Part 1: The Beginning
He shows up at your home uninvited, when you are alone, and sweeps you away in a mess of hard liquor and white powdered haze. Fast cars, loud bass, and the blur of streetlamps and come to a screeching halt, bodies pile out of seats and he leads you into the house, into the basement; where the air is thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of vomit and beer. He drags you to the rotting sofa under the window and pulls you into his arms, stroking your hair and laughing roughly at an off-colour joke with no discernible source. Needles. White powder. Somebody touches you, you don't know who - but it feels good. You keep silent and allow it until he swats them away, cursing and harsh. He's holding you again, and you can barely see him through the fog as you begin to drift... but when he speaks, you hear him clear as day. "Stick with me, kid. We're gonna be a band." His nails are in your scalp, but his words hit something within you and it sticks, even as your vision begins to tunnel. Everything you never wanted, but it's so goddamn tempting. You're too doped up to disagree.
Autumn had come. The air was crisp with it as Stuart wandered the fairground, his sneakers crunching upon leaves and discarded popcorn as he walked. The wind picked up a little, swirling leaves and dust about his feet and smarting his hatless head, making him wince. Bad weather for it, he thought, plucking a cigarette from his breast pocket and pressing it to his lips, lighting it a moment after. Gonna have'ta close the place down soon... The tip of his cigarette crackled orange as he inhaled, relishing the warmth that filled his lungs and the bittersweet tobacco flavour that burned itself onto his tongue. The second cigarette of the day; the second of his allotted four. He was going to have to do his best to savour it before heading back home or his mother would pitch a fit. There were certainly worse things he could be doing, but he would never remind her of that - there were quite a few of them that he'd already indulged in, and the risk of her discovering his other habits far outweighed any sense of satisfaction he could obtain by challenging her word. Besides; he ought to stop poisoning himself anyway...
Stu thrust his hand back into the pocket of his sports coat and continued on, focusing on his cig and eyeing the clouds thoughtfully. It was going to storm. The radio had crackled on about it that morning, which was another reason why the fair was closed today, aside from it being Sunday. Thunder and lightening had been forecast to hit Crawley pretty hard, and it wasn't worth the risk to run the ferris wheel or anything else. Which was disappointing, because it robbed Stuart of something to do with himself on such a dull, sleepy day. He supposed at the very least he could rent a movie, although there wouldn't be anyone to watch it with really. Robert could come by, but he hates horror... and he'd want to get high... Which they couldn't really do, not at the Pot's house. And Stu really didn't feel like going to anyone else's place. The video idea was good though, and the rental was close enough to the route back home.
"Maybe they'll have somethin' good, Needful Things or whatever," Stu muttered, pleased with the idea. He put out the last of his cigarette and sniffled slightly, running his fingers through his shaggy light hair before heading back toward the entrance of the fairground. He'd grab himself a movie, some junk food, something veg for dinner, and just chill. It was the most he could do before Monday came round again.
"How's dad?" you ask, lighting your cigarette. Your throat feels raw, and the smoke burns when you inhale, but you hold your grimace and swallow your cough. He'll laugh if he sees, and you can't have it. You won't have it. You're leaning against the trunk of his rust-bucket car, parked outside the house with the basement of smoke. The nicotine calms the pounding you can feel in your skull, and with any luck it will mask the taste of bile lingering on your tongue. Hannibal snorts distastefully, and you steel yourself against the stench of sugar sweet vanilla as he exhales a drag from his cigarillo in your face.
"Bastard son of a cunt; who cares how he is," he rasps, spitting dangerously close to your boots. You shift aside and shrug, taking another drag of your own smoke. The burning in your throat is going numb, a promising sign. There's a clamour from the house and a string of muffled curses, but he doesn't seem alarmed, so you try your best not to be either. "He's still alive, although we can always pray otherwise," Hannibal continues, grinning at you harshly before flicking ash against your jacket. He takes your free hand in his for a moment, and under the filth and grease on his fingers, you can still make out how much paler he is compared to you. A new tattoo: a swastika in the space between his thumb and forefinger catches your eye and holds your attention, successfully distracting you as he puts his cigarillo out on the cuff of your jacket, damaging the soft black leather.
He laughs as you shout in protest, shoving you roughly and making you drop your cigarette as you try to swat him away. Suddenly you're seeing stars, and you can still see them even as he leads you to the passengers side and pushes your body into the seat. The car rumbles to life, and you watch the stars silently as the world becomes distant and you become lost within yourself. Dimly, you consider your aunt: worrying her way through communion, wondering where you've gone. But a voice beyond yourself chides that she'll be fine, she knows you're good, you can look after yourself. Besides, it's 1pm. You slept in late and woke up hungover, she's back home by now and frustrated as hell. There's no real fixing it; and that's all you can try to remember as the car fills and rumbles to life. You have no idea where you're going, but you know it won't be home...
The credits rolled and flickered on Stu's tv, filling his room with a dim blue, gritty light. A bottle of painkillers sat open on his bedside table, and he clutched their missing lid in his hands as he slept; still hunched awkwardly in the position he'd been laying in to watch his movie. Takeout boxes; with the remnants of cheese pakoras, rice, and curried cauliflower littered the floor at the foot of his bed. Outside, the rain pounded steadily against his window, and every few minutes the sky would crack with lightning or the rumble of thunder. The storm had arrived as promised, and it had offered a perfect ambiance for Stu's film of choice, Psycho; a real classic. He had only made it about halfway through before drifting off, his stomach full and his head swimming in a pharmaceutical daze. He didn't hear when his mother came home and checked on him, switching the tv off and making sure he was properly covered and his curtains were closed. She cleaned the trash off his floor and kissed his forehead before leaving him again, sleeping soundly. By the time he woke up late for school the next day, he had slept a full 11 hours, although it made very little difference on how exhausted he felt. And for the next few days, it was the same old thing. Uneventful. Until Wednesday, that is.
