An Excerpt

-From One Of My Unfinished Stories.

Cigarettes at three a.m. It was a nasty habit, I know, but when I smoked all I tasted was smooth. That’s all. Besides, it wasn’t like a habit of mine or anything. I just did it whenever I couldn’t sleep. If I did smoke during the day, I would get caught. My mother and father are nothing but loving, caring, suspicious as hawks, parents. So, at three a.m. on a Saturday morning, I opened my window and climbed out on the roof.

My roof was brown and covered in spots of white (from the falling excrement of birds, what a pleasure.) The only exception to this décor was a hint of red, noticeable only to the sophisticated eye (meaning my parents hadn’t noticed it in the 6 months I had it and other packages up there).The red was mostly hidden under a broken shingle, but a section of it had torn and flapped loosely in the wind.

I made no hesitation in flicking the red my way and pulling out a long white tube filled with basically trash and cleaning products. I stuck it obtrusively in the corner of my lips and fished a green lighter out of my pajama-pants’ pocket. I had put the lighter in there before going out. I’m not exactly a pyromaniac or anything that needs to be attached to a flame 24/7. So, don’t take it that way.

The lighter blazed to life when I pressed down the button that literally made it spark to existence. I didn’t let it live long. I snapped the lighter shut and stuck it back in my pocket.

Smooth.

The sky gave no sign that day promised to break (or rather, to shatter) in only a few hours. I stretched out my legs and leaned back. I made grey clouds in the night with a puff of my breath. There were no stars. There never was. I breathed in and sighed out.

Normally I thought about all the whys, and the what ifs. I thought about the world. I thought about my life. I thought about days, weeks and months. I thought about the sky, the earth, the sun, and the moon. I thought about suffering and pain. I thought about love and friendship. I thought about being free. I thought about jumping off that roof. I thought about David Quarry. I thought about human existence. But today I just breathed in the toxic waste, waiting for the blurry spots around the edges of the horizon; waiting for light to conquer this sullen dark. It would seem that I was always just on the edge of that horizon, waiting.

I finally stopped looking for that sunrise at the end of my third cigarette. I usually only have one, to calm my nerves and soothe the sticking feeling in my throat, but I was tenser today. I needed so much to calm down. I was almost contemplating going over to Mark’s and hassling him for a swig or two of the stuff (vodka, I think…but I can never be sure) he keeps in the back of his closet. I flicked the butt of my cig (god that sounds incredibly stupid) past the roof so it dropped down into the yard, but not before squishing it out on the side of the house. The last thing I wanted was to start a fire (I told you I wasn’t a pyromaniac.)

I glanced back inside. I honestly couldn’t comprehend how I existed in such a tiny box. I checked the sky once more. The dark was only compelling in the daytime. I wanted none of it now. With my red jacket pulled tight around my body like mummy sleeves, I climbed back into my room.

I won’t note on my room. It’s nothing extraordinary. It’s not the sky.

I pulled the lighter out of my pocket and threw it on my bed. I immediately grew dissatisfied and picked it up, flicking it on and off, on and off. It became a metaphor for my mind, on and off, on and off. After a few moments of wonder I became disgusted and dropped the green lighter into the wastebasket beside my bed.

I checked the digital clock on my bedside table. It was only 5:15. Maybe I did have enough time to go over to Mark’s. I pulled off my pajamas and slipped into my trademark jeans and a t-shirt. I pulled my red jacket back on and enveloped myself in its warmth. Then I slipped out the window, once more.

I was almost off the roof before I crawled back for a cigarette and to fish my lighter out of the wastebasket. I breathed in heavily as I charged down the sidewalk. I thought of catching the bus to Mark’s house, but then thought better of it. The walk would do me good, besides, who knew when the bus would be getting to my regular stop or if they were even running at this time of day?

A couple minutes later I found myself sitting in a plastic blue seat and looking very hard out the window at the scene passing, so quickly, right in front of my eyes.

I had to put my cigarette out before I got on. Those were the rules of Mr. Bus Driver. I figured I would just bum one off of Mark when I got to his house, or maybe I wouldn’t need it after hassling Mark into giving me something nice to drink.

Someone coughed. I blinked and turned around in my seat.

There weren’t many people on the bus; only me, a kid that looked only a couple years older with a black toque and a pierced lower lip, and a tired-looking woman, who looked like she had just come from her job as a waitress. Oh, and, not to forget, Mr. Bus Driver, himself, staring fixatedly at the road.

It was the waitress-woman who coughed. She was sitting across and a seat back from me. She had what people might refer to as salt and pepper hair, done up in triggered knots against the back of her head, and her eyes were cast downward, almost as if in permanent absolution. Her hands were crossed neatly on her lap, and her feet were glued tightly together. I took note of my own posture: legs hanging off to the side, arms languidly on the back of the seat, head pressed against the window with little resolution. If I could guess, I would speculate that this woman was in her early-twenties. The lines on her face would indicate otherwise. I made a deal with myself, on that dreaded bus, that I would never be that small, that scared, that timid in a world where half the fight is just getting up every damned day.

And I got off the bus at the very next stop.