What The Devil Doesn't Know
21
The vibrations of the bass drum I lean against send shivers down my spine, so I take another sip out of my plastic red cup. The blur of my vision won't let me know what I'm drinking. It tastes like whiskey and coke, but I'm not sure. The drink burns the back of my throat, which still tastes like cocaine. All I taste is cocaine, and I need more. I start to breathe heavily, and I stare at Mickey. He's busy with his guitar, making a weird, beautiful riff. I stand up and take a minute to steady myself, but I still stumble and slosh my drink around when I walk up behind Mickey.
"Hey babe." I slur, sticking my free hand in his back pocket feeling for the crucifix. He acknowledges me with a nod, and remains focused on the music.
I take a hit.
"Sing." He demands.
"What?" I'm drunk and high and confused and tired, and now he wants me to sing?
"Just do it."
I make up some words. I try to make it fit with what they're playing. This music is too loud, I'm too wasted. I end up quoting poets and writers along with my own lines. Nothing I do makes sense, but it feels right.
"Blessed be thy name,
I sign my name pain.
I can't hear you,
If you say what I don't approve.
Th' inclosure narrow'd; the sagacious power
Of hounds and death drew nearer every hour.
Hurt me, help me.
Kill me, save me."
And then I black out.
***
I woke up in our bed. Me and Mickey's bed at Jakob's house. I only wear a white tank top, and the sheets are stained with blood. How did I get here? Whose blood is this, and why is it here? What the fuck happened?
I lift the sheet off my legs, and look down to see my inner thighs dotted with dried blood, and a tiny pool under my ass. I'm getting really scared; whose blood is this? I look around the room. No Mickey. I get up and look tentatively out the door, into the hallway. No Mickey. I creep into the bathroom, and there he is, with his head against the toilet. I see that he's been puking up blood and vile, and he forgot to flush. I take it upon myself to clean up after him, flushing the toilet and wiping the vomit off his face with a damp hand towel. I clean up any places where he missed the toilet, and I clean out the sink. He is still passed out, even after all my moving around. I bend down and put my ear to his chest; his breathing is shallow, and is heart is very, very slow. When I scream, he doesn't move. After I've thrown him into a cold shower, I call an ambulance. While I wait I look at him, cold, barely alive, soaking wet. I start bawling. I throw myself at him, crying, kissing his face, and searching for signs of life. Then, and only then, do I notice the blood stains on his crotch.
"Hey babe." I slur, sticking my free hand in his back pocket feeling for the crucifix. He acknowledges me with a nod, and remains focused on the music.
I take a hit.
"Sing." He demands.
"What?" I'm drunk and high and confused and tired, and now he wants me to sing?
"Just do it."
I make up some words. I try to make it fit with what they're playing. This music is too loud, I'm too wasted. I end up quoting poets and writers along with my own lines. Nothing I do makes sense, but it feels right.
"Blessed be thy name,
I sign my name pain.
I can't hear you,
If you say what I don't approve.
Th' inclosure narrow'd; the sagacious power
Of hounds and death drew nearer every hour.
Hurt me, help me.
Kill me, save me."
And then I black out.
***
I woke up in our bed. Me and Mickey's bed at Jakob's house. I only wear a white tank top, and the sheets are stained with blood. How did I get here? Whose blood is this, and why is it here? What the fuck happened?
I lift the sheet off my legs, and look down to see my inner thighs dotted with dried blood, and a tiny pool under my ass. I'm getting really scared; whose blood is this? I look around the room. No Mickey. I get up and look tentatively out the door, into the hallway. No Mickey. I creep into the bathroom, and there he is, with his head against the toilet. I see that he's been puking up blood and vile, and he forgot to flush. I take it upon myself to clean up after him, flushing the toilet and wiping the vomit off his face with a damp hand towel. I clean up any places where he missed the toilet, and I clean out the sink. He is still passed out, even after all my moving around. I bend down and put my ear to his chest; his breathing is shallow, and is heart is very, very slow. When I scream, he doesn't move. After I've thrown him into a cold shower, I call an ambulance. While I wait I look at him, cold, barely alive, soaking wet. I start bawling. I throw myself at him, crying, kissing his face, and searching for signs of life. Then, and only then, do I notice the blood stains on his crotch.