Into Meth and Madness

His name was Donnie. He liked to draw and listen to music, the kind of heavy metal no one would really listen to because you couldn’t understand the words. It was as if hell were spewing from his stereo and laying the eggs of demons into your ears. I didn’t mind much because the continuous noise just faded into the background of our conversations. Mostly we just sat on the dingy old couch in his room and did nothing in particular, but tonight was different.

I entered his room and plopped down on the couch.

“So, what are we doin’ tonight, fuckface.” I threw a leg over the arm and leaned back trying to get comfortable.

“Just gimme a minute."

He stuck his head out and looked around before he shut the door even though we both knew that no one was home and wouldn't be for some time.
I quirked an eyebrow as I watched him wade his way through a sea of dirty clothes and rejected drawings to his closet. He rummaged through whatever junk he was hording in there and pulled out an old shoe box. Gingerly tucking his shoulder length blond hair behind his ears he made his way to where I was sitting and sat down beside me.

“You got new shoes?”

I knew that wasn't what was in there but I had to say something to break the silence.
He was concentrating so intently on the box I couldn't help but lean over to get a closer look. Inside there was a large leather bound portfolio. Dogeared pages of torn out notebook paper smudged with eerie drawings depicting demon-esque creatures and deformed humanoids, some nestled between old math problems or spelling words, were bulging from under the cover. It was a scrap book of sorts; a time line though which he had chronicled his life and ever growing artistic ability. I felt a sense of awkwardness creep up my spine and pour into my stomach. Nausea overwhelmed me. Somehow I knew he had never shown anyone these drawing before. They were special some how, sacred. He picked up the book and handed it to me, his blue eyes focused not on me but the book. My eyes darted from his face, to the book, and back. I reached out, hesitating at first but curiosity over came me. I took the anthology from his hands. Carefully I began to thumb my way through the looseleaf drawings. Some I had seen before, most I had not. What surprised me most was a collection of poems hastily scrawled in his spidery handwriting that were carefully nestled between the only two blank pages, all of them so obviously personal, about....me. My eyes began to well with tears as I uncovered a dark yet stunning portrayal of a familiar face. My reaction was party because of the way he had secretly spilled his heart out, the intimacy of it all, but mostly because I felt betrayed. I struggled to fight them back, to keep that raw emotion off my face.

I mustered all the strength I could just to utter a response. “Its beautiful.... I didn't know you could write.”

“A little.”

I straighted up the loose pages, put them in their respective places, closed the book ,and returned it to him. He sighed as if he were relieved. I suppose he was expecting some kind of brutal criticism. I could have easily torn out his throat with a savage verbal assault at that moment but decided to reward his trust, instead, with mercy. It wouldn't have taken a genius to recognize the trust he put into me just then, besides the earnest expression on his face, his words said it all.

“Don't tell anyone about this, OK? I don't want anyone to think I'm a pussy.”

We both laughed in silent agreement that this awkward moment had never happened.