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Allen and Sam- 1938

He sighed, this boy with hair the color of brown sugar and caramel and likely other assortments of sweet things. A brat, I decided, one not worn to swaying in the wake of others, and this is why he stayed there sitting next to me as if I hadn't just rejected his presence. Gracelessly, he groped inside his front pocket and pulled out his target, a box of Camels. Popping one in between his lips, puckering them to hold it in place, he handed the box to me, and I finally met his gaze; his eyes were wide with expectation and this peculiar blend of green and hazel that I'd never seen before.

His wrists reminded me of mum's, and, at the sight of them, I suddenly felt this sickening need to touch them, at least graze them with my fingertips. Thin and boney, the vein dark and visible against a sea of paled tan and speckled gray. I kept myself at bay, however, and rigidly swiped the morsel away from him placing it between my lips, defiantly. The brat lit up the same way mum would, too. I noticed this as he pulled the match box from his pocket and flicked his wrist.

It struck me that he'd never even bothered to ask me if I smoked. Was it just common to start at age ten and die around twenty-five in this place? This kid smoked, he must be, at most fourteen, but I thought only he and Alex and Ethan and Matthew smoked, not the general youth population. Was it just common courtesy? A token of goodwill or companionship? I'd only smoked once, after dad was drafted. Mum sat on the back porch but didn't cry, just sat there contemplating and examining the garden she'd planted three months beforehand back in march. I sat next to her, silent, and after three hours, she asked me "You mute or something?" and handed me a smoke. I'd accepted it then, too.

"You'd die from jumping off this building, ya' know." I almost swallow my smoke in surprise, his words an unpleasent reality in my haze of nostalgia.

"Where'd that come from?"

Green-Eyes gave me a taken aback look, as if I'd overreacted to a statement with the equivalent of stating that it looked like rain. And he'd hesitated in answering, which rooted an irritated nausea in my lower gut, its stems reaching further than I was comfortable with. His gaze left mine and he suddenly found the litter and shit-covered rooftop much more interesting than my question.

"I guess you haven't been here long. See, it's my job to read. That's how I keep myself here, by reading; books, words, atmosphere, people. Whatever. People are the key, there, it's essential. Those who can't understand people generally can't see themselves at all. You, for example-" I could just feel his smile rising, but I refused to look at him, "-you were pretty easy. You and David were easiest. You both want to die, and who are we here to stop you?"

"Pretty smart for a kid."

He takes a quick puff, than exhales, watching the smoke disperse into the atmosphere. "Some people aren't given the opportunity to be carefree when they're young. 'Smart' isn't the right word. 'Prepared' sounds better." His diet must consist of nothing but raw dictionaries, glossed with blood straight from the womb.

"Thanks for the information. It'd be quick, wouldn't it?"

"Messy, though. Who knows, you might survive and have to live with a really fucked up body, or something."

I was just humoring him, but it's apparent that he doesn't catch my cynicism. Either that or he just doesn't care, which could easily be just as accurate. He seems like the kind of kid who wouldn't appreciate anything but blunt truth.

"Sam."

Hm? I turn to him and he gives me this lopsided smile that barely lifts his lips; not conceited or satisfied, not even confident. His eyes remain a blur of misread emotion as he flicks his cigarette to the ground and smothers the last little flicker of fire with the heel of his boot before continuing.

"Sam's my name. Samuel, technically, but I prefer just 'Sam'. I like it, simple and easy to miss."

This causes me to frown, since the meaning of his cryptic nonsense is obviously not meant for me. Sam, not Samuel, holds out his hand and expects me to shake it. I used to shake hands all the time, it made me feel much older than I actually was, because for me age was all in the mind. I don't shake hands anymore, not really. I'm not one to keep deals, but this shake appears to be out of good-natured acquaintance and I hesitantly take it.

"Allen."

"I know", he says, and then he laughs, and instantaneously I draw away. "I love it!" he giggles madly. "Allen, like the poet guy, Allen-something."

"Is that a bad thing or something?"

"Not at all. It's just…odd, I suppose. Don't go by 'Al' or some shit, do you?"

"Will it matter once I've jumped off the roof?"

Sam's either honestly pondering this, weighing my imminent death with the sudden importance of my name, or he's just fucking with me. Damn brat. "I dunno," he eventually answers after thoroughly examining the skyline. "I suppose the correct question is will you actually jump or not?"

"You said it yourself, I want to die, so who the hell are you to stop me?"

"I'd never think of stopping you. I can tell you want to die. But will you actually do it?"

"Are you…challenging me as to whether or not I'll jump off this ledge and kill myself?"

Sam doesn't reply, just sits there and lets his gaze drift upwards again and keeps smiling. I'd punch him if I wasn't so exhausted.

"Look, thanks. For the advice, or whatever you did besides basically shoving me head-first off this fucking building, but I'd rather off myself when no one else is around. Y'know, personal and all that shit."
Historically accurate dialogue? What's that?? :iconfyeahplz: Like a boss. (I'll fix it later, maybe) :iconlikeabossplz:

Sam's childhood. 1938, Pennsylvania. With his first crush, aw. Nothing says I love you like "I want you to jump off this building, it'll make you happy".

Happy Valentines Day.


I'm just going to post old writing on this new account. I've got nothing else to do. *pushes school into closet* This was written, eh, about eight months or so ago. Frank did not exist yet.

OH! Poet guy: Allen Ginsberg. Great guy, it's my retarded form of a shout out, since we both enjoy writing about the same topics. Ironic, kind of. (And, yes, I understand the total time paradox, it's supposed to be ironic. Or just stupid, really.)

Song: "Lack of Color"/Death Cab for Cutie
© 2012 - 2024 ThePoeticHermit
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