♔ ♕ ♖The Cigarette Graveyard♜ ♛ ♚
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Many years have drifted by for the both of us as the fragile autumn leaves listlessly drifted to the ground. Beautiful they were and we as children were always drawn in by their rusted, withered hues. We were brothers and sisters then innocuous in our daily motives. All of us designated passing cars and entire city blocks as we meandered through the maze of the streets. We could smile then and walk together against all odds as one. As family. How time has changed the both of us... Just outside beyond the plaster walls that gave this building it's foundation, I could hear those autumnal heralds crackling rebelliously beneath the weight of those walking by. They hadn't heard the three or four gunshots that rang out maybe a floor or two above them. Either that, or they had become so used to it that it bothered them no more than the buzzing of a common housefly or the abrasive fizz of static coming from their televsion. No matter how silent our gunfight was, blood still trickled lightly from my lacerated brow and flowed into a forked path as it continued down my raggedy features. My old friend, now staring at me with an indignant, convicting emptiness that only a murdered man could, was in a similar position. Whereas I was standing, he was laying on his side. Whereas I held my gun with the trained precision learned from his own craft, he did not. His left hand, along with the gun he once held as his most coveted possession, were but mere pieces scattered about the carpet and the wall. I had to shoot first and as always, I did with great and deadly accuracy. Wiping away the light, viscous mixture of blood and sweat from my brow, I strike a cigarette across the sandpaper side of my vintage matchbox. Palm trees, sandy beaches and such decorated it's pastel front and back. Illustrated was a place that not even my profession could get me to. At least not like this. The melancholic smear of crimson that covered the box's whimsical colors did however strengthen my transient resolve to escape what surrounded me. Tossing the burning match onto the body of my slain brother, I correct my sloppiness as I turn to the door. From the leather of his belt and out, the flames consumed his body bathing him in a dim, orange haze. I stepped forth to avoid the flickers and sparks before deciding ultimately that now was the best time to abandon him to the sprinkler system and starving roaches living within the carpets. Taking a few drags from the cigarette eased my mind and gave me something to look forward to in the onslaught of this bitingly cold weather. Remorse may have been what I felt for the man I once labeled friend. It may have been his weakness that saw him holding a gun to my chest with no certainty of the repercussions. Unsure, I knew I wasn't buzzed enough to deny the feeling that grew and grew as I walked on and on. Had you chosen a different path my friend, maybe we could've enjoyed one last walk along these loathsome streets as we drowned our troubles into the morning hours...
Just like we used to do...
Just like we used to do...
~~~
With the lasting reverberation of a rock thrown into a tin pail, the words of your child rang in your mind. "I want to be just like you when I grow up," was the popular phrase in the house now alongside, "Stopping bad guys must be cool..." If it weren't, there was no doubt that you wouldn't be sitting in your chair toiling into the night on paperwork that never ended. Your shirt, white, colorless and unbuttoned at the top hung as tiredly on your shoulders as your eyes did on your face. Still, your smile didn't fade or crack. As you're reminded by the pictures of your family that you now live to serve and protect this hellish city, you're reminded of the grim, uncut truth of it all by the bottle of pills next to you. Round and white, they have your name on it. They are yours and yours alone and you are not to share them with anyone...or that's what the bottle implied with language far more technical than you cared for. If it would put your job in peril to give out these millimeters of...miracles...then you wouldn't. At the end of the day, it was just another order handed to you by the higher ups. By this point in your career, you were next to programmed as each command went through you with no question or concern. Only your home that you rarely got to see thanks to the busy slums, calls from your family and the long, oft not remembered weekends with your co-workers protected your patience. As you've been told time and time again, there is a silver lining to every dark cloud. Shaking the cylinder of secrets, your forte, drug control and apprehension, now seemed like a joke. Your brow shifts in disbelief. It was this little orange bottle that made you exactly who you are and there wasn't much escaping that fact. The streets of the New York had evolved quite substantially over the years thanks to a few unprecedented advancements in medicine and science...things you knew enough about to answer a few questions on the seven o'clock quiz show. You were no master of the subject. Naturally however, the urchins whose lives were embedded in those streets evolved with it. It was to that extent that you gave a damn about the complications of these advancements set forth by the eggheads across the way. Rubbing your brow, you set your thoughtfully drifting gaze onto the dim light glimmering off the plastic of your pen. Your work is not yet over. Your daily report might take hours to complete and it was only nine. Protecting your child from the bad guys might suffice for missing yet another bed-time story...
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created by: M a h a r e s h i
inspiration: Noir films, Old dectective shows, Lupin the III...things like that.
created by: M a h a r e s h i
inspiration: Noir films, Old dectective shows, Lupin the III...things like that.
