Somewhere In The Between
I wake up. Or maybe I was never asleep. I’m naked, covered only by crummy sheets and the darkness of my room. Watching the fan spin, seemingly without purpose, I am saturated in sweat. Maybe it was the X, or maybe the three hour fuck…
I look to the girl on my left…rolled in to the most innocent of human balls. She’s been here forever; she’s been in my life forever. A punk rock girl with big ideas and no motivation…the perfect match for a punk rock boy with no purpose. I slide out of bed and she sleepily looks up to me, pulling her blonde and blue hair back from her face. I hate her hair. I hate so much about her, but she’s been here for so long…
Pulling a pant of stained jeans on, I tell her to go back to bed. I think I’ve worn this pair for the last three days. Days. I have no concept of time; my entire life is a vortex of hard drugs and harder sex. I am the American Dream. I pull on a shirt and throw on my jacket. Popping the collar, I sort through the items on my dresser. Piece. Keys. Cigarettes. Assorted pills. Condoms.
I take only my cigarettes.
Hitting the tenement hallway, I light up…striking a match along its hard plaster wall. I do not know where I’m going, but anywhere but here sounds good. As far away from my dank existence and the girl who loves someone with so little to offer. I walk down the stairs–the elevators never work here. Nothing works here. I pass addicts and derelicts. People cut from the same dirty cloth as me. I blow my smoke in the still air and it hangs like the Fifth of November. I poke at its amorphous haze, punching holes through it like the moon blocking the sun. It is so stuffy…it is so hot.
My sweaty hands stain the walls as I circle endlessly into the pits of urban hell. Smears of slick biology, marking my descent into Dante’s world. A place that has forgotten the urbane, and replaced it, almost gleefully, with the filth of our humanity.
I hit the doors and look in both directions. The lampposts cry and the streets all conspire. Yes, the lampposts weep golden light onto the desolate concrete, blacked and browned by human waste. I go left, or was it right..? Direction is for the weak. Its so cold out here, but its nice being out of wet sheets and wetter women. Counting the cracks on the sidewalk entertains me; counting the homeless would be far too hard. They ask for change, but I’m looking for change of a different kind. I pause to strike another match on a sad lamppost and fan out the piece of hell I’ve created. The view is infinite…a spreading network of broken dreams, pavement and tenements…
I walk by women of the night who grab my cock as I pass. I shrug by them, although the X is still flowing through my veins and even their repulsive hands cause pleasure. They call me a faggot and the world keeps turning.
The neon signs burn my eyes. My arm and nose hurts. The wounds of addicted life. I am self-destruction, and self-aware. The sweat makes it so much colder.
I find myself in front of a large church, a cathedral in the fifth layer of Dante’s world. I am possessed and I want to go inside, but the doors are locked. I tug on the handle at first calmly, but soon I am pulling with all my strength, franticly beating on the gateway to my desires. I want so badly to get in, and I do not know why…
Noticing a small lock with a number pad, I stare at it for what may be an eternity and finally enter “2,8,4,6.” The door clicks open. Yes…2,8,4,6…the Sign of the Cross for the digital age…
I go inside and find a small sanctuary–candles and Christ. I strike a match and light another cigarette, inviting hell even here. I smoke slowly…my mind still a confused and defunct vessel. I look at the idol before me through the plumes of smoke, but see nothing…nothing but the life I will never know. I walk to the display of candles and bend down, lighting one with the cherry of my cigarette. I do not pray, for I do not remember how…
I sit for hours, staring blankly. I do not want to leave, as nothing awaits me on the outside. But there is nothing for me here either. I decide that I must do what must be done. I walk back to the door and cast one last stolen glance at the savior behind me. “See you soon,” he seemed to say…
I hit the streets again. It is still dark. Is it night…or early morning..?
Finding a pay phone, I dial my parents collect. We haven’t spoken in years…not since I used the money they sent for eyeglasses on meph. Not since I violated their trust for the last time.
My mother picks up and is so glad to hear my voice, but I interrupt her platitudes to tell her how sorry I am. How sorry I am for hurting her and Dad, for destroying the beautiful little boy they created. I tell her not to worry anymore. I tell her that I’m going to get better, that she will no longer have to wonder about the streets eating me alive ever again.
She’s sobbing and attempts to speak, but I tell her that I love her and hang up.
Hang up.
I look all around, and find a sad lamppost to the right. Or was it my left..? Taking my belt from my waist, I climb up the weeping wonder. With one hand holding me steady, the other prepares my salvation. Knotting it once, I slide my head through the smooth leather, and let go.
Hanged up.
Indeed, the lampposts cried, and the streets all conspired. Networks of broken dreams, and hanging children…lost forever.
The last thing my mind’s eye sees is my girl, blonded and blued.
I hate her hair. I hate so much about her.
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