Chemicals
Chapter 1
"It’s not so much a door I can’t open, more of a door I chose to forcefully shut and lock. By now that door has become welded and overgrown with other thoughts. Three years ago was when I closed that door. Since then I’ve been successful in keeping it that way. Three years ago I shut the door on my past. Taking up a life of running.
That particular night, I had been running through Technicolor. It was near Christmas. We were having an early party. Near 200 bodies partied, intoxicated, in wide, open fields. Mixing a ghastly concoction of alcohol, marijuana, cocaine, sweat and sex. We didn’t hear the trucks. We barely registered the bright lights infiltrating dilated eyes. It was the Riot Squad. Moments passed before the 200 bodies spread like a disease. Every direction, I could see cops roughly pinning arms behind back. With pink hair plastered to my coked out face, I sprinted towards the forest.
I didn’t stop running until I saw the green and red glow of my town. Covered in vomit and feeling close to lung failure, I had made it.
The lights were on at home. Laughter travelled through the open windows. Anger immediately replaced the drugs in my veins and began to pump round my body. There I was, on the cold sidewalk, stitches tearing through my stomach; vomit adorning my shirt; on the tail end of a high. They were inside, laughing. My heart began to tick like a time bomb. I bolted up the stairs as soon as I got my key in the lock.
“Do you have any id-“ My dad began. Before he was finished a blast louder than anything ricocheted through the house. I put the smoking pistol shakily on the floor. My father’s slumped body staining the carpet.
“Only the strong survive,” I had whispered.
A shrill scream had punctured my reverie. Followed by a second gunshot. Which preceded a dead weight thump. After all that, I was shattered. I flopped down on my bed and pulled the sheets up to my chin. I did what I knew. I ignored everything.’
"You went to sleep?"
"Yes."
"With your parents laid dead in the doorway?"
"Yes, Mother on top of Father. Ironic, huh?"
"Continue."
"The next morning, I woke up, fixed myself a sandwich and walked to the mall. There I made a call-"
"To who?"
"911. I reported a gunshot at 182 Peters Avenue late last night."
"Your address?"
"Attentive aren’t you?" I mocked.
"Can you answer yes, or no, for the tape, please?" I glanced at the bland, black tape recorder scathingly.
"Yes. That is my address." I sighed.
"Thank you, explain to me what you did then.""I wandered around, until I decided to stop at the diner. I sat on the stool and ordered an ice water. I sat there for half an hour, about, just thinking and sucking on my straw. Thinking about what color I should dye my hair next; those sorts of things. Then the waitress flipped the television to CNN. I found out 30 people had been injured by 'messing with drugs' at a rave last night. Ten people killed."
"The rave you attended." It was said as more of a statement that a question.
"Yeah. I got real angry with that. Funny how a balding gray guy sits in front of a camera and reads about ten deaths like he’s reading the lottery; dull and monotone. Not regarding the fact that ten families are sitting at home that morning, devastated and waiting for their babies to return home. Crying dry tears, ‘cos they used them all up last night. What’s funnier still, is how CNN doesn’t mention that the RIOT squad trampled people and beat them up. Or that the cops were injuring people left right or center. I swear to my life I heard a gun shot as I was running away. I got real angry at that. I slammed my glass down on the counter, cracking the bottom. Then I got up and walked out. Not before hearing the next headline: 'Mother and Father shot dead. Daughter missing.'"
"What did you do when you heard that?"
"Grinned. Then laughed like a fucking maniac."
"Explain the re-"
"I ran. Lived on the streets. Selling myself a bit for money, nothing shocking there. Roughing it, right until you came along. Well there’s my story, darling. What’s yours?" I grinned at the… Cop? Interviewer? I glanced around the plain gray cell. Hoping to maybe convey that this interview was very much over.
That particular night, I had been running through Technicolor. It was near Christmas. We were having an early party. Near 200 bodies partied, intoxicated, in wide, open fields. Mixing a ghastly concoction of alcohol, marijuana, cocaine, sweat and sex. We didn’t hear the trucks. We barely registered the bright lights infiltrating dilated eyes. It was the Riot Squad. Moments passed before the 200 bodies spread like a disease. Every direction, I could see cops roughly pinning arms behind back. With pink hair plastered to my coked out face, I sprinted towards the forest.
I didn’t stop running until I saw the green and red glow of my town. Covered in vomit and feeling close to lung failure, I had made it.
The lights were on at home. Laughter travelled through the open windows. Anger immediately replaced the drugs in my veins and began to pump round my body. There I was, on the cold sidewalk, stitches tearing through my stomach; vomit adorning my shirt; on the tail end of a high. They were inside, laughing. My heart began to tick like a time bomb. I bolted up the stairs as soon as I got my key in the lock.
“Do you have any id-“ My dad began. Before he was finished a blast louder than anything ricocheted through the house. I put the smoking pistol shakily on the floor. My father’s slumped body staining the carpet.
“Only the strong survive,” I had whispered.
A shrill scream had punctured my reverie. Followed by a second gunshot. Which preceded a dead weight thump. After all that, I was shattered. I flopped down on my bed and pulled the sheets up to my chin. I did what I knew. I ignored everything.’
"You went to sleep?"
"Yes."
"With your parents laid dead in the doorway?"
"Yes, Mother on top of Father. Ironic, huh?"
"Continue."
"The next morning, I woke up, fixed myself a sandwich and walked to the mall. There I made a call-"
"To who?"
"911. I reported a gunshot at 182 Peters Avenue late last night."
"Your address?"
"Attentive aren’t you?" I mocked.
"Can you answer yes, or no, for the tape, please?" I glanced at the bland, black tape recorder scathingly.
"Yes. That is my address." I sighed.
"Thank you, explain to me what you did then.""I wandered around, until I decided to stop at the diner. I sat on the stool and ordered an ice water. I sat there for half an hour, about, just thinking and sucking on my straw. Thinking about what color I should dye my hair next; those sorts of things. Then the waitress flipped the television to CNN. I found out 30 people had been injured by 'messing with drugs' at a rave last night. Ten people killed."
"The rave you attended." It was said as more of a statement that a question.
"Yeah. I got real angry with that. Funny how a balding gray guy sits in front of a camera and reads about ten deaths like he’s reading the lottery; dull and monotone. Not regarding the fact that ten families are sitting at home that morning, devastated and waiting for their babies to return home. Crying dry tears, ‘cos they used them all up last night. What’s funnier still, is how CNN doesn’t mention that the RIOT squad trampled people and beat them up. Or that the cops were injuring people left right or center. I swear to my life I heard a gun shot as I was running away. I got real angry at that. I slammed my glass down on the counter, cracking the bottom. Then I got up and walked out. Not before hearing the next headline: 'Mother and Father shot dead. Daughter missing.'"
"What did you do when you heard that?"
"Grinned. Then laughed like a fucking maniac."
"Explain the re-"
"I ran. Lived on the streets. Selling myself a bit for money, nothing shocking there. Roughing it, right until you came along. Well there’s my story, darling. What’s yours?" I grinned at the… Cop? Interviewer? I glanced around the plain gray cell. Hoping to maybe convey that this interview was very much over.