”She pictures him sitting by a window, bathed in the sunlight of a warm, summer afternoon, sketchbook resting on his knee, smiling at her. Smiling like he’s finally content."
"How’s he doing?”
“Oh, you know. He’s great. Happy, for once. He’s killing himself, slowly, and he’s so skinny you can see his ribs, but I’ve never seen him so fucking happy.” She stops, takes a deep breath of nicotine. Blows it out into the frigid, winter air. “Who am I to say he’s going about it wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
He’s tragic. They all are, in their own way, but he’s so tragic it hurt. Tragic, wild, free, and reveling in the knowledge that no one in the world is capable of understanding him. He lives in a world of Kodachrome pictures, with a finger halfway covering the lens and a haze of smoke blurring the rest. It isn’t how he used to be, but she knows he never bothered looking back. The pudgy child peering out from his old family photographs may as well have died, with how thoroughly the memory of him was slaughtered.
She tries not to think about it. She tries to picture him as he should have been--talented, successful, loved--instead of the wasted person he became. She pictures him sitting by a window, bathed in the sunlight of a warm, summer afternoon, sketchbook resting on his knee, smiling at her. Smiling like he’s finally content. He lives fast, and she knows that sooner or later he’s going to die hard. She tries not to think about that, either.
“Oh, you know. He’s great. Happy, for once. He’s killing himself, slowly, and he’s so skinny you can see his ribs, but I’ve never seen him so fucking happy.” She stops, takes a deep breath of nicotine. Blows it out into the frigid, winter air. “Who am I to say he’s going about it wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
He’s tragic. They all are, in their own way, but he’s so tragic it hurt. Tragic, wild, free, and reveling in the knowledge that no one in the world is capable of understanding him. He lives in a world of Kodachrome pictures, with a finger halfway covering the lens and a haze of smoke blurring the rest. It isn’t how he used to be, but she knows he never bothered looking back. The pudgy child peering out from his old family photographs may as well have died, with how thoroughly the memory of him was slaughtered.
She tries not to think about it. She tries to picture him as he should have been--talented, successful, loved--instead of the wasted person he became. She pictures him sitting by a window, bathed in the sunlight of a warm, summer afternoon, sketchbook resting on his knee, smiling at her. Smiling like he’s finally content. He lives fast, and she knows that sooner or later he’s going to die hard. She tries not to think about that, either.