Nullify

Sometimes, I think maybe Saul is dead.

I can remember when he used to come around on his bike when we were kids. That was his thing, BMX. He rode that bike all over everywhere - to the Boulevard, La Cinega, Fairfax, and even up over Laurel Canyon. He'd pop up over the curbs and ride down rails, hop down stairs and go off ramps, all sorts of crazy stuff. Sometimes he'd race, too. His friends all rode too, but honestly, no one really was as good at it or looked as sexy doing it as Saul did.

Back in those days, there was something mysterious and adventurous about him that made him almost irresistible. I'd known him my whole life, from the time he and I were in diapers, but there was something about him at that age that permanently shattered any fraternal bond we may have ever had. It was the way his hair covered his eyes, masking all expression; it was the way he swaggered when he walked, cocky and cool all at once. It was the way his tongue flickered to the top of his mouth and his voice drawled when he murmured my name. The way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, his thumb hooked in the pocket of his jeans as the other fingers lingered casually over his thigh, teeth pulling at his pouty lower lip. He knew what he was doing to me, and there was simply no resisting him. When Saul wanted me, he wanted me. And he got me. Because there was no way of telling him no.

There was an apartment complex being built at the end of La Cinega - the far end where the businesses start tapering off into abandoned buildings and shitty gin joints - and that was our spot. He and his friends would roll up late in the afternoon on their mountain bikes, shirts off and prepubescent bodies glistening with sweat, and my sister and I would take one glance at each other and simply fly off the porch. We knew what we were needed for, knew what we wanted. We'd climb up on the pegs and hold tight to their shoulders as they sped through the streets, the urgency of angst nipping at our heels as the sun set on our backs.

As soon as we made it to the construction site, he'd break off from the others and pedal us inside, way to the tippy top floor, where there were floorboards and walls and doors put up. He'd toss the bike aside and then press me against the wall, laying sloppy open-mouthed kisses along my neck, up to my chin to meet with my mouth. His fingers would squeeze tight on my hips, leaving bruises, as he wedged a knee between my thighs, his breath sticky on my face. "I've missed you," he'd whisper.

And then we'd fuck, hot and hard and fast, the way teenagers do when they don't have enough time. Teenagers in lust.

Those were the kind of days where time dragged on and on, where every moment seemed to last a lifetime. Those days were the kind that lasted forever. Except eventually, forever ran out.

He still comes around sometimes, but these days, he prefers to walk. I swear you can hear him coming from a mile away, cowboy boots scuffing the asphalt as he saunters coolly down the street. Because he doesn't walk on the sidewalk. He never does.

And he comes up to my porch and stands right at the last step, like he used to do, and he shoves a thumb in his pocket and fingers the cracks in his leathers as he looks up at me beneath that bushy mop of hair, eyes half-lidded in mystery, plush lips wet and curled into a devestating grin as his tongue flickers to his teeth and he mutters my name. And the pull is just the same, the magnetic tug that lifts me out of my seat and makes me takes his hand and lead him inside, to our safe haven.

He never forgets fresh rigs and the baggie or the lighter, but he never brings a spoon. He says the spoon is my job. We joke that I have the best spoons in the world, that no other silver could match the quality of my own. And so he takes the spoon with shaky hands, and his fingers tremble as he packs the dope and cooks it up. His whole body shakes in longing, in waiting, in anticipation of a release. I don't know when he started or why he started, but it's who he is now. This shaking is him. I can remember a time when he used to shake for anticipation of something else - when he used to tremble for me.

I only watch when he does it. I never participate. It's not something I condone. I know it's sick and disgusting, a nasty habit I could only dream that he will someday kick. I hate it. But there's just that little something about him that makes me reach forward and tie him off; watches him as he poises the needle against his arm, pushing forward and breaking the delicate skin. I don't want to see it, but I can't take my eyes away. He's beautiful, even like this. Nostrils flared, curls framing his face. And as the fluid sinks into his veins, his eyes begin to glow.

Suddenly, he's no longer himself. And he loves every second.

And I ask him why, why he wants to do this, why he thinks this is right. Because I don't understand. He's perfect enough already, and I can't quite digest the fact that he thinks he needs to change himself a bit. And it hurts. And I just don't understand.

"Because," he says, smiling as the smack works its way through his system, causing his heavy lids to droop, "I've made the big decision. I'm gonna nullify my life."

And as he falls out on my couch, body limp, fingers twitching, lashes fluttering, I watch on with tears in my eyes.

I can't tell if he's dead or alive or something worse.

And it makes my chest hurt so bad, the thought of never seeing those eyes again, never hearing that low baritone slur my name again, never seeing those lips kick up into a smile. His smile.

I grab the needle and take the plunge. Within moments, I'm nullified.