Itās involuntary, the spasming of his diaphragm pulls the late winter frost into his lungs. It burns. Itās just enough to distract him from the nagging itch, the pervasive disgust that drags him back to those moments like the undertow of a massive wave. His adoptive mother tells him itās good, to hold his breath in moments like this. As if holding his breath could possibly fix anything. As if he doesnāt wake up with the taste of dirt on his tongue and a filth so deep that no amount of scrubbing has ever touched it. As if his entire life hadnāt ended before his fifth birthday.
Take your medication, Piers. Keep practicing your breathing. Get out of the country, Piers, itāll be good for you. Itās not like the town of Bullworth has sucked the life out of everyone who has ever stepped foot in it.
Breathe. In, out, in, out. Do your homework. Brush your hair. Scrub your skin under scalding water until its raw and red and you look like a fucking lobster. Breathe. Watch the worms crawl. In, out, in, out.
His vision blots out as the night sky becomes a dingy, smoke-stained ceiling. Heās back in that room like heād never left. He can feel the concrete floor beneath him, dotted in rat droppings and used needles. He can feel the filth coating his skin, sinking past the surface so deep heāll never be free of it. He hears her then, the woman who gave birth to him by accident. His ears ring with the harsh screech of her ragged, smoke-stained vocal cords. Sheās with somebody, a man, though he canāt make out his features.
Something scurries across his hand.
He slams his eyes closed and scrubs his palms against his face until all he can see are stars.
He tries not to notice the way his hands shake as he brings the cigarette to his lips, tries to ignore the way his chattering teeth make the tip dip and dodge the flame like a tiny dancer. Instead he inhales, holds his breath as the smoke fills his lungs and he waits for the nicotine to dull the ache.
The rooftop is a great place to smoke, heās found. Itās quiet, solitary and unless you get too close to the edge, nobody seems to mind if youāre up there. Itās just him and the stars and the pigeons he ruins his pockets with birdseed with for. Some might call it lonely, but thatās exactly how Piers likes it.
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