be forever blue
cyled into the dumps again · 10/23

Drowning of his woes in the depths of a bottle wasn't worth more disappointment. The reckless nature for which his actions was strangling all involved, poured into going back and forth with staying inside for a week or wandering the streets of Boston. He dialed it in, playing down the severeness of what lies were being told for years. They weren't his own but that of Nathan's. Being one of the same now, meant charting the same course. Feeling similar things when dealt not in the same fashion brought both consciousness at a standstill. They were clueless as to handle other people's sensitivities, their feelings, and overall what was thought of him.

He tried to open up in the face of his other half. To tell her the things that cause the dirt and muck to kick up in the face of his son, but fell flat. After gaining strides of working towards a good place for the two, especially after the rough patches that always seemed to follow, he wasn't ready to throw that in the wringer as well. He was slipping on eggshells, controlling the narrative as much as he could. Navigating how to approach the lie while ensuring that the issues appeared during his shameful captivity, weren't ones to keep him down and out. But it was going to. The realms of coping expanded and then through the onset levels of enforced rage.

He was irritable more than usual needing a way out of the bubble of hell that festered within super paced thoughts. He tried to turn off his thinking in the evenings post escape from the tunnel, gaining anxious behavior, which turned into sleepless nights than he was used to. Slade looked for an outlet that didn't require to leave the home from which he was stolen from. As long as he loitered around out of his mind, thinking of the worse, especially for the two kids he could've done better bet, he would plummet deeper. Saturday evening had to give change. Prior to that, Friday was spent getting away. Thinking his cabin would become the spot of refuge but was mistaken as it shocked him of the property not standing in the off route coordinates. Let down at the disadvantage, he stood out in the woods for hours. Huddled in his outerwear, with a shotgun aimed at no prey in particular, but believed they would come.

Disappointment led him back where Isla was no where to be found until he escaped the house again for meaningless fun. On his own as he once did, as it always was, brought him to various parts of the city. Old haunts that had not been seen in some time, was conservancy. He blocked out the distinct chatter he couldn't escape. The things his conscience chanted were troubling and he knew it. The voices came in the form of guilt and contempt. Sadness and mania. Hesitation and defeat. One pitcher of beer, several cigarettes, and one sided conversations with the derelicts of a hush-hush watering hole, he was convinced that sitting around longer would transform him as one in the same the company he kept. Quick smiles from pretty women barely grazed his attention. Thieves out to swindle the weak, thought twice to approach him on the con. His hunched over demeanor and abashed appearance attracted strangers alike.

He moved onto harder stuff. Liquor to feel the burn before it died out with unfortunate help of his body's ability to filter out the toxins that alcohol provided. Slumped in knowing nothing would suffice, not even lines of coke offered was the upper needed to drag himself out of the bar and smash the heads of shit stirrers together until their skulls collapsed under pressure in perfect harmony. Visually watching as it happened, he was jumpy, anticipating the likelihood of seeing individuals in their lackey uniform, file in looking for his presence again. He had to sharpen up again, not remain open to the mental snakes that were striking at all the good ideas to reach the surface. On a whim, one that was out of character, mobilized his feet to touch the section cleared for the drunks and empty souls to sing their repentances. He flicked ashes on his way to the communal karaoke machine, grabbing the mic in the process.

Smoke drifted from the cigarette nearing its demise but he kept it for good measure. Nervousness was muted, even boos he would anticipate. It was well beyond the witching hour and he was keen on the changes that set place once again. The blurred vision through his right eye nudged him to drink more. To smoke until the end of the cigarettes life. He flicked the butt against the floor, apathetic if the surface caught on fire. He looked on, unaware of the discoloration taking place behind chosen frames. Knowing he could feel a way about missing the beauty of seeing the world full on, including the trash that was littered about the room. Slade took a chance, grasping for a note. Not sparing the chance for anyone else to do the same once a random song queued, music shaped in its cheesy factor reminded him of the 80s. An era he remember more than he let on. With decades gone and passed, he went with the flow. Discovering the pang of upbeat sound synth pop provided.

Following the tempo, foot tapped the ground. Foot never shaking the foundation in his warm up. The surrounding faces, some hidden between pairs of tits, to fallen face first into the tables, or turned up with disfavor, looked on. He didn't need the cheers, the crowd approval to go on. He just did as if he were a smarmy lounge singer doing a tired show for the sorry drunks.

I try to discover a little something to make me sweeter. Oh baby refrain from breaking my heart. I'm so in love with you. I'll be forever blue..

Slade continued on, keeping the perfect tone to an already bass heavy sometimes gruff voice. His disconnect with anyone and anything apparent, brushing up the notes in a monotone way. Little did he know, his rendition brought someone to their feet, gaining the added noise of clapping. Off beat at best. Erasure's hidden treasure of A Little Respect was the motivation to uproot the dead from their seats. He could've stopped and walked off. Show the least in being surprised when the chorus poured from thin lips. His way of touching the higher notes was done out of jest, keeping the entertainment value at its lowest as not to expect to empress and having the few concentrate on wanting more.

Eye glared at anyone wanting to take his spot in the front where he was best to live in the background. The attention different and eerily welcoming that he carried on until another song arrived, to do the same. Lasting this long would be the feat he wouldn't talk much about wishfully thinking it did more than what the aforementioned could not provide. The last thing he needed was a sly smirk to appear, being more than generous already while separating from the woes of the week leading into the new.