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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
discarded meat

Submitted: May 18, 2009

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Submitted: May 18, 2009



I stepped carefully, first on my toes, then the ball of my foot, circling the pressure until all my weight was on the ground. These careful steps make the least sound especially when walking through snow. The technique is even worthwhile when walking on the normal forest floor, any snapping twigs or rustling leaves will be silenced, leaving your ears open, allowing you to hear the birds groaning to each other, the distant stream pouring more drinks and the old trees aching to the bone. I made slow but pleasurable progress through the wilderness, observing the stripped bare trees with powdered lines of white balancing delicately on the fragile branches, as carefully lined up as cocaine is on someone else's toilet (and disappointingly as beautiful). Every so often birds out of their minds with empty eyes would disturb the lines, as if they disapproved of me tainting the beauty with my filthy past. It seemed no matter how quietly I walked, they could still hear me, perhaps sense me, and come jittering into my path to disturb me, knowing I hate the unpredictability of their movement. The similarity of each coke smothered tree made me feel lost in my heart, the feeling of sudden angst as you need to make a decision, but in my mind I was assured - I grew up playing in these woods, made a thousand dens, with a thousand friends - a thousand times - if only the two parts of my body would work together.

I knew the great hill was only five minutes east, which I always hated to climb up, it was ungodly in its steepness and seemed to extend as you advanced. After about five strong steps I would always have a searing pain in my calves, and then resort to pushing strongly off one leg, using my arms on my thigh to propel me. However it had given me kicks on the way down, whether it was in boots, on boards or on bikes. We'd spend days playing football at the top, slogging out sloppy matches with our own mini teams, with our own mini transfers and mini salaries. We also had mini bust ups, I got pushed into a tree by accident and punched a boy, who was older and laughed me off. I remember the anger and frustration every time the ball fell down the hill, knowing the pain my calves would feel, even though they were fine playing football on flat land for hours on end. As we grew older our ambitions augmented, designing and building ramps to place at the bottom of the hill so that we could launch off and break our arms. The childish joys were tainted on the hill as well, the first time I vomited my soul from drink was on that hill, and my first junk comedown hit me as I climbed it on the way home one night from somewhere far, miles from where I was meant to be. I lay alone, a shivering, chewing mess for hours until I gathered some sort of sense and crawled home unsuccessfully fitting a cat flap we don't have. I betrayed my memories of purity with no regard for the my past, I left it behind and disrespected ,it just like I had done to everyone else.

As I stepped over a log I tutted at the carelessness of the fat line that had been cut on top of it, shocked that mother nature would allow something so ugly and coarse, I knew if I follow this vague path I would reach the valley where there was a clear patch after strong winds ripped the archaic oaks from their bases, leaving them as bridges over a stream. Here we had built a tee-pee once along with a simple wooden hut. We had found a toad and poked him. We walked along the fallen trees in single file until each of us had fallen off. One boy carried a knife at all times but that was to cut things that weren't other boys or powders.

Looking down into the stream my eyes saw a shirted man, well kept and with comforting soft facial features, Robert Thompson, a success story in the real world. My mind didn't see that same man, they saw an imposter, behind the façade there was a junk addicted failure, scratching himself through his filthy, soiled clothes, his veins filled with inhuman qualities. I watched the stream flow and knelt down, cupping my hands in the water. All I caught was a cigarette butt and a pair of knickers.

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