Inhale, Exhale
Empty dreams trailed pathetically after an empty body, thoughts and whispers finding time to be relived over and over again as liquor was poured down his throat. Callen ignored the pain, focused on the warmth it brought as he choked on it - nothing was going to make him slip into that craved, forgetting coma as well as the Vodka - no matter how burned his lips were. It didn't matter that his tongue felt raw, like sandpaper, scraping against the dry expanse of the roof of his mouth, if only he would feel that beautiful emptiness once more.
He had grown accustomed to the ever-present smell of alcohol, as had his girlfriend. He let his head fall backwards into the wind, wet splashes of rain decorating his tired, adolescent face, thick permed black hair being swept away. Already the boy could smell the petrichor, the delicate scent that reminded him of Ana. The sky was grey, so still, which brought unwanted images of disappointed silver eyes into his mind.
A thought; More. I need more Vodka.
Then, nothing.
A few minutes later, another thought; Maybe she would be the only one sad to see me go.
His head ached with poems long forgotten. Fingers still wrapped tightly around the cold bottle of Smirnoff, they itched to find his typewriter and let out the inner turmoil that filled up his empty soul like air. He didn't breathe in oxygen, he inhaled feelings and emotions and words. Long conscientious streams of isolated thoughts so common, so pretentious that they followed what society had taught him. Inhaling was being kept a prisoner.
He didn't breathe out carbon dioxide, he exhaled pent up rage, wrists slit to the bone, broken dreams that spaced his body. He exhaled his care for the world, let them think what they do because they didn't know him. They didn't know how he exhaled cigarette smoke, thick and choking himself on the carbon monoxide. Exhaling was finding freedom, no matter how small, again.
His head spaced dizzily as the vodka fell from his trembling, long fingers, finding its way to the river below with a final splash. The waters looked like tempest storms, a darkness in its depths that reminded Callen of himself. Reminded him of a hurricane ready to let loose, but suppressed; for the world was not yet ready for its excellence.
The boy smiled delicately, head bent forward to stare at the void beneath him, wondering if that was what it would sound like the moment he found the courage to step from the edge of the bridge and...
...fall