The Obsidian



I swore I could catch fire, taste it on my tongue, watch it dance, a majestybinside my mouth, snaking its way down my esophagus. That's how it felt to kiss an old wound, have it explode between your teeth, the fragrance of blood dripping from your damaged lips, and they are damaged too. I knew about Marty's episodes, I knew about his broken dreams, the map with the ink stain across it, a map with no treasure. We were both buried amongst our tidy things, two clowns staring at a world full of contempt. " does it surprise you that I'm different,"
" to what? Your carefully constructed self,"
" the public versus the private identity, and who Tod I pick?" We laughed.
" to be a name in an address book " we both chided. We'd seen it in one of those black and white detective movies, the ghost and smoke series, I'd rebelled in the awesome dialect, whilst shoving confetti sized popcorn down my throat. I was sixteen, and there was nothing sweet about it. The world was like a painting, garish, and obstructing a simple myriad of perfect cream walls. I was mad about icons, bits of Lego I felt had been put together, there you have it world, embrace me, the more flawed I am, the more you scoop the change out of my pocket. " you think my eyes are too big?"
" And your breasts are too small?" He chided. I stretched an elegant bony fudge hand and measured it against his cappuccino complexion. I wanted to say we are very similar you and I. Yet when I saw the freckles in his pupil twitch uncomfortably, I realised how desperately he wanted to be a one of us. Those sub ports that slide easily into a network, and you hear the computer buzzing to life, then a box springs up before you. it was nice to not be outside the inside to be part of our two, and yet the two of us, identified the strangeness in our realm. A world separate from the world we didn't really belong to. Marty scanned the small cinema it was nicknamed the oval complex, after some fat woman had jumped to her death from the fifth storey, her blood like cranberries tainting the perfectly rouge floors. His eyes dotted from one poster to the next, " man the obsidian is a great place to hang out," we looked at the curling steps, the Marilyn Monroe and Al pachinko add for the citizen, the Greek columns that lined each floor with,gothic monsters climbing out of the frame. It was both museum and cinema, business school, and bookshop, what we both loved was it looked so small from the outside, yet like us, there was much going on within. Scents of candy lavender, , fresh mil chocolate, newly risen dough ripened our senses, our nostrils became hares noses, twitching incessantly, and hunger streamlined our blood as my electric brown eyes encompassed Marty's Irish blue, yet poignant features. He was dapper for his age, had more hair than most of the boys in our year, stretched out like blinds, a compliment to chiseled features, and a cleft in his chin." In years to come one day ill own this place," he shoved his hands deep into his denim jeans, the baggy t-shirt hung around him with its rainbow colours, he reminded me a bit of a hippy. In years to come Marty McIntyre owned half of the physician, yet the things he did to get it......well one can only guess.

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