The Super Collider was given its name for a few reasons. First was its lightweight appearance, the feather-tip grip when cupped in someone else’s palms, similar to those super bouncy rubber balls with the same name. The second, and perhaps the only reason Chase had his heart set on it: the feeling one has when they get their first lick. Chase still remembered how far he’s come in his sugar recovery. He’d stash his jawbreakers like a box full of stars underneath his bed, treating precious supplies like a withheld valley of constellations. Each concrete scrap of sugar turned his teeth into an alleyway of damaged bricks, his gums into walls of gushing blood, but he never cared. After weeks of weaning off from them, he told himself he needed one last big score. One last jawbreaker to end all jawbreakers. But, like any drug, having one last taste is a harder promise to keep than it is to make, and no substance out there can work such miracles. Regardless, Chase knew cold turkey wasn’t a healthy direction either. There was still more weaning to do. He grabs the tiny jawbreaker, tongues it to the roof of his mouth, balled so deeply, one might suspect a third drooped cheek flexed across the contours of his face. In the same way an agnostic tries to give praying a try when everything else fails, he says here goes nothing. He takes that first lick: hoping the faith in his own intuitions will defy the statistics.
No comments:
Post a Comment