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Again, just a trunkful of my shit and I managed to make hell into a home. Put up curtains, made my bed beautiful with vintage linens, laptop and my most favorite clothes. I have a beautiful space that I pay a nice man to stay in and keep my stuff in. There’s a fireplace and bookshelves and my bed.
I have often been separated from my things, forcibly removed from where I called home, and made do with what I had with me. Notably, once in Toronto while all my shit was held hostage at the farm, and once at a cathouse above a strip club. It was Dock of the Bay, Otis Redding. So far off from the usual pop stuff we’d listen to. I still share music with a boy I went to said public school with, oh the joys of MP3’s, YouTube and Facebook. I went down a weird YouTube rabbithole yesterday, all Viking chants, words I didn’t know but they sounded familiar and lovely.
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Focuses on the soft ticking of the clock. The smell of the leather upholstery. It’s enough to keep the panic attack at bay. My experience as a teenager in the United States in the late 60's was similar to this movie although I did not grow up in the suburbs. The Vietnam War protests had split the generations.
“I won three fights,” Peter replies flatly. Though to be fair, for the first time he’d also lost two. Neither a complete knockout, but it’s embarrassing, nonetheless. He’s now sporting a black eye, and while not entirely abnormal in Gotham, it’s bound to lead to questions. To make matters worse he’d been really counting on that money.
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Probably on their way to work or school. Thinking about what to cook for dinner or what to watch on tv when they got home. To everyone else today is just a normal day.
Finally, unable to take the suspense any longer, he rips open the letter. And promptly chokes on his second sip. Tipping his head back, he relishes in the sunshine beaming on his face. He’s never understood why Frank insists on hosting the fights during broad daylight. It seems to be asking for the cops to come busting it down.
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He’s tried cutting it, but it always grows back, like a vindictive weed. He stumbles to the bathroom and fumbles for the faucet. The shock of ice-cold water to his face is enough to quiet the noise in his head.
The whole place is a ticking bomb. It’s only a matter of time before they’re given notice to pay higher rent or get the hell out. He flexes his hand, grimacing as pain shoots up his wrist. It’s not broken, but he’d be stupid not to take a week off from fighting. Which means having to pick up more shifts at the bar.
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By the time he makes it back to his building, all he can think about it taking a shower and collapsing back into bed. A group of maintenance workers are outside, replacing the stair’s handrails. A few weeks ago, he’d heard whispers from neighbors that some rich jerk had bought the building.
Like the deep unknown, unexplored ocean. She's a spirit of nature and moves everything she touches. Then played those on repeat until the next thing happens. The adrenaline from the fights has long worn off, leaving only exhaustion. He plops on to bed, not bothering to change out of his bloody clothes. Hopefully he can get a few hours of sleep before the nightmares begin.
One who would no doubt spruce up the place as an excuse to raise rent. Sure, enough in the following days, the place was crawling with maintenance workers. Peter almost wept when he went to take a shower and hot steamy water came out. Seeing his dead brother’s face isn’t that unusual for Dick Grayson. Especially today, of all days, he knows it’s only a matter of time before Jason Todd haunts him once again. Expecting it doesn’t lessen the pain.
Sometimes it almost hurts looking at her because her spirit and soul beam through the layers of skin and shine for everybody to see. Reminds me of the sea or the ocean. At first glance you seem to see everything about her. But when you take a closer look, you realize that you only saw the first layer of what makes her R.
Droplets of blood drip down in the sink. It’s been five years since he’d been found wandering down a highway. The first practically lost to him, spent in a daze of pain and confusion. When he finally gained lucidity, he tried finding out where he came from. However, survival quickly became his main concern, his search abandoned. He stares at his reflection in the mirror.
He unlocks the door and shoves his weight against it. In his panic, he totally forgets that it’s been fixed and no longer sticks so he ends up practically falling into his apartment. God, he could fall asleep right here on the floor. Instead, he pushes himself up, tossing the letter on his kitchen counter.
Peter grips the side of the sink. The cruel laughter from his nightmares is creeping back, reverberating against his skull. He screws his eyes shut, struggling to think of anything to drown out the noise. Peter pinches the bridge of his nose.
