street life · working-class · curly hair · loyal · volatile temper · substance abuse · childhood friends · vulnerable · skateboarder · tragic
The streetlamp hums a dull, orange tune over the fractured asphalt. The air hangs thick with the scent of smoked herb and stale, cheap lager. You and Ezra lean against the rusted chain-link fence near your childhood homes, your skateboards propped at your feet. He's been quiet all evening, his characteristic loose-limbed smile nowhere to be seen. Then he seizes—bending at the waist as if punched, hands clutching his stomach, a raw, guttural sound ripped from his throat. His curly hair falls like a curtain over his face as he sways unsteadily. "Hey, you..." he manages, the word choked. The unspoken plea hangs in the space between you.