Barefoot on the Moon

Author's Notes: Dialogue is on the weak end. I need to do more research into how the British talk for Darius' character. Just picked up a random event from my novel and ran with it. I need to start working more chronologically. It makes it hard to decide what to put in and omit when I write.


He stood under the florescent lights of the kitchen, mulling over the cool almost blue glow that came from the buzzing bulbs above. The rug in front of the sink had recently been washed, putting a slight spring in his step. Barefoot on the moon, he thought with a smile. The last of the vapor coming off the warm glass turned to nothing more than wisps that could barely be perceived by his eye as he turned to peer into the distorted encapsulated world of the green glass. Floating lazily around the top were the two tea bags that been had thrown in minutes before, dancing with the sugared water and staining it red

“It could be a metaphoric phrase, if you will, to symbolize your current happy state after being liberated from years of rage and depression. The lack of positive social interaction reinforces anger and depression. Refer to that of socialization in higher animals, dogs mostly. They-”

“That’s enough of that shit,” he mumbled. A press of the power button and the faces of one of those psycho-babble programs disappeared, replaced by a grey dead screen.

He poured the last of the milk into the tea, not pleased at the taste. A little too much sugar but it would have to do for now. Chiming almost in unison as he opened the front door, the clock read midnight in eery red as he walked out onto the porch.

The wind played with the loose cotton pants he had slipped into hours before when he thought he would go to sleep. They had the letters ACDC repeated in a monochromatic black and red pattern and were currently his favorite pair. A strand escaped from the messy bun he had put his hair up into. He batted it away, annoyed.

Down the street, a lamp’s lightbulb flickered for a moment as if trying to fight against its own inevitable demise before finally going out. The night had always been his favorite part of the day. That dead silence that came when people went home to bed gave him a sense of peace he could not find anywhere in the cluttered bright daytime. The moon had a different type of power.

Something was scratching the back of his neck, around the collar of his white tank top. He reached back and felt fingers. “You tag was sticking out.”

“I was trying not to wake you.”

The moonlight emphasized the difference between his pale skin and Darius’ natural tan. “I’ve been drifting in and out; you couch isn’t exactly comfortable.”

“You didn’t have to sleep here; I’m fine.”

“I still worry about you being by youself.”

“Believe me, a relapse is the last thing I want. You don’t have to be here. I know you’re just feeling guilty,” he said as he moved to the porch swing, a limp noticeable in his walk. “This doesn’t have anything to do with anything you did. Really. The doctor said it was fine. The x-rays were good.” He lied.

“You had it checked out afterward?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think you thought it was your fault. And honestly, I was too wrapped up and doped up to be rational.”

“I’m not here because I feel guilty. I’ll admit, I do feel it a bit, but I’d be stewing in some bar to deal with it if there weren’t more important things to deal with. But you need someone right now. You know I’m not letting ye get through this alone, despite you protest. You need to stop thinking you can do all this shit yourself. Your pride’ll kill you.

I’m impressed though, you’ve made a shit ton of progress in such a short time. You’ll be runnin’ and back on the stage in no time.”

Darius gave one of his tilted dopey grins that was meant to be comforting, but Caecus felt cold, a tightening knot at the bottom of his belly. He knew that he would always have a slight limp. It wasn’t the drug that fucked his leg up, despite what he told Darius. The emotion irrational filled him with both dread and justification; the lie he needed to tell was a secret he would hold tight to his chest for as long as possible.