Mythmouth
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Wicked Boy (70)
🕑 Added 2022-12-15 04:02:39 +0000 UTCMonths ago — I cried in Ezra's doorway. I allowed him, as a stranger, to gather me in his arms; to cradle the significance of unhappiness that I'd never let someone else touch. Weeks ago, I stumbled there, past the threshold, pathetically inebriated — bearing the consequence of my sadness as he carefully peeled off my shoes.
Today, drenched and mud-covered, greedy and different, and seeking something only for myself — I kissed a man I once told not to touch me, one that I still scarcely understand, in the same spot.
There are a considerable amount of sides to a person, and they only grow more distinct as the seasons change. I suppose I wouldn't have guessed this is where I'd end up — but I've never been able to tell what the outcome of time might do to me, or my heart.
When I reach Ezra's room, I waver and let my fingertips skim my lips, then, the cold skin of my collarbone, like an apology to who I was the two distant nights in Ezra's doorway — before this side of me became distinguishable and yearning.
Where are my boxes?
Ezra's bedroom door is splayed open, a sliver of moonlight spilling across the floor, over a small bundle of electronics on his desk, the outlines of his chair, and his bedframe. His room is cooler than the rest of the house, I feel it right down to my bones — but he must like it, with thinner blankets pulled tidily over his pillows and a heavier quilt unused and folded at the foot of his mattress.
My thoughts are too scattered and sluggish, too trapped in a bizarre wistfulness for me to pay his belongings much attention — or to take any mental stock of the rest. Instead, I slip quietly into a room that isn't mine, leaving the door open behind me, and listen to the sound of Ezra rustling in the living room — and a nearer, ticking clock.
Oh.
"... Can I use your shampoo?" I call, glimpse at dark streaks left on my arms, and add, "and — your soap?"
"Use whatever," Ezra steps past the hallway with a near-empty glass of water and shrugs as he sips it, smile brief but just as catching as I watch him from the dark, "Got plenty. Go wild."
I nod — nose wrinkled, as he chuckles and saunters out of sight. I shake my head, a brief eye roll that feels a lot like affection, and undo the tuck of my cardboard box near his closet.
Pajamas. Toothbrush. Brush.
Towel?
No towel.
Where is my towel?
I sigh. Even the air feels different in someone else's home. Lived in, with traces of candles, cleaners, perfumes, and colognes I'd never thought to buy. Often, more manageable to breathe than the stale apartment air of my recently remodeled and sterile-colored flat.
I sniff at myself and frown.
Speaking of scents —
I don't think I've ever been this dirty.
*
After digging through my boxes of belongings and eventually finding a towel, I don't know how long I stand there in Ezra's equally unfamiliar bathroom, the shower sounding like faint static in the background. I stare at myself in the mirror until my reflection is overcome with steam.
"... I really look like shit," I mumble, finally shrugging off what's left of my dirty clothes. I attempt to fold them, then frown, wadding them together near the fabric hamper in fear of dirtying it with wet mud or the smell of a wetter dog.
I consider Taylor's assumption of a religious background — of being mistaken as some silver-spooned frat boy the first time I set foot in the diner. And, for the first time, I scrutinize my lump of clothing with a scowl. I wonder — given the space, the newness, and the liberation from my white-collar career...
Will I even want — the contents of those four boxes of mine? Do I like the things I own?
I stamp down a residual sense of misplaced crisis and huff.
The bathroom is wider than the one in my old apartment, towel rack adjacent to the sink, a textured shower curtain, and an absorbable mat right outside the tub. Everything is very practical — which, like Ezra's quilts and aging decor, doesn't seem to suit him in the least bit.
I must still be thinking about it when I step underneath the spray of his shower — because I fail to test the temperature of the water first. It's much warmer than my chilled body, and the water hits my bare skin with prickles of uncomfortable, biting heat. My introspections are lost to discomfort. I push the curtain aside, but the water pressure is too intense, and I'm quickly forced to shut it again — turn down the knob, and wait.
Eventually, I have to admit that it begins to feel nice — and the evidence of my day in Huxley washes away into pleasantness.
I distractedly imagine Lexi's salon and what the decor must look like in the daylight, with workers bustling about and chatting, eating their lunches from the mini-fridge — and wonder if Lexi will maybe invite me one day, when it's open.
The thought takes me by surprise, but I look down, reminded that her number is somewhere, jotted in black ink. I search for it on the back of my forearm, and once I find it, I'm extra careful not to rub it away.
'You know what they say about likin' somethin'? It's even funner to do when ya' make friends who like the same things.'
An ambiguous excitement coils in my stomach, foreign and strange. I think — If we are friends, I might be looking forward to this.
I might.
I lather shampoo that doesn't smell like myself — over my hair, at my nape, and rinse it, thumbing the backs of my ears, palms carrying surplus suds over my jaw. It's quiet, and the warmth, lack of worry, and water brings awareness to my exhaustion.
The water grows more comfortable as steam rises from my body, and I've forgotten how much better the world looks through a haze of white noise — the quiet hum of the showerhead, the gentle hiss of the water, and the muted rush of my own steady pulse.
I feel cleaner, and more at peace — and more grounded — than I have in months. It's been so long since I've felt this, that I didn't even realize it had gone missing.
How is that?
For the longest time, I've searched for anything comparative to this feeling, sat restlessly in my bed — or up in the middle of the night, heart thundering, blood stirring with this god-awful, unknown anxiety that crept its way in and clawed into my gut.
Sometimes, I could ignore it.
Sometimes, I couldn't.
On the times I couldn't, with everything I lacked gaping wide in my empty stomach, the hollowness and absence of sentiment — I would pivot to a bitter awareness of being an adult, faultily built. That I had nothing, no strength, no foundation — no home. That I could cling to nothing, that I might just be nothing.
And that was the nastiest emotion.
Like my mother, maybe I didn't know an alternative but to drink— until my thoughts hovered just the way they are now, until they were tiny, far-off, and barbless, a worry that was unclear to me, instead of some unknowable uneasiness that festered.
Then, I'd sigh and roll over, no longer myself but someone distant, and fall asleep listening to my breathing, to the misleading purl of living, knowing that when my alarm sounded, I'd be too busy existing to feel that disturbing absence. And I'd live — until I didn't want to, and then I would turn to the same thing, to find the same reliable numbness again.
I consider that, eyes lidded, making shapes out of my untrustworthy, bleary vision and the painted grooves in the wallpaper.
Will this be what sobriety is like?
I grimace.
Of course not.
I know better than to romanticize life.
I constantly go through periods where I'm chronically sober and then dive into lapses of intoxication. It's only been a couple of weeks. I've gone a couple of weeks before. It's not a milestone, a checkpoint, or a banner of accomplishment. It's simply two weeks without disruption.
I wonder when the next tipping point will be, and if —
Stop.
'Tell me somethin' good about your day.'
And instead, I think:
Of raspberries and honey, a hot shower, June's bedazzled collar, Grant's offset smile, and Lexi's understanding glances.... A tiring, busy, full day in Huxley, wide with the absence of my parents and their expectations, and everything — everything feeling like an uncertain possibility...
And I shove them inside of myself, hoping that this time, something else will be able to take the place of that festering absence.
Is that realistic?
I don't know. I tip my head back and squint at the ceiling. I wonder, and wonder, and think as confidently as I'm able to.
I close my eyes, and the sound of the shower, combined with the steam, becomes something like a lullaby. My head bobs back with the threat of sleep, and I jump, knocking backward — a bottle of conditioner landing squarely on my foot.
And then, I knock almost everything else over as well.
"You practicin' the backstroke or what?" Ezra calls. He's quiet after that, for long enough that I straighten up the bottles, but I don't bother responding.
But after a minute or so, the hallway floor from outside the bathroom door creaks tellingly,
"... You good?"
"It's fine!" My eyes shoot open, and I stumble, peeking past the curtain and showering the mat outside with soap suds. The sounds all carry, loud and sudden, and mortified, I add, "I mean — I'm fine, your bathroom is fine. I just knocked over some things."
Ezra snorts, tapping the wood of the door,
"Ah. That why ya' shower outside? Noise complaints?"
"Ezra." I glare at nothing in particular, but mostly the closed door. "Is there a reason you're so energetic this late?"
He tuts, a non-answer, before a unbothered,
"Testy."
The floor creaks again, likely with Ezra's retreat. I scramble to wash up, dry myself off with a towel, and snatch my pajamas off of the bathroom counter. I pull them on, ignoring the way they struggle to slip over the dampness of my knees and thighs, and then sit on the closed toilet lid to towel dry my hair.
I determine that I was correct in my assessment; Ezra is most certainly not a morning person, and if he has his way, I don't think I'm going to be, either.
—
(I took SO LONG because I’m trying to do this thing where I continue on, well into the next chapter, before posting. This means the next chapter is almost finished, which relieves me of my main and constant stressor/cause of blocks — starting a chapter after burning out finishing a massive one.
The next chapter for WICKED BOY will be up on Friday or Saturday so stay posted! I will remain consistent on Wicked Boy updates from now on, as it is one of the most read stories.)
Comments
Cotora Bird
This makes coming into work at 7am okay
Matthew Plecas
Milan is finally winning the battle in his own head......
