[ timestamp: may 16, 2020 ]
Insipidity was the opposite of a drug. A disease, but a different species of it, and one that clawed down his back relentlessly begging to be stopped. Finding an outlet when the roads to all things music were consistently being cockblocked was implausible, and festival circuit upcoming or not within the next few days, it was clogging a fever pitch after Micahâs graduation and Orionâs homecoming, stacking worthlessness inside him. Shacking up with the bartender was well and fine, âtil it stacked itself with unanswered questions and quelled memories bathing him in sturdy shockwaves coursing up his spine and to his brainstem and the archaic insecurity that pummeled him the second his stupid messy feelings got involved the further the blanket of remembrance cast over him. Ingratiated as he was by the mystifying siren, his tendency to burn it down was nigh had he not chosen to opt out of their rendezvous for the evening wordlessly. She didnât care why are they still seeing each other?, so why would she care if he skipped out a night? Wrapping his arms around a brown bag of liquor and exiting the corner store a couple blocks from the Bargain Mart, the frigid nights of the desert warranting him to don his black faux fur coat marked with the skull-and-crossbones design on the back, the last thing on Cyrekâs mind weaving through the moderately busy street was the possibility of being bothered as he would in the cities by rascals or in pernicious intent. The rude callback to reality was a pair of hands shoving him harshly from behind, the initial contact and unseen assailant wheeling him into blind panic. Of course, weighing next to nothing, the intensity of the unforeseen force toppled him to the ground, announcing himself in obnoxious caterwaul collapsing to the concrete. His lanky legs connected with the ground first, busting kneecaps through worn holes in his jeans and the shattering glass bottles cutting into one of his thighs. Palms immediately outstretched to close his hand over the decapitated lid of the bottle that had a note sticking from it, slicing fingertips to shove it into one of his pockets, swearing to himself and looking over his shoulder to find whoever had shoved him ( is it in your head? ) had vanished. âFuck,â Cyrek swore under his breath, shaking hands and latent euphoria laden his lithe figure intertwined with chastising see what fucking good you are you pathetic fucking loser, an angry grimace soured his countenance, looking up to search for a passerby whose attention he could coax, âHeyââ Sorry. âDo you have a first aid kit?â
NATALIE WAS OFTEN OUT AND ABOUT, more so completing some general shopping than anything else. the nice spring breeze was comforting to her, the warm weather bringing some kind of unspoken solace. what she didnât expect was to find cyrek on the ground, bloody palms and scraped knees. mouth agape, she immediately dropped to her own knees, coming to his aid. âwhat happened?â she asked, tone not unsimilar to the one she used with the children at her job. âi donât have a complete first aid kit with me, just some bandaids and alcohol wipes.â by the end of her statement, she was already searching through her purse to pull them out. she happened to be a very prepared person, not only because she worked with kids who incredibly accident-prone. she was the kind to be caring and want to give a helping hand to any of her friends who were in need. âyou donât look so good,â she commented as she took in his appearance, other than what resulted in the shove. âwhy donât we get some food? you look like you could use it.âÂ
