Status: i suck at updating i'm sorry
27
ONE
From where I stand, feet glued to worn concrete stained with spilled milk, fresh vomit and tar-like blood ebbing into the hundred year old cracks, I can see the flames rising, quickly devouring the banner depicting Jim Morrison’s famously shirtless, outstretched body, burning up like Jesus Christ himself.
I am the last remaining member of the 27 Club. At least I will be after Sky’s chest bleeds out or the smoke fills his lungs, whichever comes first.
“Caz…really…got a…knack for…aiming…don’t she?” He wheezes, staggering as he holds onto me, “Even when she’s…dying…”
He lets out a hacking cough I wouldn’t wish upon even the most dedicated chain smoker, grinning with crooked, bloody teeth as he looks back up at me. He’s delirious. I tell him not to speak, to save his strength to make it to the hospital.
“Hospital?” More blood. “You’re fuckin’…crazy. Crazy, man…crazy…”
God, shut the fuck up, Sky, I want to smack him, but my eyes are stinging and I don’t have the energy as I hunch with his weight on top of me, praying that the garage door will open faster than the building will collapse on top of us as the heat grows on our backs. It’s all one giant race and bets are being made on our lives.
“I’ll drop five-hundred on the one carrying the long-haired junkie!” I can hear some rich 1950’s philanthropist with a monocle yelling in my head, followed by one of his equally wealthy companions: “No way, they’re both done for!”
Sky starts laughing as the rusted door screeches upward, and I wonder if he’s imagining the same scenario in his half dead brain. “It’s kinda…funny…” he chokes out, involuntary tears leaking out of his crystalline eyes and leaving spotless trails down his soot-covered cheeks, “The firehouse…is on fire.”
I would smack him if he weren’t already dying.
He keeps slowly repeating this, the firehouse is on fire, the firehouse is on fire, as the rusty metal door gets stuck like it always does and I’m forced to use my own strength to make enough room for us to get through, finally into the clean valley air. Lethal smog into average smog.
As soon as we’re out and away from the imminent dangers of smoke inhalation, he yells, “Shit!” in response to part of the ancient roof crumbling behind us with a hefty crash. If anyone was alive in there before, they sure aren’t now. I feel guilty when I think about August, but I know there’s no going back.
He curses again and I’m honestly surprised he has enough vigor to raise his voice beyond an indoor volume, but then again, this is Sky we’re talking about and nothing about him makes sense even when he's bleeding to death.
He spits up life goo on my shoulder, and in any other circumstance I’d be mad because I’m wearing the one thing I have left of my dad: his old UCLA sweatshirt, but as it stands, it’s already singed in places from the accident that sent our secret clubhouse ablaze in the first place, so for now, I allow him use it as a bib. Let my one prized possession fall to ashes just like everything else. I can’t seem to care about much of anything anymore.
His breath is rattling, becoming more and more shallow by the second as we limp through the dead grass. I know he’s not going to last, but—Wait, why am I even still trying? He’s 27. This is his time. This is what he started this whole thing for in the first place. I should just let him go.
But as he uses all his strength to heave each harrowing breath, I know that’s not what he wants. He never wanted any of this. No matter how much he might insist otherwise, no one ever wants to die, especially not Sky. Instinctively, we are attracted to the prospect of death like magnets, but we always second guess ourselves when we get too close. We will always recoil and back away, uttering, “Whew, that was a close one,” while clutching our hearts in relief. Death is a hot stove and we’re just children fascinated by the burner.
Thus we struggle on towards the city lying miles and miles away even though we both know it’s fruitless. We have to make it to the hospital, I keep telling him through the ash in my throat. We’re gonna make it, buddy.
“Just let me down…here…” he’s dragging me with him now, stopping what little progress we’ve made (none) when he spots something that genuinely astounds me: a patch of red California poppies right smack dab in the middle of this withered, drought-kissed field. It’s like some divine being is sending us both a sign. Maybe we can make it. Are you there, God? It’s me, [REDACTED].
No, it’s not a sign, I quickly learn as Sky collapses on those miracle flowers, spluttering and coughing out the rest of his dark bodily fluids. This is it. As I remember the Young Lion tapestry of the Lizard King incinerating on the alter now buried under the rubble of that abandoned firehouse, I know this is what the club has equipped us for.
"Hey..." Sky's grinning again, gruesome as hell. The devil's in for a shock. "I'm literally...a bleeding heart liberal."
Only Sky would say something so stupid at a time like this. Only Sky.
“I never…” cough, “meant for…this…to…” choke, “happen…Not like…this…”
No amount of bong hits or injections into the most prominent vein in your arm can prepare you for this. No matter how many times you synchronize the same spoken word poems written by dead rock stars with twenty-six other people all dreaming of the day they’ll fall asleep in their 27th year, you will never be ready to face death head on. None of us will.
“It was all…for you.”
Go to sleep, Sky.
In those poppies, he makes his peace. I know where I’m going and it’s not the Great Beyond. Keam’s Canyon is calling my name. I’ve had enough death for one lifetime.
I am the last remaining member of the 27 Club. At least I will be after Sky’s chest bleeds out or the smoke fills his lungs, whichever comes first.
“Caz…really…got a…knack for…aiming…don’t she?” He wheezes, staggering as he holds onto me, “Even when she’s…dying…”
He lets out a hacking cough I wouldn’t wish upon even the most dedicated chain smoker, grinning with crooked, bloody teeth as he looks back up at me. He’s delirious. I tell him not to speak, to save his strength to make it to the hospital.
“Hospital?” More blood. “You’re fuckin’…crazy. Crazy, man…crazy…”
God, shut the fuck up, Sky, I want to smack him, but my eyes are stinging and I don’t have the energy as I hunch with his weight on top of me, praying that the garage door will open faster than the building will collapse on top of us as the heat grows on our backs. It’s all one giant race and bets are being made on our lives.
“I’ll drop five-hundred on the one carrying the long-haired junkie!” I can hear some rich 1950’s philanthropist with a monocle yelling in my head, followed by one of his equally wealthy companions: “No way, they’re both done for!”
Sky starts laughing as the rusted door screeches upward, and I wonder if he’s imagining the same scenario in his half dead brain. “It’s kinda…funny…” he chokes out, involuntary tears leaking out of his crystalline eyes and leaving spotless trails down his soot-covered cheeks, “The firehouse…is on fire.”
I would smack him if he weren’t already dying.
He keeps slowly repeating this, the firehouse is on fire, the firehouse is on fire, as the rusty metal door gets stuck like it always does and I’m forced to use my own strength to make enough room for us to get through, finally into the clean valley air. Lethal smog into average smog.
As soon as we’re out and away from the imminent dangers of smoke inhalation, he yells, “Shit!” in response to part of the ancient roof crumbling behind us with a hefty crash. If anyone was alive in there before, they sure aren’t now. I feel guilty when I think about August, but I know there’s no going back.
He curses again and I’m honestly surprised he has enough vigor to raise his voice beyond an indoor volume, but then again, this is Sky we’re talking about and nothing about him makes sense even when he's bleeding to death.
He spits up life goo on my shoulder, and in any other circumstance I’d be mad because I’m wearing the one thing I have left of my dad: his old UCLA sweatshirt, but as it stands, it’s already singed in places from the accident that sent our secret clubhouse ablaze in the first place, so for now, I allow him use it as a bib. Let my one prized possession fall to ashes just like everything else. I can’t seem to care about much of anything anymore.
His breath is rattling, becoming more and more shallow by the second as we limp through the dead grass. I know he’s not going to last, but—Wait, why am I even still trying? He’s 27. This is his time. This is what he started this whole thing for in the first place. I should just let him go.
But as he uses all his strength to heave each harrowing breath, I know that’s not what he wants. He never wanted any of this. No matter how much he might insist otherwise, no one ever wants to die, especially not Sky. Instinctively, we are attracted to the prospect of death like magnets, but we always second guess ourselves when we get too close. We will always recoil and back away, uttering, “Whew, that was a close one,” while clutching our hearts in relief. Death is a hot stove and we’re just children fascinated by the burner.
Thus we struggle on towards the city lying miles and miles away even though we both know it’s fruitless. We have to make it to the hospital, I keep telling him through the ash in my throat. We’re gonna make it, buddy.
“Just let me down…here…” he’s dragging me with him now, stopping what little progress we’ve made (none) when he spots something that genuinely astounds me: a patch of red California poppies right smack dab in the middle of this withered, drought-kissed field. It’s like some divine being is sending us both a sign. Maybe we can make it. Are you there, God? It’s me, [REDACTED].
No, it’s not a sign, I quickly learn as Sky collapses on those miracle flowers, spluttering and coughing out the rest of his dark bodily fluids. This is it. As I remember the Young Lion tapestry of the Lizard King incinerating on the alter now buried under the rubble of that abandoned firehouse, I know this is what the club has equipped us for.
"Hey..." Sky's grinning again, gruesome as hell. The devil's in for a shock. "I'm literally...a bleeding heart liberal."
Only Sky would say something so stupid at a time like this. Only Sky.
“I never…” cough, “meant for…this…to…” choke, “happen…Not like…this…”
No amount of bong hits or injections into the most prominent vein in your arm can prepare you for this. No matter how many times you synchronize the same spoken word poems written by dead rock stars with twenty-six other people all dreaming of the day they’ll fall asleep in their 27th year, you will never be ready to face death head on. None of us will.
“It was all…for you.”
Go to sleep, Sky.
In those poppies, he makes his peace. I know where I’m going and it’s not the Great Beyond. Keam’s Canyon is calling my name. I’ve had enough death for one lifetime.
♠ ♠ ♠
you have no idea what you're getting intoxo sunny