A squatter in their lives, Mac doesn't know what he'll do if they ever ask him to leave. How do they not know they're his home?Īnd sometimes the possibility is too heavy to think about. How they would miss it, how they could feel their own heartbeat but not Mac caught between, seemed impossible. He was never good with subtlety, either, and he certainly was not silent as he crawled his way into their ribcage and found a place to rest between the chambers of their hearts. He doesn't think there's a way they don't know it. He likes to think they're aware of the way they both make words lose all of their meanings, the way Mac has never been good with words, but they still send him further into riddles, so easily turning his grip on the world as he knows it and sending it falling onto the floor. And he thinks both Charlie and Dennis understand that. He means it in the way that makes the most sense, the way that his 'childhood home' is an address in South Philly he doesn't like to brag about, but for his true homes, he has two. He calls it home and sometimes people correct him, roll their eyes and say it's just an apartment, but that's not what he means. If Charlie was his childhood home, Dennis was the home Mac built for himself. To Mac, home is standing right in front of him, asking him if he's ready to leave. Home died with him that day, and home brought him back just the same. Home stood next to him and threw rocks at trains with him every Christmas, when neither of them had anywhere to be, who dragged him out of a car crash and made sure he didn't surrender, not yet. Home was warmth when it offered, never had to be taken because home had grown to offer it, and caring without necessarily telling Mac he cared. Home was staring at him with wide eyes and the one sweater he owned, hand tight on the doorknob because he knew it squeaked when you turned it. To Mac, home was bounding up his stairs just then, pushing open his bedroom door because they never knocked before and weren't about to start. Like a lamb to slaughter, a cross, some nails, and some hubris, Mac barely survived a day in the place without killing some part of himself.
How could anything so comforting as the implications of home, of warmth and caring and love, being held within four walls? When people got homesick, how did that mean anything other than sick of being from the house that bore them? His greatest battles in life were fought in this room, the walls are tired of watching him lose. Another thing that doesn't mean what everyone says it means. He lived in this room his entire life until he moved in with Dennis, and yet he can hardly ever think of it as home. He wonders if he lit a match to the whole of it, would it smell like a burning cigarette? Would his mom maybe notice him then? But he forgets it. Though he quit smoking some time ago, the room still reeks of nicotine.
.jpg "always sunny in philadelphia mac weight loss")
Stars and curse words and boxy drawings of dicks where their carving inexperience sacrificed the accuracy. It's an old thing, probably twice his age, the headboard scored with different hieroglyphics of his youth. His bed groans under him, though he barely weighs more than a sigh. Cutting his hands on the broken pieces, he was just old enough to think life wasn't supposed to be like this. Behind a locked door, a prison cell, Mac's clean slate had been smudged, cracked, and shattered. His bedtime stories were the siren call of cop cars waking him up from where he'd curled into cigarette-burned sheets, rubbed at his bleary eyes and saw his father taken away, and his childhood with it.
ALWAYS SUNNY IN PHILADELPHIA MAC WEIGHT LOSS CRACKED
Or, at least, that's what it was supposed to be.Ĭhildhood, for him, was certainly a lot of skinned knees, poked and prodded until forced to be left alone, scabbed over angry things that cracked open whenever he ran, his childhood was unforgiving and relentless. And nothing truly did matter It was childhood. Fresh air and no worries, a bedtime story that you never hear the end of, cresting right as you slip gently into cotton-fluff dreams and forget anything in the real world ever mattered. Childhood is supposed to be a clean slate, skinned knees, and bright color bandages. Mac stares out the window of his childhood bedroom when he's thirty-three years old and thinks about how nothing ever means what he thinks it should.
0 kommentar(er)
