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The wind is loud. Louder than it should be. It's yelling, screaming into my ears.
Taking away all the dust from my cigarette, letting it flow away and swift like the slap of an angry dad on a kid's neck.
A kid's neck? Why not the cheek?
I have no time for this.
The small burn on my cigarette wore off because of the roiling wind, it's even making it exhausting to hold that annoying piece of tobacco filled paper. Is it my cigarette that's light, or my fingers too weak? I assume it's my fingers. I was always a frail person, and I will be one forever, mentally and physically. Maybe I'll even grow weaker, but you can't grow weaker. You become it. Growing is a word for positive things—not always… it's not very positive if you grow a tumour or a plant in your garden that's poisonous. Becoming sounds like a better word, at least I think it does. Perhaps someone like Kari would disagree, since he's a skilled writer. But does it matter? Does it matter if my beloved Kari writes or not?
My thinking gets cut off by the sudden words of the wind. The screams of the flow shrieking terribly.
Where is my cigarette? I ask myself. It's gone from my fingers. I shrug and give up, moving my head and hand from the outside of the window and inside my warm apartment, fixing my grown out hair with my callused filled hand opposite from the one which is missing my cigarette. In other and more simpler words, my left hand. Yet I don't think I do much of a great job... strands still sprouting like the large leaves of a palm tree. Heh... It brings a silent smirk on my face, silent because it doesn't produce any wave of loud sounds and silent because nobody other than my ruined mind has anything to say about it.
I scratch the back of my neck with my right hand, letting my arm fall back loosely as I finish. I move my neck from left and right, hearing cracks from the inside of my body.
Goodness. if one day I break a bone and become paralyzed from doing this, I wouldn't be surprised. Oddly loud those cracks were.
I walk towards my own room, slumped like the homeless men I see back at home in Romania, sitting in the night of the dim streets hidden and forced away in the slum. I put my left hand on the handle and open the door, almost bumping in seconds before because of how dark it was, not like my room is any brighter. I enter and shut the door as quickly as I went inside, stumbling to the ground and searching with my hands to the mattress- or, futon... I don't see a difference, I find it and lay down. Cradling myself.
I think of Kari.
I miss him, despite being two rooms away.
…Two rooms? Wouldn't it be one? There's the kitchen and then his, but before the kitchen there's mine. But I am inside my room, and if I'm inside my room it would either be two or three, but no! It would be one because my room is outside of the kitchen, and after the kitchen it's his room. So it would be one room away! Yes, I am so glad I resolved that.
How much have I been thinking? My head hurts, as if I'm getting a screw drilled in it. I wish Kari was here. But sadly he's not.
I feel my eyelids getting heavy and crashing down onto my pupils like teal coloured waves splashing onto the already wet skin of a person, the darkness embracing me like it cares more than my mother.