If Marc Emery is the Prince of Pot, I'm the King! (upinsmoke) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2010-09-18 00:44:00 |
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Current music: | used to - daughtry |
Who: Marijuana and Heroin.
What: Not quite sure yet.
Where: Highway basement stairs.
When: Saturday, early morning.
Warnings: Language, drug references and drug use, slightly morbid themes if you squint.
A night in the dirt had helped Marijuana's mind slow considerably, settle considerably, like a grains of sand slowly sliding down to fill a hole left by something taken out. The Organic was always soothing; it wrapped around him physically and trickled into his mind as well, smoothing out some of the worst scars so Marijuana could look at them without being completely repulsed. And Marijuana had wanted to stay down - he didn't fuck up when he was sleeping, he didn't step up only to be shot down, he didn't fail, he didn't hurt, he didn't do anything but be - but, in a move uncharacteristic for his life-giver, the dirt slowly pushed him to the surface as the sun rose up into the morning sky. Marijuana groaned and pushed the dirt away from his face before opening his eyes gradually, blinking in the harsh sunlight and, after a few minutes of mentally struggling with the Organic - Marijuana wanted to go back, he didn't want to get up, he just wanted to stay there where everything was simple - Marijuana forced himself up until he was sitting and rolled his shoulders back, hearing bones crack, feeling muscles strain, feeling his body become acclimatized to being surrounded by air instead of dirt. Really, though, he was stalling. He didn't want to get up and face the plans he'd made, the plans that had sounded so good and fun at the time but now just sounded like a desperate grab to retain some sense of power and control over the affairs he had used to run so easily. He didn't want to face his probably-hurting husband and know that it was his fault. And he definitely didn't want to admit to himself that there was something wrong and bad festering in his marriage, threatening to roll over the sun and bathe everything in eclipsed darkness.
Eventually, though, he stood, rummaging down into his back pocket for the joint he'd rolled with weed he'd plucked off the sole plant in the sub-basement, lighting it with the tip of his finger as he stumbled down the hallway to the stairs, eyes still half-shut, Marijuana still half-asleep and feeling even sleepier as the extremely potent weed hit his system like a bulldozer ripping apart a building. Frowning, Marijuana was about to start up the stairs when he looked up and swallowed hard; his husband was at the top, sitting, reading, and for a moment, there was a mixture of deep shame, deeper guilt, and throbbing anger in Marijuana's eyes before he glanced down to the wooden steps, letting his gaze go unfocused so he looked through the wood instead of at it, trying to tuck all of those negative emotions away and be strong. He was Marijuana. He was strong, the strongest of the Four, a drug kingpin, a brother, a father, a husband, and just because things were wrong and had been for months didn't mean he was allowed to break down. He was strong. You'll still be strong if you talk to him about how you're feeling. In fact, you'll be even stronger. Marijuana glanced at the tip of his joint and took another quick inhale. What do you know? It took him effort not to snort along with the mental words, but the desire went away when two words twisted their way through the smoke in his lungs. You, bossman. Marijuana capitulated and stubbed out the joint against the skin of his palm, healing the burn as he slid the last half of the joint into his pocket and started slowly up the stairs.
Eyes clear and neutral, if still tired and a tad empty, Marijuana slid down onto the step next to Heroin. It was a graceless movement, more of a collapse, as he leaned back against his elbows and wondered why he felt caught between what was buried and what was beside him. Blinking to clear his mind of that weed-induced haze, Marijuana craned his neck to look at the book in Heroin's hands. "What're you readin'?"