Author: staying-anon PM
noun: an original model on which something is patterned, warning: slash. a story about a boy trying to understand what went on with himself when he was younger and understand where he is headed nowRated: Fiction M - English - Angst - Chapters: 3 - Words: 3,874 - Updated: 02-10-04 - Published: 02-02-04 - id: 1515434
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Folds of socks were now smashed between my toes, tie died with green from the wet grass, and at first it felt cold when I wiggled those toes around but after awhile the friction heated them up and I thought that maybe if I left them on long enough (the socks) some kind of fungus would grow. It might not have been the most rational thought or the kind of thought that comes to your head before other thoughts, but it was the thought that I was thinking at that moment.
Maybe there would be a fungus there by morning, maybe it would be some weird ass color, maybe, or maybe… but I was too high to really think about fungus anymore, so I wiggled my toes some more and started thinking the way I start thinking about things at about this time, after I start to get high. Suddenly I know everything about the world and it is all so clear to me. Tonight my socks smashed between my toes seemed to be stuck in my head.
They were regular white tube socks, the kind that your mother buys you and brings home with brand new underwear that you just find in your drawers one day when you get home from school. Nobody says anything about them, they just show up there, and you know who got them for you. It isn't rocket science. But these weren't those kind of tube socks exactly, no mother let them show up in my drawer one morning or afternoon or whenever, all of my others had holes so I decided to buy some new ones one day. I've still yet to buy new underwear, every pair is starting to wear thin.
I start to feel that feeling now, when you can taste the weed in your chest but you can't taste things inside your chest. It just feels like you are collapsing from the inside out and you know this cant be good for you but that doesn't stop you. I start to feel that feeling now, when you exhale and you can just taste it, you know you'll be tasting it for a few hours, so don't stop now.
Again to the socks, my mind finds itself. They are soaking through to my skin with their tie dyed green. I had gone to so much trouble to take my mud caked shoes off at the front door, I could just imagine the hunks of mud trailed along the immaculate wooden floor, that must have been buffed recently to give off the kind of shine it did, leading straight to me. It wasn't the way to start off any type of party, or friendship, or relationship, or anything really. So I used my toes to yank them off, and it took a few minutes while simply bending down would not have taken much more effort and a lot less time.
But after navigating to the backdoor in sock and feet I was escorted outside where I could smoke, and the grass awaited me with its big green wet kisses, and now I would have to take my socks off when I went back inside and then there would be no fungus to grow, if there ever would have been in the first place. It's quite possible one night isn't long enough for fungus to grow, or if it was even possible at all for fungus to grow between toes because of grass stained socks mashed there.
So if I left them on there would be wet tracks on that shiny buffed wood floor, I would probably even slip on I and fall on my high ass, with a big thud and that kind of lulling pain that just sits on your skin or bones or muscle, and although intense rubbing doesn't help, you continue to rub and rub and make that kind of wince you make when you fall like that until it slowly fades away, like a foot that was asleep, only if you leave it to be still for a few seconds will it decide to let up on you, maybe not even then. I swear, the floor is that shiny, and there would be nothing to show for my efforts.
Nobody would think that hey he tried to be a good guy and leave his shoes at the door, he didn't mean to fuck up the perfect wooden floors or his perfect ass that he slipped on. They definitely wouldn't think any of those things, no, of course all they would analyze is the fact that I would slip on my high ass on the shiny ass floor because I was wearing wet socks that were fucking it up.
Of course I could just take them off when I went back inside the house, the world is so fucked up, all I ever wanted was for people to know I didn't mean to mess up the floor. Reality rears its ugly head when I feel cold glass on my fingers as the guy next to me is handing me the pipe. His face is locked up, I could tell because I did that too. He squeezed his lips together and plugged up his nose the way everybody can, its just that nobody really thinks about it. I should probably take the pipe, he looks as though he might be on the brink of pain but I look down to watch my toes wriggle in the wet grass kissed tube socks I'm sporting. I've decided I will just take them off when I go back inside.
Some people say you are more creative when you are high, I just see things ultra magnified, like that whole ordeal with the socks. I might be over analyzing when I look at the guy next to me with the pipe still outstretched to me. He is so high now he doesn't even notice I haven't taken it yet, he just looks relaxed to get the smoke out of himself. I know he is tasting it on his breath like I am, I know he is going to have red lines all down the backs of his legs from wearing shorts and sitting so long in the lawn chair. I'm probably just really high and over analyzing things but the way his hair goes over his forehead reminds me of myself and the dimple on the right side of his face makes me stare, because it is only on that side and I can't help but think of Corin.
"Kosh. Are you going to fucking hit this or what?" When his lips move I can see the dimple better and I wonder how it got there, people are usually born with two dimples unless something happens to them that makes them have one, like Corin. When we were four he put a clothes hanger in his mouth and it nearly ripped all the way through his cheek. He had a dimple on the right side after that, and when his lips moved you could see it even better, the flesh in his mouth scrunching around the scar. It seemed cute. It looked cute. It made him different from me and although he never said it, I know he was happy for it, it was a little sacrifice on his part, because there was now a little dead spot in his mouth, where the muscles wouldn't move anymore. "Kosh, hit it." What was this guy's name again?