Dark, bloodshot eyes stared blankly at the curls of grey seeping from his fingertips up into the inky sky. Loose ashes fell between cracks in crumbling bricks and on top of scuffed sneakers, heat burning deep and marring paper flesh like drops of ink.

He was drowning.

Grimy cigarette butts littered the decaying rooftop, encircling the scrawny figure huddled in the middle, silver on his ears and knuckles glinting in the street lights. Through the clouded glass and frayed curtains behind him, deep grunts and fragile sobs filled the air, and, if he let them, they could almost be drowned out by the harmonized chaos of whirling sirens and blaring horns dancing together in one melody below the fire escape. Almost.

He couldn’t stop images, strung together on cracked frames, from flashing through his mind, smudged colors and mismatched limbs forming the hazy outline of long, bleached hair and kind, hazel eyes.

He could see glossy lips curved in a gentle grin, wrinkles in tan skin smoothing, and chipped, pastel nails tousling the frizzy curls sprinkled on top of his tiny head. He could feel the warmth from a calloused palm, long, soft fingers gripping his own chubby ones as two hands strolled confidently past thrift stores and hungry, beer-bellied men, ice cream dripping down his budding arms. He could still smell the heady scent of vanilla and cinnamon and home sewn deep into the stitches of the sickeningly red cocktail dress slipped on a slim figure, mascara smudges turning to tell round, confused orbs goodbye, before stilettos clicked across the splintering floorboards, legs tall and confident and not at all like how they would be when she returned, limping and painted in blossoms of violet, just like how it was every night. He remembered everything.

Overgrown, tobacco-stained nails dug harshly into a trembling palm, trails of red dotting fading denim, as those same jagged memories twisted and convulsed into the scene inside the walls of their apartment: glossy lips covered in bites, calloused palm cold and slick and busy,  long, soft fingers gripping someone else’s, and air still filled with vanilla and cinnamon and home and wrong as that familiar, mocking dress lay crumpled in a pile next to thin stacks of green like a bleeding wound.

He took another drag. He wasn’t drowning fast enough.

Thin eyelids fluttered shut as the harmonium of gruff moans and whimpers and raspy snaps of "That’s it, work, bitch” grew louder and louder, pounding against his eardrums and a pressure of something building up in his lungs, making him want to scream. He took a drag one more time.

He checked the cracked, plastic face of the watch wrapped around his wrist, ignoring the whispers of a delicate, proud gaze and white teeth lined in the leather of its strap. It was 1:26 AM.

He slowly pushed himself up, tearing away from the the static painting of street lights and brittle concrete, and turning to face the glaring, open window. His cigarette silently fell to the ground, landing next to shards of glass and his phantom footprints, as he approached the shrieking frame. Each step was punctuated with a shaking in his bones and rattle of his heart against his chest. He reached inside a tattered pocket, curling around a cool metal blade, causing his muscles to still. Carefully, he climbed through the gaping opening, hand still gripping the knife swamped in his worn hoodie, and entered the apartment. A few seconds later, with a cut-off shriek and a thud, there was a silence.

The hand on his watch ticked.

1:27 AM.

He breathed.