Tracks of my Tears

Participants:

raquelle_icon.gif

Scene Title Tracks of my Tears
Synopsis Raquelle deals with the reality of everything in his own way. The Negation pills and him have it out.
Date October 20, 2011

Eltingville - Raquelle's Home


Three tiny cups of pills lined up on a porcelein rim. They are just shapes, irregular bumps against the pale ivory profile but he knows what they are. They sit there, glowing in the dim light of the restroom. Not literally but their very existence illuminates the state of the world and so they glow so brightly.

The tiles of the bathroom floor are janky and the grooves seem to have malicious intent focussed on the meat of his ass through the black denim but the pain is welcomed. Subtle shift and another groove starts attempting to brand another square inch of Eurasian sweet meat. The wallpaper is scratching against the bare skin of his back as he sits there staring at the pills lined up on the edge of the tub.

Knees bent, an arm resting over each knee, cigarette held between two fingers half-smoked and smouldering in the dim light. A beacon of temporary relief as he brings it to his lips and takes a drag, head tilting back and hitting the wall with a 'thud'. A slow exhale between pursed lips sending a cloud to hover over his head like a forboding raincloud of nicotine and toxic carcinogenic compounds. Raquelle Cambria smokes quietly in the bathroom. Towels jammed under the gap between the door and the floor. Its a tiny crack but if somebody told him at his age he'd be sitting half-naked in the bathroom of his own 'house' hotboxing half a carton of cigarettes at O Dark Thirty in the morning like a guilty teenager he would've laughed and rolled his eyes.

But he is. He has been. His face itches from where the salt of the tears shed quietly after cigarette number 2 have dried on his cheeks. Blue eyes fill with tears again as they fall on the pills yet again. Another long drag taken before the cigarette is jabbed out in the happy face ashtray beside him before it dropped to join its fellow fallen brothers and sisters in a pile of smouldery ashey defeat. "Fuck. You." He whispers through an exhale of smoke, letting his head fall back against the wall with another thud.

That thud is echoed by the tentative knocking on the door. He pushes himself to his feet and coughs softly. His voice is raspy from muffled sobs. "Alright Baby, Daddy's coming…"

He pushes himself to his feet, unfolding his tall lanky frame and grips the sides of the sink for support. He dares to look up in the mirror and sees the red rimmed eyes, the tracks of his tears creating patterns and designs with the freckles that are present there, the sleep ruffled black hair and the lips that need to be moisterized. The wide shoulders, the tiny piercings glinting from both his ears and his chest. But mostly he sees the fear.

Medicine cabinet swings open as he turns on the taps. In 15 minutes, he has a mask created to hide that fear. Concealer, Eyeshadow, Eyeliner, Lip Gloss, and Hair Gel are woven together in a tapestry of a mask created to give his girls hope. In 20 minutes, he's tugged on a light grey tank-top and a black cardigan, his hair combed back stylishly to allow for the black beanie to be worn. In 30 minutes, he's pouring cereal into bowls.

In 72 minutes, Billy Jean's curls have been tamed into braided pig-tails and little Diana's silky blond locks are pulled up into a ponytail and secured with a big silver bow.

He's home alone after walking his girls to school. They are sullen and scared but he cheats. He whispers reassurances into their ears and kisses their cheeks and promises he will be there to get them. He knows their fears will creep back in an hour or so but the silken gift/curse he has suspends that for a moment for them. This is all he can do.

The tiny cups of pills now mock him from the coffee table as he sits, hugging the shiny black acoustic guitar he managed to bring. He sacrificed over half of his wardrobe to manage to bring this. Glittery black nails picking over a few familiar notes before he dares a strum.

~People say, I'm the life of the party…

His gift swims back to the surface, wrapping around each softly sang note.

~Because I tell a joke or two…

Bittersweet memories, sweet smiles and laughing faces.

~Although I might be laughing loud and hearty…

His girls, tickling them, holding them. Teasing Boliver. Having lunch with his Employees.

~Deep inside I'm blue.

Living in this world. Raising girls in this world. He's punched walls and sobbed himself to sleep. His fingers find the strings to continue playing as he softly sings.

~So take a good look at my face.

Like an ever expanding bubble, the failure he feels as a father, the heartache he feels being away from his lover, the sorrow he feels as a human being living in a world like this where his daughters are being seen as less than human seeps into the soft tones.

~You see my smile looks out of place. If you look closer, its easy to trace…

The radius around the small home, drips with the invisible tears his gift seeks to draw from others as it channels Raquelle's raw emotion.

~The tracks of my tears..

His fingers fall from the strings as he sags forward, clinging to the guitar as a tear escapes from his eye, dragging a thin black line with it thanks to the immaculate eyeliner.

~I need you, need you…

The cups of pills are still there but they get kinda blurry as he stares at them.


Full Version of Adam Lambert Covering Tracks of My Tears


Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License