(This is from a story I'm writing, it's rather short or I plan to make it such. Let me know if anyone is interested.)



Wordplay


Jorge watched as the afflicted boy next to him took down smoke, as meticulous as it was. He held the blunt between his lips, inhaling without a flinch as if this was one of many he'd ashed out. Jorge could only imagine what'd brought him here, just like the boy was here as well.

"What?" The taller twists to look at him. They hold it for a bit, searching for the answer in the other's eyes. Neither of them coming up with anything specific. There were a few reasons Ricky ended up in the place he was.

A small smile gleamed on his face when he turned, looked down to his lap. "You ever feel like you're smoking this for no reason?" A blunt he rose with a limp between them.

"All the time, why?" The smoke drifts from Jorge's mouth. Coming into the room would give you a permanent wheeze.

"I feel like I'm bored of being high. I smoked to escape a feeling, fell in love with this one, and now I'm sick of it." Jorge nodded softly, eyebrows furrowing.

"You don't find it a bit useful?" He said.

Ricky titled his head when he glanced at him. "Sometimes. I like the way it cracks you open—sometimes. Sometimes I look like a fool in front of people when I speak." Jorge chuckles.

"When I smoke with my brother it's the only time we have to be vulnerable. Me and him talk, sure, but it's so jaded. Being high makes it—sometimes—as though we've always been able to speak.." Jorge shakes his head when Ricky looks over again.

"That's the only time I can get inside his head. He's been living with me, plus our parents are freaking crazy. He knows how to hide what he's thinking or feeling. Not while high though." Another small chuckle escaped him, and Jorge passed the joint to Ricky after sparking it alive.
© Eric Bell