Come Closer
Stranded in This Spooky Town
He fell asleep to colors. Reds, purples, oranges, yellows, all swirling in front of his face without rhyme or reason. Dirty teenagers danced and partied around him, all sweat and t-shirts and drugs. He was one of them. No, he wasn't.
Somehow, he got back to the house, the immaculate white mansion of Tex that he was crashing in. It was glass and broken promises, that's what Tex had always said. There wasn't any color or warmth, and he liked that. He liked knowing what the drugs were doing to him when he looked at those white walls and white carpets.
He saw the colors again, dripping from his sweaty forehead into the rainbow pool below. He reached down to touch it, wanting to drink the peace the pool kept secret, but found himself looking at a picture instead. It was him, a wet, beautiful painting of him. Then it was her.
He woke up with a jolt as the sun rose over the glass balcony of the house. Teenagers were all around him, some covered in vomit and clothes, others just naked and happy. He went into the open kitchen adjacent to the living room that he'd slept in, looking for water. All he found was alcohol, which was probably laced with more drugs. Stealing a cigarette from a drawer marked "DO NOT OPEN", he walked through the labyrinth of the house looking for 'his' room.
The green duffle bag he'd stolen from the Salvation Army sat on the white carpet of the bedroom he'd been crashing in, now filled with half-naked drug-store blondes. He picked the bag up, throwing clothes and wadded up cash onto the floor trying to find his lighter. It was bright pink, a gift from a girl in Santa Ana who liked him far too much. He'd taken the lighter from her dresser after he was done with her. It had her phone number scrawled on it, but he never called. He wasn't into that.
He grabbed the lighter just as his fingers touched the crumpled lamination of a picture. He didn't have to unfurl it to see what it was. A picture of her, sleeping. He took it two days after they met. He shoved the picture back into the bag, then shoved the whole thing over his shoulder, taking it to the balcony.
He'd barely lit the cigarette before he'd pushed the duffle bag over the glass railing. He could see almost the whole city from his perch at the corner of the balcony, barely lit from the rising sun. Clothes and money fell delicately in the wind, blowing towards downtown Los Angeles.
He could just hear the phone ringing in the house behind him, which was his cue. Tex's parents were due to be home any day now, returning from yet another four month long vacation in some tropical island. They'd barely let Tex know they were leaving. He stomped the cigarette out, kicking it beneath the railing to send it splattering down to the pavement below. He didn't stay to watch, but went back inside.
Around him, the teenagers were just beginning to stir, their morning hangovers barreling through their drug-hazed dreams. He grabbed his leather jacket from a white chair in the dining room, then left the ritzy house on foot.
--
It was at least a month before he heard about Tex again. Some girl named Alice, who preferred to be called Gray, like her dead cat, told him that he'd been shipped off to boarding school. She only told him because she thought he liked her. He didn't, but fucked her anyway. Her brother, Nick, had the best drugs. Everyone in a hundred mile radius knew that.
When he came back for break, he was straight, or so he claimed. They'd finally gotten to him, even got him to go back to being called Jake.
He supposed everyone was gotten to, in the end. These rich yuppie kids with their rich fucking parents had nothing better to do than pretend to have issues. They all grew up eventually.
Gray had a nice apartment, though. She was seventeen, and already living independently in a fifteenth level, four room condo with a balcony and plenty of glass. He didn't understand what it was with these kids and glass. Maybe it was the illusion of safety.
It was there that he'd heard about her for the first time in four years. Gray was throwing a party, some sort of housewarming celebration for a pregnant friend who was turning eighteen. Or something. He didn't listen when she talked. It was a wonder anyone ever did.
He nearly hadn't recognised Tobias, the hulking pot dealer turned professional drummer had shaved off his trademark hair, and gained a few pounds on his slender frame. He was still as tall as a giant. He waited a few hours before approaching him, physically running into him while "dancing" with Gray, and gave his best shocked look like he hadn't realised as he shoved her back onto the makeshift dancefloor. The music was shit anyway.
The two of them shared a line of coke in the bathroom, and he watched as Tobias blew some homo dealer by the sink. They talked all night about Baltimore, eventually passing out on the white linoleum of the master bath while the party raged outside. Or so he was told the next morning when he woke up naked in the tub.
He couldn't remember much of the conversation, but had filed away his news about her. She'd been locked up, Tobias said. Dragged screaming into the dark depths of the hospital's mental ward by two goons in white. No one had heard from her since. That was three years ago. Tobias hadn't been back to that side of Baltimore since, but knew that Peanut, so nicknamed for her body shape, was in town, and she might know more.
He vomited into the white porcelain toilet thinking of her in the mental institution with all the looneys. She didn't deserve that. Or maybe she did. The thought made him vomit more.
Somehow, he got back to the house, the immaculate white mansion of Tex that he was crashing in. It was glass and broken promises, that's what Tex had always said. There wasn't any color or warmth, and he liked that. He liked knowing what the drugs were doing to him when he looked at those white walls and white carpets.
He saw the colors again, dripping from his sweaty forehead into the rainbow pool below. He reached down to touch it, wanting to drink the peace the pool kept secret, but found himself looking at a picture instead. It was him, a wet, beautiful painting of him. Then it was her.
He woke up with a jolt as the sun rose over the glass balcony of the house. Teenagers were all around him, some covered in vomit and clothes, others just naked and happy. He went into the open kitchen adjacent to the living room that he'd slept in, looking for water. All he found was alcohol, which was probably laced with more drugs. Stealing a cigarette from a drawer marked "DO NOT OPEN", he walked through the labyrinth of the house looking for 'his' room.
The green duffle bag he'd stolen from the Salvation Army sat on the white carpet of the bedroom he'd been crashing in, now filled with half-naked drug-store blondes. He picked the bag up, throwing clothes and wadded up cash onto the floor trying to find his lighter. It was bright pink, a gift from a girl in Santa Ana who liked him far too much. He'd taken the lighter from her dresser after he was done with her. It had her phone number scrawled on it, but he never called. He wasn't into that.
He grabbed the lighter just as his fingers touched the crumpled lamination of a picture. He didn't have to unfurl it to see what it was. A picture of her, sleeping. He took it two days after they met. He shoved the picture back into the bag, then shoved the whole thing over his shoulder, taking it to the balcony.
He'd barely lit the cigarette before he'd pushed the duffle bag over the glass railing. He could see almost the whole city from his perch at the corner of the balcony, barely lit from the rising sun. Clothes and money fell delicately in the wind, blowing towards downtown Los Angeles.
He could just hear the phone ringing in the house behind him, which was his cue. Tex's parents were due to be home any day now, returning from yet another four month long vacation in some tropical island. They'd barely let Tex know they were leaving. He stomped the cigarette out, kicking it beneath the railing to send it splattering down to the pavement below. He didn't stay to watch, but went back inside.
Around him, the teenagers were just beginning to stir, their morning hangovers barreling through their drug-hazed dreams. He grabbed his leather jacket from a white chair in the dining room, then left the ritzy house on foot.
--
It was at least a month before he heard about Tex again. Some girl named Alice, who preferred to be called Gray, like her dead cat, told him that he'd been shipped off to boarding school. She only told him because she thought he liked her. He didn't, but fucked her anyway. Her brother, Nick, had the best drugs. Everyone in a hundred mile radius knew that.
When he came back for break, he was straight, or so he claimed. They'd finally gotten to him, even got him to go back to being called Jake.
He supposed everyone was gotten to, in the end. These rich yuppie kids with their rich fucking parents had nothing better to do than pretend to have issues. They all grew up eventually.
Gray had a nice apartment, though. She was seventeen, and already living independently in a fifteenth level, four room condo with a balcony and plenty of glass. He didn't understand what it was with these kids and glass. Maybe it was the illusion of safety.
It was there that he'd heard about her for the first time in four years. Gray was throwing a party, some sort of housewarming celebration for a pregnant friend who was turning eighteen. Or something. He didn't listen when she talked. It was a wonder anyone ever did.
He nearly hadn't recognised Tobias, the hulking pot dealer turned professional drummer had shaved off his trademark hair, and gained a few pounds on his slender frame. He was still as tall as a giant. He waited a few hours before approaching him, physically running into him while "dancing" with Gray, and gave his best shocked look like he hadn't realised as he shoved her back onto the makeshift dancefloor. The music was shit anyway.
The two of them shared a line of coke in the bathroom, and he watched as Tobias blew some homo dealer by the sink. They talked all night about Baltimore, eventually passing out on the white linoleum of the master bath while the party raged outside. Or so he was told the next morning when he woke up naked in the tub.
He couldn't remember much of the conversation, but had filed away his news about her. She'd been locked up, Tobias said. Dragged screaming into the dark depths of the hospital's mental ward by two goons in white. No one had heard from her since. That was three years ago. Tobias hadn't been back to that side of Baltimore since, but knew that Peanut, so nicknamed for her body shape, was in town, and she might know more.
He vomited into the white porcelain toilet thinking of her in the mental institution with all the looneys. She didn't deserve that. Or maybe she did. The thought made him vomit more.