A Conversation

A conversation takes place late one night under the stars, as two sides of a conflict debate over a past they both long for.

The tree towered over them, its sturdy skeleton reduced to an intimidating black shadow whose many arms wore countless misshapen gloves. The air was permeated with the smell of smoke as they inhale, and then exhale, a small glow burning from the tip of a cigarette. A new light flashes briefly and timidly above them as a firefly floats into view. Somewhere in the distance, a train rolls through the valley, its screeching voice bellowing and slicing through the peaceful night, somehow adding to the atmosphere just as much as it interrupts it. Another draw is pulled in from the cigarette, and as the grass stretches upwards for the stars, it catches the ash tapped into it, and cradles the small flare that falls along with the unwanted soot.

“F**k, I flicked out my cherry again.”

“How many nights did we spend like this, wide awake, staring into the universe, while it stared right back?”

“Too many.”

“Don’t you miss it sometimes, though? It’s never quite this placid during the daylight. There are too many people, too much noise, too much clutter. We never got to just hear ourselves. There was just always so much noise.”

“And what do you call what you’re doing now? Is that not making noise?”

“Well, maybe it is. But the one noise I rarely mind is my own voice,” chuckled the anxious figure, leaning back into a cheap wicker chair and staring up into the tree’s canopy.

They propped their feet up on a dirty picnic table, glancing to the side and noting that the porch light was still on, and remembering the family waiting for them to return to the bright, noisy life waiting indoors. Another cigarette is lit, the paper blazing into a new lantern.

“I do miss it, sometimes. I miss staying up for days on end, finishing artwork I’d have never considered starting before. I miss chain smoking with my friends, and talking of every thought that crossed our minds until the sun came up to drive us indoors. I miss how much more beautiful everything became, and how much more I felt like myself-”

“And the burn! I miss the burn in my nostrils. I miss the concentration, and the excitement of setting it all up. Cutting it out, rolling the bill, those became an art of their own!  I miss inhaling that miracle, sparking it straight up into my brain. I miss-”

“You didn’t let me finish. I felt more like myself, but that wasn’t me. I miss it, but I’m fine where I am now. Yeah, things are a little… hard. Sometimes I wonder if going back would be easier. But I don’t want to.”

“Are you really sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I wouldn’t be here right now if I wasn’t, you know that.”

“But don’t you miss feeling it force its way into your veins, that prick of the needle and seeing the blood pull back into the syringe? Don’t you miss feeling your head spin? Or hearing your heart beating inside your skull?”

“No. I mean, yes. Of course I miss it. But you can miss something without going back for it. I can miss it and still give it up, I think.”

“You think! So there is some doubt.”

“Again, of course there is. Part of me longs for the way things used to be. We made a lot of good memories-”

“The best memories! You said yourself, these have been the best months of your life.”

“No. I mean, I did say that, but you’re twisting my words.”

“But you know I’m right! Don’t you remember when we all went to that concert, and did a line in the car just before we went in? Or the first time, when they introduced us to Tina, and we all stayed up for 3 days straight? You made so much artwork! That’s when you made them those figurines, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but do you remember all the things we sold? All the opportunities for our future that we passed up? Everything we lost? What about the hole in my nose, do you remember when I realized I’d burned a f*****g hole in my nose?”

“Of course I remember! God, that was f*****g hilarious. It’s still there, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s still there! That doesn’t just go away. It’s not a good thing to have a hole in your nose. It freaks people out when I show them, when you tell them. That’s why I stopped telling people.”

“But it’s a permanent reminder of a good time.”

“A good time! Sure. Sure, a good time, like the two times we watched our brother get arrested. Like the times we saw our best friend argue with his grandmother, because she realized he was high - a good time like when she kicked us out of there and we were banned from ever going to his house again. There’s a reason he has to hide it when he hangs out with us! She thinks we’re a bad influence.”

“Yeah, we’re the bad influence. How f*****g ironic! He’s the one who got us started on all of this.”

“No. We did this ourselves. You did this. You’re the one who wanted to.”

“You didn’t even question it. You didn’t hesitate, either.”

“I thought we’d be okay! I mean, they seemed so okay. I didn’t see any reason to believe we wouldn’t be…”

“And look how that turned out. Now we can’t get away from it.”

“Yes, we can! That’s what I’m trying to do! You’re the one who keeps begging to go back. You’d sell your f*****g arm to just lick a baggie clean.”

“Now, I’m not saying you’re wrong - cause you’re not - but that’s a f*****g lie. Who would want an arm, what are they supposed to do with that?”

“You’re missing the point.”

“You’re missing the fun!”

“Yeah, a f*****g blast, like when I told mom about what we’d been doing. We could hear her f*****g throwing up in the bathroom, you saw how pissed she was. We were f*****g tweaked even then. How f*****g fun was that?”

“Shut up. You’re missing my point, now. It doesn’t have to be that way. We could totally hide it! She would have no idea. And maybe we could manage better this time, we could learn how to maintain properly without practically killing ourselves.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said every other time, and I was an idiot, and listened to you. Not anymore. I’m done going for a week at a time without eating or sleeping. I’m done ripping my skin open when I can’t find anything else to do with my hands. I’m done talking a million miles a minute to anyone I can convince myself is listening. I’m done with all of it.”

“But it doesn’t have to be that way, if you just-”

“Yes, it does! Yes, it does. I’ve learned my lesson this time. I can’t have my cake and eat it, too.  I’m not even going to try anymore. I can - I can be okay without it. So just stop, shut up! I really, sincerely don’t want it anymore, okay?”

Silence. The world recedes back to being an empty yard of fireflies and chirping crickets. One solitary figure stands and shakes the ash away from its clothes. The singular pack of cigarettes and its corresponding matches are lifted from the table and carried indoors, a single pair of feet marching away from where they once rested in the grass by themselves. A conversation that has become borderline ritualistic repeats itself, and another day passes, slowly, agonizingly, and, despite indecision, soberly.

Author's Note

This is the first piece I've posted where anyone can read it. Criticism is welcome of course, but please try to be constructive and civil. I was trying to avoid giving away that it was really only one person, but that left me unsure of how to describe the speaker after most lines without exposing that or specifying a gender. I wanted it to remain ambiguous. However, if anyone has any tips on how to improve the cluttered dialogue, it would be much appreciated.