A/N: My english teacher asked us ages ago to write a piece describing the physical appearance of someone we love in an environment that let slip more about their personality. I focused ever-so-slightly more on the environment/personality aspect, because in this situation it's more important.

Holes and Stains

The messy room is dimly lit by a television in the far corner, the noise down so low I can barely hear what the characters are saying. Smoke clogs the air entangled with that alluring, enticing scent of something not quite legal that clouds my senses as I calmly breathe it in. Cigarette butts and papers are strewn carelessly across the dirty, ash-covered floor. He sits on the bed at the back of the room and gazes at me as I stand in the door way, a delicate smile coming to his soft, smooth lips. His deep, dark eyes are wide and hazy as if he's not quite there. I'm not surprised; it's hard to remember a time when his eyes weren't like that. He's wearing that green shirt again, ripped and torn by his many past adventures, most of which illegal. The shirt's open, displaying his skinny, toned torso. He lifts a strong arm to his mouth and takes a drag from the extended cigarette that rests carelessly between two of his rough fingers. Beautifully blowing intoxicating smoke from his lips he offers me some in his deep husky voice. Closing the door behind me, I accept and walk over, avoiding several broken glass bottles that are lying on the floor. He clears a space next to him on the bed that's scattered with dirty clothes, lighters and scratched CDs. Now in the room I can see it all properly. His walls are full with posters sloppily attached of his favourite bands, drugs and artful portrayals of women as semi-naked fallen angels. The windows are all closed and the room is, at first, uncomfortable to be in with its aura of empty desperation. It soon becomes a comfort zone as I take a lengthy drag of the intoxicating cigarette and sink into the familiar quilt that hasn't been changed for weeks and is covered in burn holes and stains. We sit like that for a while, silent as I take drag after drag and watch him as he carefully rolls another, squinting hard to get it just right in the dim light from the television.

Said teacher never gave us the pieces to let us know how we'd done and when I asked him about them he told me they were more for him than us anyway. To me that means he couldn't be bothered to mark them, but hey. Point being I don't actually know how I did, what do you think?

-- Even Gods Dream, 2007