conversations with dead people, 2011

[27_53]

They say that doing too much cocaine (or any drug, for that matter) will kill a man, and they're right.

He's sitting on a rooftop with the world racing around him.



There are benefits to having an increased metabolism, apparently this is one of them. He feels like he could fly right off this rooftop, right here and right now. After a moment of contemplation, he stands on wobbly newborn legs and glances towards the edge.

The hustle and bustle of traffic on the busy street below is a symphony to his ears, a rush of sound and music that weaves around his fingertips as he twirls in place, his sneakers brushing against the gravel-covered tarpaper as he stumbles and laughs.

This. Is. Amazing.



"You're funny," Skellig says.

The boy jumps back when the disembodied voice appears out of nowhere and turns out to not really be disembodied at all. And are those wings? What. The. Fuck.

"What the fuck, man."

Skellig shrugs and smiles a grin that is too sharp to be anything but feral. "I got tired of watching you dance."

"Are those wings," and the boy (sixteen, seventeen, who knows) staggers forward with an outstretched hand, fingers reaching to touch the feathers.

"Ah-ah-ah, no."

"C'mon, man." More laughter, and he twirls again, because this is fucking awesome. "Come on!"



Skellig laughs and folds his arms across his chest, watching the boy (he's a fool and he's going to die, and there's nothing Skellig can -- or will, for that matter -- do to stop him from meeting his fate) twirl in circles on the rooftop.

He is so young and stupid it's almost pathetic, but to Skellig (who is also young and stupid at this point in his lifetime, so many goddamn years ago it's impossible to remember) it is amusing as all hell, to watch this boy dance in circles while the coke courses through his veins like whitewater through a river.

"This is great!"



"Want to get higher," Skellig asks, suddenly again at the side of the kid. There's a glint in his eyes that's anything but nice, a wicked smirk on his features. (Maybe he's trying to warn him away? Or maybe it's just his true nature showing through.)

"You got more stuff?"

"No, but I have wings."

They stare at each other for a moment before the boy (stupid, stupid boy) laughs, and shrugs. "Okay, man. Let's go!"



Skellig grabs the boy by the shoulders, his fingernails (no, these are not just fingernails, these are his talons) digging into his skin and drawing blood as he pulls him off his feet and runs for the edge of the rooftop. The boy screams but the sound is lost to the wind as he launches them skyward, wings unfurling in a rush that sends dust and debris raining onto the street below.

"Holy fucking shit, dude--"

He ignores the rest of the words of the screaming child (not a boy, just a fucking child) as they pinwheel higher, higher, and higher still; past buildings and clouds and even what seems to be past the stars. The air is thin and the child writhes in his grasp, but it never falters.

(Someone like Him does not lose his prey, after all.)

"--let me go!"




"All right."




He glides, watching as the child falls like a stone to the earth, circling once before he tucks his wings behind him and begins to fall himself. Faster, faster, and faster still. There is a open space below them, a break in the trees.

He is being reached for with outstretched arms, and seconds before impact, he sinks his fingertips again into the boy's shoulders (he is growing wise again, it seems he is no longer a child) and flares his wings wide behind him, breaking the fall.

They hit the ground with a dull thump, the boy on his back and Skellig perched atop him, too light to be crushing him yet the boy can feel his bones straining beneath the weight. His eyes are wide and wild, pupils dark and searching; the boy's heart is racing so hard Skellig can practically taste the adrenaline on his own tongue.



(He can't breathe, the boy. He can't realize it because he's as high as a fucking kite, but he can't breathe, and everything is warm around the edges of his vision, the blood on his shoulders dripping down into the grass and for the last minute and twenty seconds of his life, everything is amazing.)




Skellig waits until the boy is unconscious to reach up and snap his neck; he feels it is the least he could do.