It’s a hot night. Each window is open, but a decent breeze isn’t flowing. The sky is harsh, with the air. The clouds have faded. Each window is open
There’s a monolithic tick of bass, anarchically simple; throbbing. There’s a sudden contorted, crackling death rattle permeating the room, hanging in the air like smell. It’s the sound of choking, murderous fumes blown through the nose. It’s the picture of a smoking bull squaring up to a matador with a dead-eyed stare.
Without warning, in an instant, that plodding tap is transmogrified. Atop the naked ear, a new beast is astride. By the alchemy of overdrive, from a cocoon of spitting, spluttering, immutable distortion emerges a primal, guttural lashing of power-chord violence. In the indecipherable hiss, from the depths: from the smoky din of the mundane… there rises a scratchy-throated warrior, one who rasps indignant to whomever will listen.
And listen they will.
Plumes of smoke lift into the air with a delicate floating symmetry, seeming to kiss the sky before sailing away, traversing rooftops with gentle ease. The sky is black. The stars pierce through the veil of blackness, punctuating the night with a natural light-show, seeming far away but, at the same time, very close.
The boy’s eyes are candy-red, peering out from a thick fringe with odd strands quivering in the wind. His head is craned skywards, eyes fixed on a distant star. Cramped together on the short wooden plank framing the foot of the garden, his elbow rests on his knee while his hand wields the thick brown joint steadily dissipating into the air around him. From baggy lounge-bottoms, his legs poke out: dirty old trainers on feet that jitter in the night chill over the cracked-white concrete porch.
Smoke bellows out of his nose, rising up and choking his eyes. He squints and shakes – carefully and quietly – in that deadened night. Staring at the pattern of those concrete slabs for a minute, he is disturbed by the wheels of a car screeching away in the distance. An abrupt, rousing shriek that echoes through the cul-de-sac before tapering off and finally fading away.
Looking at the joint between his fingers, his eyes glaze over. He focuses on the long arms that are too skinny, the delicate wrists that are too thin; the fingernails grown slightly too long… girlish. His eyes itch and his throat aches. The night is running thin… as is the potential for a complete night’s sleep. Pursing his lips, he blows out a broken jet of smoke and looks around the garden. Gingerly, all sound has ceased. The wind has become utterly muted. Tranquil. For a moment, nothing seems to exist but himself in the world. In that time. In that place.
The birds of the coming sunrise sing a fortuitously ominous signal, and the silence breaks. Morning is coming. Soon everyone will be awake. Soon he will have to get up, and shower, and eat breakfast, and get dressed, and walk to school. He stubs out the joint, wipes his fingernails on the grass, and stands up to leave. As he pushes the porch door shut, his eye catches a glint of the final fragment of that evening’s pale moonlight, before he pulls on the lock and leaves.