Those Sparkling Eyes.

It’s interesting, watching what your body becomes when lack of food comes into play. Your skin starts to turn this paper flaky like substance, so disgusting, and yet so intriguingly haunting. Your face becomes taunt and hollow, blue-green coloured bags implanted permanently underneath your eyes. Your bones become brittle; they might break if anyone grips them too hard. And your immune system, God, your immune system sucks so bad. All you have to do is walk past the girl in the grocery store, and wa-la, you’re presented with your very own gift; The Flu. And you can see your whole skeletal system, the vertebrae, the ribs, all twelve pairs of them; you’re suddenly transparent, naked, there for the world to see.

Almost the same thing happens when you’re a heroin addict. Except, there’s more of a chance you might die, because your blood is being poisoned, sometimes more than twice daily. It’s like now, as I’m staring in the mirror, the blue blue blue of my bruises, my track marks on my arms suddenly so visible, I shudder. I’m transparent. Anyone can see right through me right now. Any time. They can see through the skin, through the ceramic bones, and they can see my heart, pumping out heroin poisoned blood, I’m high high high as a kite, and I’m on my way to this ridiculous luncheon.

You’re transparent in the streets.

I rush through the slick city streets, bumping into people, careening into poles, tripping over uneven cement, my feet tumbling around carelessly; so high, so fucked. Best behaviour. You better be on your best behaviour. A shrill giggle escapes my lips and for just a moment, I stop and wonder if I am insane. Only insane people do this, right? That has to be right.

I reach the hotel where the luncheon is being held, and stumble through the doors, willing my feet to go slower, willing my pupils to shrink down to their normal size, willing my mind to stop racing. This was a bad idea.

She’s waiting in the corner, her blond head moving excitedly up and down, while she talks to some lady that stands right next to her. Their whispers can’t be heard. Heads are turning as I make my way into the banquet room, gasps are made, and suddenly, I’m paranoid, my fingers shaking, stomach churning. I can’t get sick, I can’t.

“Gerard,” she exclaims, and rushes over, arms grasping my shoulders firmly, bringing me downwards, her lips planting a light peck on both cheeks, before she pushes me back up.

You’re a robot at the banquet.

She tells me to sit, and I sit, she tells me to drink some chardonnay, and I drink some. It bubbles at the bottom of the glass like it’s a volcano, about to erupt all over the table, but it never even rises; just continues its bubbling all the way down my throat, and in my stomach. Bubble bubble bubble. Fizzle fizzle fizzle. She hands me a plate of chicken, and I move it around on the plate.

The chardonnay is rushing to my head while she talks to me, like we’re just mutual friends, just friends who happen to know each other, friends who know each other through her husband; my dad: she’s my mother, she’s my mother, her blond head, her blue eyes, her long painted fingernails; she’s my mother, the person in charge of this luncheon, the person I’m talking to now, unaware of what she’s really saying, intrigued by the way her painted red lips are moving, up down, side to side, that Jersey accent spilling from them.

You’re a plane, blurring past.

It’s a blur, turning into a smudge, turning into tiny particles of grey and white and black; I’m completely unaware of anything and everything; the plastic tasting chicken, the garlic tasting potatoes, all of it. The room is spinning, the voices are blending together, and my fingers are drumming staccato on the table. I pretend I’m Tyler Durden, I pretend I’m Brad Pitt, I pretend I’m one of the Flight 96 members, about to go down, down, down, meet my death. I pretend I am somewhere else, some time else, fictional or realistic, it doesn’t matter, I just want out.

You’re a marionette doll, dangling lifelessly from the strings, glass eyes, painted pink lips on porcelain skin.

My mind is suddenly blank, my lips are suddenly speechless, my fingers stop moving, her lips stop going up and down side to side. She knows, she knows, she fucking knows. And she stands up. And she hisses it, like she’s a cobra, pissed off, about to strike, ever so softly, yet still so fucking evil; “Get. Out.”

She walks away, her fingernails clasping around the hem of her skirt and tugging it down, her lips pursed. But she puts on another smile, and even though I can see through it; I can see the edges crack and bleed painfully, her heart split with anger and frustration, the rest of the banquet room audience, they don’t see the horrific show that plays in front of my eyes. They just see the cameo.

You’re insane, you’re sick.

I stand up, my mind still incredibly blank, the chardonnay, the drugs, and the plastic chicken mixing together in my stomach, creating something vile, and I fall to my knees, coughing up vomit and blood. Oh God, I didn’t just do that, oh God oh God oh dear God, please no.

There are gasps and shrieks, people rushing over, freaking out, pulling cell phones out. But she keeps on walking. Because this is what happens when your son is insane, this is what happens when you’re faithless.

You’re dead, you’re drowning in blackness. You’re dead. So dead.

And suddenly, it doesn’t even matter. You’re lost. You’re playing hide and go seek with your sanity, with your heart, your addiction.

You’ve lost it all.