I fell into her eyes. Those dark, dream-filled eyes which had seen so much wrong in the world, but had not given up that glimmer of hope which lay buried under years of pain. Those eyes which unlocked worlds to me, which told me of a life that I had never known existed, a life beyond the shallow and pointless existence in which we had been so hopelessly stagnating.
She came to us that crisp November evening, a stranger outside the crowd; wandering haphazardly through the street towards us, a gathered motley group of they who had become disillusioned with society and therefore took up occupation of its constructs as a sign of rebellion. We reluctant consumers, in our combat boots and sixty dollar pants bound by the chains which we thought represented our dissatisfaction. They represented our sins, we here now bound as Marley, but bound in the present. We wore shirts in representations of heroes, from Gogol Bordello to Ernesto Guevara, from Throbbing Gristle to Leon Trotsky. We alike in thought, idyllically set in a system which so adamantly opposed our views. We had not time to think about this ironic juxtaposition of consumerism and collectivism, rather we had to indulge our hedonism.
“Got your bowl?” a voice asked.
“Got a lighter?” I retorted. I reached in my pocket, and so selflessly handed over my life’s blood to a stranger yet unidentified by sight. He approached us moments earlier, but I trusted him. I knew him. His voice was one I had heard so many times before and therefore I harbored no doubt when he asked me to get him high. I was generous like that.
“Shit, Jimmy, its fuckin cold.”
“I like it.” I took a drag from my cigarette. I didn’t like smoking. I didn’t like that cold but hot feeling you get in your throat with the first drag from each cancerstick, but I did it anyway. It was the same for all of us. I looked at Mark, the stranger, and cleared my throat of the carcinogenic haze which tasted vaguely of stale pretzels and warm beer. “It helps me think more clearly.”
“Fuck, isn’t that the pot?”
“You know, I don’t even know anymore. Its chicken or the egg type shit. What kind of results can you get in an experiment in which there is no control?”
“Listen dude, don’t even fuckin start with that haughty motherfuckin intellectual bullshit talk. Who—”
That was when she walked up. Conversation paused. No—died. Mark shifted his gaze. “Eh, not bad, what’dya think she’d do to score?”
“Oh shut the fuck up right now with that shit. Girls don’t do shit for pot. You can find enough spare change in between cushions of a shitty couch at the dump to get high. Or what, got something else? When’dya start that shit? Jesus fucking Christ you ignorant—” I looked at her.
“Oh fuck you man—she’s like fourteen…”
“Four years don’t mean shit. Look at those tits… Anyway, that only means she’s probably really fuckin tight.”
“Fuckin—Of all people I honestly didn’t expect you to be such a rabid fuck. Where is all this coming from?” I flung my cigarette in the gutter, doing my little part to help the environment, and lit another, subtly cringing upon my first inhale. “There’s plenty of girls here your age, and much more suitable to you. She probably doesn’t even drink.”
“Your point? Who cares, she looks like a good fuck. They all fuck that young now.”
“Fuck you asshole, my sister’s her age.”
“My point exactly. Your sister really looks like she can really take a cock like a champ.”
I grunted disapproval. Truthfully, I really didn’t care what he said about my sister. For some reason though, I felt obligated to defend this stranger’s honor. Lisa approached her and tried to start a conversation.
Lisa’s asshole father raped her when she was eleven, and she’d tell anyone who’d listen. Lesson one of being a guy. Damaged goods make an easy fuck. No one even tried to make it work with her, they just used her and threw her away. I was guilty, as was pretty much every guy and about half the girls there that night. She had a broken smile, like
and thats what I have so far. What do you think?