the clothes strewn across the floor, at the large windows looking down at the bustling town below. I clear my throat before stepping inside, shutting the door and moving to my room. It is a small, closed off space decorated with band posters and empty picture frames, too many clothes on the floor to find out what color the carpet is.