* - - - GET OVER IT

[Alessandro Logan Kinkaid]

YOU TRIED SO HARD TO BE SOMEONE THAT

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you forgot who you are you
FILL SOME EMPTINESS 'TIL ALL YOU HAD SPILLED[/size][/color]
over now everything you have is so
FAR AWAY THAT YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU ARE[/color][/font][/center]

Through the haze of cigarette smoke, and the fading morning mist, a lone, silhouetted figure moved slowly, shakily. His face was hidden in shadow, though had his eyes been visible, it would have been noted that they were closed. There were not many others on the streets so late at night, or technically so early in the morning, and the young man made his way undisturbed down the seemingly endless streets. For a while, he stopped, looking about himself. Within seconds, he’d sat down backside to a tallish building of some sort. Carefully, he dumped his backpack onto the floor beside himself. In his other hand was a large kind of box, a guitar case actually. Very slowly, the boy put it down, creating a kind of border around himself. The sigh that escaped his lips only moments later, was amplified in the quiet of the night; it would have been an understatement to say that it frightened and surprised him. Nearly jumping from his sitting position, he braced himself against the side of the building. He was out of it today, far too much to do… anything. He’d drunk himself into a mystifying kind of stupor and the night had gone by in slow, sluggish waves, leaving him bewildered, and his wallet considerably lighter.

After a while of staggering about, it was finally obvious to himself and the many friendly, drunken strangers around him, that he was far too drunk to even drink more. For a cloudy half hour, he'd stumbled down the streets, the thought of getting lost at all, disappearing from his mind. And, finally he'd made his way to the aforementioned spot: sitting hopelessly, head lolling to the side, his hands and feet outstretched towards the edges of the sidewalk. If memory served him right, which it often didn't, he'd recall how often this scene occurred, not every year or every month, but nearly every week. Somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind, he recalled how disgusted his father would have been had he known, and how upset Madeline would be had she known. She'd probably force him into her small apartment, saying how he needed to take better care of himself; how she would have to do that for him, acting as though she were the older of the two. But no, neither of the two would know; Father was probably busy fucking half the woman in town, and Madeline was probably home for the not-so festive holidays. He himself couldn't show his face around there for a while; no he'd just have to wait out the storm; after all, he didn't know Father well enough to do otherwise. Fighting him, and accusing him wouldn't work well; he'd proved that last time when he'd tried it. So, he'd have to try other tactics, and other, subtler methods.

Sitting there in the darkness, and murkish gloom, this concept wavered into his thoughts, though it was hard for his drunken mind to grasp it all. Still, he remembered those days, and how strange they'd been--how hard they had been, and how trying. Father was, undoubtedly, a tyrant of sorts; presiding over his little kingdom and unhappy subjects: his family. It was a painful topic indeed; one would imagine how a man like Michael Kinkaid ended up fathering a boy like Alessandro, when they were so drastically different. His other son, the one he'd never had the chance to really meet, was, in effect, much more like him: hard, cold, bitter, and unkind. He'd shown signs of all of this when he was young; though to none than his tormented prey was this obvious. And of course, Alessandro had known, and did know. He'd known it from the start... Maybe he was meant to go with his mother. If he had, so much would be different, he would have been different.

THIS POST WAS TAGGED FOR

[/font][/color] no one, WITH[/size] six four seven[/font][/color] WORDS, AND ALESSANDRO'S IN[/color] clothes of course![/font][/color][/url] THIS TEMPLATE WAS MADE BY[/font][/size] gabby the amazing![/font][/color] TUNES SUPPLIED BY[/font][/color] jet – hang on[/font][/color]
THANK YOU FOR USING THIS TEMPLATE![/font][/color]
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[oliver luke wolf]

&since you're gone, the world is not the same.

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It was a rare occurrence: Oliver was up and out past 12:00. He was usually dead asleep by now thanks to his handy insomnia pills, but he had run out in quite an untimely fashion. So here he was, roaming the streets, a little tired and a little annoyed, with a cigarette in one hand. He looked around as he walked, mostly glancing at the night sky, trying to find those damn constellations everyone was always raving about. But all he could see was distant, cold stars.

He shrugged. Astronomy had never really been his forte. He had never actually understood it. How did people see such things where there was nothing and then make other people see it too? Maybe you could only see it when you knew what you were looking for; maybe some people never saw it. He wouldn't be surprised if he was one of those people. Where more astronomically minded people discussed Orion's Belt and Hydrus for hours on end, he was just fine with the Big Dipper. So as he looked up at what should have been Gemini and only saw a 'T', he decided that the Greeks (or was it the Romans?) had simply taken too many liberties and he'd just have to do this one his way.

He took the nearest seat that he could find, propped his head on his fist and found the glasses that he never wore. As he screwed up his eyes and looked into the heavens, he found his first constellation almost immediately. It looked to him like a dancing man with three arms, and it would undoubtedly be named Oliverius. For some reason, he found it so much easier to find his own constellations than those of old men thousands of years ago. It was quite obvious that Lukei, and Wolfius were far better names than Libra and Cassiopeia (whatever the hell that was anyway).

Satisfied with his work, he got up again, wandering aimlessly down the sidewalk. A couple bums were scattered here and there. Most were already asleep while others followed him with their half-lidded eyes as he walked past. He had always thought homelessness was for unstable people with unstable jobs and unstable minds. Or at least that's what he'd been told. To tell the truth, some of them looked fairly sane. Just--he searched for the word for a couple minutes, brow furrowed, head titled to one side--just tired. That's what they were--even the ones who were sleeping. He suddenly felt a connection of sorts with these poor, homeless, dirty bums: the terrible burden of being too weary to carry on, but carrying on anyway.

A sigh escaped his lips and he dug in his pockets looking for some spare change; he supposed it was the least he could do. He dropped it in the first styrofoam cup he saw and gave a small nod when the man thanked him. It only made him feel a little better. Homeless people quite honestly gave him the creeps. He always felt awkward and guilty in their presence and wanted to run far away at the sight of them as much as he wanted to give them $5000 and a nice, good paying job. But life is life, and life isn't fair, so Oliver continued on his way. He only looked back once.

He walked and walked for some time, and finally looked up to realize he had no clue where he was. The surroundings definitely did not look like where he lived. He needed to get home, though. He could feel sleep pressing down on him, making his eyes flutter and almost close. But he knew he would find no peace in the sleep he sought. He'd just toss and turn and never get a moment's rest no matter how hard he tried. When he didn't take his pills, insomnia worked like clockwork for him. This one night was different, though. He usually never went out when he couldn't sleep, but for once, he had dared to. He actually preferred it to drinking beer and watching the news in the middle of the night. In addition, the cool air was refreshing and there was something so wonderful about the night that made it his favorite time of day. The absence of light made the once familiar streets look like a whole different world. And he liked it.

But good things only last so long. Oliver was forced to sit back down out of sheer exhaustion. He slumped in the hard, cold bench, head lolling back, a wide yawn distorting his features. He didn't want to give in to sleep, but at the same time, he wanted it so badly. He gave in for a second, then swore and quickly straightened back up, lighting another cigarette and scowling.

He was never like this; quiet, solemn and slightly irritable... Then again, he usually couldn't be found roaming the streets at two in the morning tired and cold. He vowed that he wouldn't fall asleep; especially not out here on a bench, alone, with only jeans and a jacket to keep him warm. He'd keep walking or something--anything. He wished someone was here to keep him awake and entertained; to talk and joke and laugh with him. But regrettably, it was only him, the pigeons, and the bums.

Fortunately, luck was on his side. For as he continued down the dimly lit path, he caught sight of a slumped figure. Oddly, the man seemed around his age, maybe even younger. He wasn't one of the stereotypical 50 year old men with shaggy gray beards and misty gray eyes, waving a cup in one hand and mumbling incoherently. Actually, he seemed quite sane. This was something you didn't see every day.

As he approached, he finished his second cigarette and hunted around for a third. All out. He swore under his breath and crushed the remains of his old cigarette under his heel. That was the last pack he had in all and there was no way he could go buy any in the middle of nowhere. The only thing he could do was hope that this mysterious stranger was the kind who smoked. "Uh, hi." His voice came out cracked and dry. It seemed too loud in the peaceful silence. The man didn't seem to notice him so he bent down a little, trying to get his attention. He had never been good at conversation, so he might as well come out and say it. "Yeah, hi... got a smoke?"

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[/color]THIS POST IS FOR AALIICE AND IS MADE UP OF 1089 WORDS. OLIVER IS WEARING CLOTHES AND IS LISTENING TO LONELY NIGHTS BY THE SCORPIONS. I MADE THIS NIFTY LITTLE TEMPLATE AND I DECIDED TO USE THIS AS A REPLY AND NOT AS ITS OWN THREAD SO YEAH..[/blockquote][/blockquote][/size][/color][/b][/i][/justify][/blockquote]