Mitchell's Mustard Blog

November 20, 2015

The Junkie Boneyard

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 3:19 pm

I will always remember the day I decided to turn a corner . .

 

The air was so heavy I could taste it, a mixture of mould and the unkept. The room was dark and dank, a patchwork of plaster and brick on the walls, urban artistry that occurs only from being unloved. The only thing that broke the silence was the creaking of ropes that held up the hammock I was laying on. On further inspection, this hammock was about five foot from the ground and held up by pulleys connected to two of the walls across the corner of the room. God only knows how it was holding my weight, also I’m hoping he might know how I got here, because I had no clue. In fear of moving too much I carefully checked my surroundings. To my right I could see the room was littered with cushions, candles, and sporadic limbs protruding and entwined with sleeping bags. Hoping these limbs are still attached to their bodies. To my left was a window, a battered and ripped blind masked the sunlight from outside. I could see dust dancing in the rays of light that beamed through the cracks. The window ledge was covered in dust, burnt out candles, spilt wax, and the one main thing that caught my attention, a bloody hand print. ‘Where the fuck am I?’ I thought to myself.

   I had been wearing the same clothes for 3 days, my skin felt like it had forgotten about it’s love affair with water. My jeans clammy from sweat, my skin sore where my clothes had started to pinch. My mouth was dry, my nostrils on fire, whether that was from substance abuse or breathing in the close encounters of the room, I wasn’t sure. Craving fresh air and a warm shower to wash away the loathing, I needed to move.

   Before testing the strength of the hammock I looked underneath to make sure if I did fall, I wouldn’t be landing on something or someone. There wasn’t even anything I could use to climb down onto for a safe dismount, there was no way I could do this quietly or gracefully. I lay there for a moment trying to execute a plan in my mind, I didn’t want to find myself in a position where I’d have to converse with another human being, I just wanted out. In one swift movement I was sat upright with my legs dangling below me. If I gently eased myself off the hammock I felt like I could land quietly with great precision, like a ninja. Oh how I was wrong. After breaking what could have been 4 glasses of water, knocked over a couple of candles, kicked a metal tin across the room, and standing on someone’s hand, I had successfully caused the room to stir. All the movement under the sleeping bags and cushions played games with my mind, I felt like I was in a scene from the movie Tremors, the floor looked like it was moving, I panicked, I did what every straight laced mind wouldn’t do, rather than run I sat down cross legged and closed my eyes. For a fly on the wall view this would have been quite amusing, the floor moving and crashing like waves around me as I sat cross legged in the middle, eyes closed while humming to myself to find the calm inside.

   I don’t know how much time had passed, but the room was deadly quiet again, and my heart wasn’t trying to leave my chest. Looking around me I could see all sorts of drug paraphernalia, the ones that caused me to think long and hard about my current circumstances were the used hypodermic needles that littered the floor. There was a fine line between a bohemian drug haven and a junkie boneyard, this was a glimpse into the latter and I wasn’t interested. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what the smell, taste, and feeling of this room was. But I knew I didn’t want it to be part of my life. My current lifestyle was hanging above my head like a noose, so the decision was easy to make. With this new found motivation, I got up, I found the door, and I got out. I remember stepping out into the sun, feeling warmth. I walked up the path and turned back to look at the house. I had never been there before, and in more ways than one, I have never been there since.                   

No turning back.

          

January 30, 2015

Strokes of a Paintbrush. .

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 2:30 pm

Her hand gently traced the muscles of his back as they lay there entwined, her face buried into his shoulder, she gently laced his neck with her lips, working her way around the lower line of his beard, she had grown quite fond of the feeling of his beard on her skin, like strokes of a paintbrush. They both lay silently, knowing that any one word could end this embrace, clouded by the thought that they both shouldn’t be where they are, but that made it more appealing, they had started something they couldn’t end. The attraction bore deep in them both.
His eyes outlining the intricate details of the tattoos that coloured her skin, stroking the line work on her arm, making sure he didn’t colour outside the lines. Her naked torso pulled him in closer, nuzzling in for warmth and attention, she started to work her fingers through the hair on the back of his head, gently tugging, the one thing she knew would get her the attention she craved. Her nails slowly leaving lines on the skin of his side, a remnant of where she had been, and where she would return. Pulling her foot up against the bottom of his, a way of pulling him in closer, close enough to compliment the way she felt. Craning her neck, she reached up and gently nibbled his lower lip. He pulled her small frame onto his. As she perched on top of him, he lined her spine with his fingers to make her back arch and her skin prickle. Reaching up and tugged on the back of her hair, pulling her back down to his level, she dug her nails into his tattooed chest, pushing back to feel engrossed in that moment of pain as she let out a little moan. . . .

. . . . The alarm broke the silence in the room, the moment was extinguished as he opened his eyes, only to once again stare at the emptiness of the pillow beside him, a reminder that he was still alone.

November 7, 2014

Home

Filed under: Just a Thought — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 9:46 pm

Her hair cascaded across the pillow, claiming its place. He tucked her hair behind her ear, like that of a curtain in a theatre, giving full visibility of the beauty behind. She held such strength, even as she slept, it was moments like this that he wanted to wake her up and tell her, tell her that he was happy, content, in love. He knew too well that by the time she was awake, the life they shared would cause him to forget. He knew that wasn’t an excuse, he knew that he should try harder to remember, but he also knew that this wasn’t the first time he had wanted to wake her before he forgot. As she lay naked, he admired her, she had the perfect balance of beauty and sexy, she often misplaced this fact, he never did. She would become coy if she woke and saw he was watching her, curling up under the duvet like a young, shy version of herself, but he could always see the smile in her eyes. As she stirred, she moved, place her head on his chest, entwined their legs, kissed the tattoos that coloured his torso. It didn’t matter where they woke up, where they had been, or where they were meant to be, that moment always felt like home. She is his wife, the mother of his children, his best friend, and forever his confidant. He would walk the earth, burn the sky, just to be home.

September 2, 2013

A Life to Bury

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 6:29 pm

You could smell the whisky on his breath, but you couldn’t see the loathing behind his eyes, the loathing of the job in hand. The only thing that broke the silence for that moment was the rough sound of his hand rubbing four day stubble on his broad chin. The stale smell of cigarettes strangled the collar and sleeves of his shirt, knowing that the feeling of someone watching him will never go, not while he’s here. The wind whistled, pulling at his unkempt hair, cartwheeling leaves falling into the freshly dug hole he stood above. Sweat started to build at his hairline, he was nervous, exhausted, out of shape. She always said he was out of shape, at this moment he felt like she was right. He felt small, insignificant, lost. He didn’t want to be there, he would have done anything to still be in his house, reminiscing alone, the sound of ice cubes against a tumbler, behind a locked door. But he had to do this, he signed up for this years ago but he never really gave it any thought, this day came earlier than ever expected. He’d rather it was someone else standing in his shoes right now, but a promise is a promise. The morning sun on the rise, the beauty of another day distracting his fearful eyes. He was scared, tired and from this day forth, alone. He stood for a moment, placing his body weight on his shovel, the sweat and dirt that covered his face disguised his pale sickly complexion. He knew the black cars would roll up soon, holding his life in a box. His mother used to say “for every tear you cry, will be returned when you die” but his tears were gone, dried up and forgotten just like him. He had anger, he had pain, but he didn’t have the energy. His arms had become heavy, his heart in his throat as he saw the reflection of the sun on the leading car. Today is a day he will always remember, for today was the day this now lonely grave digger had to dig a hole for his own wife. A promise is a promise.

May 3, 2013

A little something . . .

Filed under: My Work — Tags: , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 11:20 am

The soft sound of her breathing in her sleep worked as an antidepressant for his troubled mind. He always believed that the word ‘love’ was overused by many, he could feel it scratching away at the back of his throat, eager to be heard by the elements. The rise and fall of her chest resembled the waves that crashed against his heart, in time, synchronized to a gold standard. She lay there smiling while she dreamt, dreamt of him he hoped. As he playfully stroked her side her smile increased, he had no intention of waking her but to know that he made her smile gave him a feeling of satisfaction. He held her hand in the warmth under the covers, the hand that played with his hair when he was tired, stroked his cheek as she kissed him. The hand that one day will wear the token of his affection, the token to his future, and his name. He lay there in his morning haze trying to remember the last time he slept in this bed without her warmth, without the delicate imprint she leaves in her pillow. The way she curls the cover under her chin until she slips into slumber, pulling the cover up so his feet felt the cold. He waits until she falls to sleep before he moves the cover back. The ‘love’ word scared him, those petrifying four letters that engulfed your relationship in flames, the kind of flames that lit the way and kept you warm if treated with respect, but burnt you at any given time. Knowing that once she wakes he could stare into her eyes, her eyes that resembled a sunset over the city of London, such beauty that over shadows the confusion and doubt that lays below. He craved this moment but enjoyed the wait.

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