Sometimes, I just can't help feeling abandoned.
I sit here, and stare at the walls.
Maybe grab a beer, if there's any around. Not 'cause I like beer, which I don't, but just 'cause it's something to do. Takes my mind off things. But most of the time there's none, 'less Collins is in town to buy it. Mark and I don't have enough money for it.
Maybe smoke a cig, just because I need something to give me a little of that high, especially since I got clean. I guess we all need some kind of vice. But Mark always yells at me when I smoke, least when he gets home. says he can't stand the smell. Or, if it was a bad day, he'll ask for one. And then he doesn't get why I tell him no.
Maybe, just maybe, pick up my guitar, but not usually, because it never ends well. Mark got home from work just as I was about to slam it into the wall last time. It just doesn't work anymore. The music doesn't come like it used to.
So I sit here, and stare at the walls.
There's a bit of graffiti on that one, from a couple years back, when we wanted to make the place our own. Maureen did it, I think, judging by the writing, in just a regular can of black spray paint. It's a scrawling line of words that's too far away from my chair to read, and I don't remember honestly what it says.
And on the one opposite it, there's a broken place next to the doorway, still crumbling because it's not like we can get it fixed. That was from one of our many fights, during my withdrawal. It was he who shoved me into the wall, in a last ditch effort to knock some sense into me. It knocked me unconscious instead. I can't thank him enough for that.
On one in between those, the windows. One's patched with duct tape, but, surprisingly, most are in tact. Dirty, but whole. The fire escape outside those, which holds many memories, of little things, laughter, crying, cigarettes, and the girl who came in our window one cold winter night.
The one opposite those windows is brick, and it's covered with old posters. Covering many of these, though, is a sheet, torn on one edge and stained in one place with what looks like coffee. It's not just a sheet though, it's become the screen for Mark's film. It's where he works, seeing how certain shots are cut together, and all sorts of things he's tried to explain to me, but I don't get.
He's at work now. That's why I'm here alone.
I wish he'd quit. He hates it. I know he does. He barely has time to shoot for his own film any more. It makes him antsy. He snaps at me more often. He wants to be left alone, he wants me to let him work, and why can't I go a whole day without breathing down his neck? He knows he hasn't eaten, he knows he hasn't slept, he knows that the only thing that's gone down his throat today is a couple swallows of Stoli, now would I just let him work?
So I walk away.
And I sit here.
And I stare at the walls.