Sweet Jeegus I need another two pages and I have no idea where this is going:

His lime green backpack glowed under the navy backdrop as he leaned against the wall. He shuffled in the cold, his breath billowing out and curling around air particles. His hands spread over pockets, patting and snagging and searching. With a flourish, he finally pulled out a cigarette carton. Down to his last three cigarettes, all tucked alongside each other next to a lighter. He sighed, leaning further into the wall, before lighting. Eyes scanned the surroundings, shining brilliant from a nearby streetlight. He met everyone’s gaze, slouching comfortably with legs spread into a wide stance. His eyes found a young girl running through the snow, her father shifting back and forth near her as he glanced from traffic to his daughter, hand twitching toward her with every passing vehicle. His eyes softened as his lips curled upward. He shrugged away from the cold wall, fished out his phone, and started walking.

Two emails and 4 unread text messages. His phone flashed and pinged with a warning that its demise was imminent. He scoffed, shut if off entirely, and dropped it back in his pocket. He’d been wandering the midwinter chill for three hours now. The orange streetlights cast a dull glow, like a sick fire, on his path. Heavy Doc Martens crunched in the occasional patch of ice as he tilted his gaze upwards, shoulders back. 

(Source: iuiuiulia)

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The gnarled hand spanned the foot-and-a-half distance in milliseconds, like the angry branch of an ancient tree. It gripped my arm with hesitation. I continued to stare at its unmoving form. The skin was dry - almost reptilian - catching the light and throwing it right back. There was decades of dirt embedded in it, so deep it might as well have been written in genetic code. I half expected to see cracked, brittle nails, and was slightly disappointed to see smooth, clean cut little stubs affixed to the end of his fingers. My eyes traced the mountains of knotted bone and the large veins that spread along like rivers. 

I remembered to breathe, closing my eyes shut, and opening them. I felt my eyes track the expanse of his arm back to his face. A face just as weatherworn and ragged, with slight silver gleaming along his jaw where he had missed shaving. It was the eyes that made no sense. Settled below thick black brows, the large blue orbs glowed with sadness and sympathy. His mouth was a straight line, curled imperceptibly upward at one corner. 

(Source: iuiuiulia)

iuiuiulia:

The Ritual

She owned a bottle of red nail polish. It was an impossible shade, the type of red one only saw behind closed eyelids while staring at the sun. The nail polish, like all makeup, wasn’t even a luxury anymore. It was sheer stupidity, a waste of priceless time when one could be cleaning their weapons or tending to wounds. 

He always sat in front of her, folded up on the ground as she hummed and dragged acrylic over her nails. Her hands were only steady when gripping the metal of a gun. Now, they swept shakily, spreading accidental red over her skin. 

He couldn’t remember when it had begun. One day, before they had to head out to look for food, she had flourished the small bottle and dropped to the floor. He’d scoffed then, as he did every time since, and turned away to grab a needle and floss. Within seconds he was forced to turn back, glaring at her as he fought back a cough from the miasma the small bottle was producing. She’d sat on the floor of the dingy cellar, in the center of the only spill of light that came through, oblivious to everything.

She did this again and again, always before they had to shoulder their rifles and bags. Eventually, he would join her. Would drop in front of her, always in front, propped upright by the smell of polish and the insanity around him. She never talked, but he’d mutter about movies and books and things long since killed. When they were lucky, he’d forget about the crumbling buildings and bodies. He never forgot to tell her she was impossible, watching her eyes flash bright and happy for two entire milliseconds every time. Some days it was the most she would say.

He sits alone in the dusty air, twisting the empty bottle shut. He places it on the floor. He stares at the empty space in front of him.

“You’re impossible, you know?”

He grabs his possessions, tucks his life into a backpack, and pads outside to the outrage of sunshine and a clear sky.

What do you guys think? What should I change or make clearer?