The Ground beneath the Stars above

The spliff danced against my slackened jaw, whilst I dragged desperately, pining for a drop of its toxicity. I had no qualms about the promise of self-destruction. And I could never understand what made me hate my existence so much that I craved to end it — if not through cancer, then by a gang member’s blade in this lonely street.

The air stank of dog shit, and yet the smell was strangely comforting. Ignoring the sensation of wet sock melding against cold flesh, I trudged along the jagged path, ankle-deep in soggy leaves; leaves that lay lifeless, soon to be one with the soil. 

It wasn’t often that I thought about Mum, despite it being less than a year since she was gone. And perhaps it was a feeble attempt at remaining stoic, though you and I both know my reality. Buried in the throes of numbness and self-debilitation, it was either forget or live in hope that I may join her in the grave. The thought of cold soil was appeasing; I revelled in the imagined sensations of dirt seeping into flesh and spreading against skin in pursuit of bone. 

Shivering involuntarily, I dropped the burned roach on the wet pavement and watched the smoke struggle against the unforgiving wind. I spied the array of benches, fresh with rain for an innocent fella to plant his backside on. I figured since I’d wet my socks, I might as well complete the look with a soaked arse. There wasn’t a single soul in sight, now that the park was drenched in moonlight; the substance lovers were invisible in the bushes. And I was ok with that.

I watched a pigeon wrestle with a soggy chip, pecking and poking at it with its beak, its little feet dancing left and right, its head cocked to one side. I watched the poor bugger struggle some more until I grew bored of the stupid bird.

Thoughts of Mum and her face weathered with worry plagued me, and there was nothing I could do to release myself from it. She would spend hours perched on the edge of the threadbare couch, left thumb caressing her jagged knuckles, anticipating the beast who would stroll through the front door at any moment. 

My father preferred to communicate with his fist rather than the pathetic mouth that God had given to him.

I shivered, pulling the sleeves of my hoodie down over my numb fingers for warmth. I could almost hear her chiding me for not wearing my coat again. I sniffed instinctively; tears sprang to my eyes. Thankful that I was my only companion tonight, I ignored the hot tear that rolled down my cheek. 

Dropping my hood back, I rested my head against the hard bench and gazed skyward, grumbling at the glittering stars that dotted the raven sky. Perhaps the stories of people dying and becoming stars was true, and if it were, I hoped I was looking straight at my mother.