PUT ON THE SHELF

Drugs.
I remember the first time I was down to get with that. The internet freedom was to be conceived, and me and my other guys were all the day crumbling around the streets in town, avoiding, mocking, harassing and yelling at the young ladies. We were probably in what you call full teenage. 16.

However: our town wasn't that big. It allowed, placed and employed less than 1.500 people. Me, and my family, were in the residential borough: no politics, no questions, no church, say yes to the priest, to the policemen, to dad (and to the officer, from 18 to 19, in the army). No. No discos, no nights, no highways, no libraries, no university, no music, no parties, no communists or fascists or way so.

NO; there were, a few newborn neofascist-like associations: they went around the whole day like us, the only two differences were the money and the hiding. They always got money. And they avoided us, like we were leeches. Every two or three hours they disappeared in a door's black hole, or placed the 'liquid sun' behind their backs and walked through the city in the shadowy realms of the industrial village.

To do what? No one asked them. They hated us. They despised us. They realized that we were humans like them, they didn't think "oh this piece of crap right in front of me"; that's what made them spiteful. You thought they could spite venom; this wasn't. That was, more, like a - 'liquid sun' we called it. A liquid sun, something gushing, really hot, too hot, too – sticky, wreathing. Yet glowing like it had a whole nuclear reaction inside it. Oh, when we were younger, and we thought the sun's fire soared out from a spark and coal, like all the other fires we ever saw. NO, it was nuclear – nuclear reaction cycle, fusion and fission: you'd call it yin and yang. In our city the world out of Britain didn't even exist. Yet. I hope.

I left that place seven years ago. After the crumbling of whatever I believed my family could have been. A COULD-HAVE-BEEN. A failure.

Luckily,when my parents began to show their complete carelessness about me and my brother, me and my brother knew those few guys – those who came to talk with the fascists and stayed around in town for those summer months.

They seem to know someone on the place – always mocking around two people; a guy and a girl.

I remember the guy, I saw him at the elementary school. Then he nearly disappeared, as we were eleven. I always knew his parents were worse than mines – in a sense: his father and mother wronged ways and words, but talked to each other and to himself. My parents stopped as I was 3. Just going on, along, surviving.

This guy, we called him Shelf. He was always put on the shelf – no one even watched him. He had some name, but it wasn't normal, so we forgot it.

I remember a Christmas he came back from that far away college, with a broken face bone; actually I think the cheek bone. It wasn't fresh though. He always kept his hair quite long, almost touching shoulder. I, however, kept mine longer; or well, I did. Before a certain summer. Well, the bruise had nearly all disappeared, but you could clearly see a scar on that cheek – I SWEAR I saw that scar. Two evenings later that scar evaporated. I saw it, at 7 o'clock, in full sunset, shining in reflecting the 'liquid sun' (this guy looked like he always had a large bug of liquid sun stuck on the head). And – well – I go back home to have a spit of dinner, and when I came back, he was always there – WITHOUT IT.

Jesus, I hated him. But I was afraid even to talk without being questioned. So I shut up. The fascists were angry about something. 'The hell was going on? There were rumors. The brother, the sister, someone, of someone, did - WHAT? – the BROTHER of one and the BROTHER of the other? Wait, doesn't a thing miss here? A Hole. But…? But? Ooooh. Crap.

It seems that one of the city visitors had just put out a plan with the brother of one of the fascists – ok, I'm speaking plain English.

This all happened in the summer holidays of I-don't-remember-the-year. I was 16, I said. The guy of the elementary school, Shelf, came back from his college; his parents started yelling at each other the same moment he arrived. Of course, willingly. And he was not so stupid to not get it by himself. So their quarreling was all a home-theatre, put up to show him which of his parents was the strongest of the two. But this time they yelled at him, too; it was strange. Something about a letter, a work, a minister, a "he could be useful" and "c'mon, you're not princess California" (I never understood this sentence). So the guy began to walk around all the day, out of his house, so between us. I saw many other bruises around his neck.

Ok, one gone: then came the others. Others dressed like they never saw another person wearing a longsleeve, or a t-shirt and jeans, or whatever; they all looked like – uhm … - homeless. They wore T-shirts, and jeans and whatever normal, but it seemed they didn't know how to wear normal clothes. They looked for something - who knew what; they soon began to hang out with the fascists –and we had heard rumors, that in a nearby city our fascists had beaten a guy nearly to death. However, the police of that town wasn't inquiring on our fascists; they thought of a smugglers' war. Smuggling what? Weapons, here? Alcohol, cigarettes? "No, no, leave it. You're too young. Just hang out of those guys' reach. Keep yourself safe" told me my brother. Cool, I thought, you're leaving on vacation with your girlfriend (I somewhat thought that having a girlfriend was such a girlish thing). I'm staying here to face problems. Cool. Burning cool, my dear. You'll see.

However. These others, the strange ones, grouped with the fascists and we scarcely heard them talking of politics. They were always talking about numbers, numbers of things. Such a numb subject. We noticed that the fascists, since a pair of weeks, had begun to act in a completely different way: with such a bursting out, uttered, euphoric behaviour… Few days later, I myself would have known clearly what it was; to just say that this will break my life…or well crack it. These strange guys always looked behind us; they were always looking around to see where were certain people, they always lurked on the same ones. And Shelf was their favourite. I noticed new bruises. New broken bones – always healing in few days.

I've never been that intelligent. I never asked questions. I accepted truth, and thought that the less I did in it (whatever it was) the best it could be. I wasn't wrong; but I didn't apply this philosophy to everything. Something failed. Something slipped. Something, I wronged something. Later. Come back to our Shelf: he's being harassed and muggered by his schoolmates, whose fascist friends just began looking at us like the others did. Like preys.

The one day I remember is: we planning to go to the "beach", the open seweriver running behind the industrial village; I ask him to come along. He plainly insults me. I don't remember the words. I only remember I excused myself. And I just added "Avoid doing this with the black-dressed ones. They'll beat the hell out of you." And I couldn't stop, I added "Too." He looks straight in my eyes, pauses, reflects, a pair of blinks I clearly see in his eyes and then: "Ok, I'm coming. But you and me. Alone. Have you seen any of those strange guys?" Who's not strange in a town that's completely normally wrong? "No, I didn't. Why? Aren't they your schoolmates?" What a disgusted face. What a distaste. He simply says, "NO" Then we go.

"But you didn't bring a costume?" "I got it under…" He goes around with a swimming costume under clothes? It's not so hot here, but the air is sticky of the chemical compounds' dust rising up from the industries. There is such a smell of – tar, cement, gasoline, burnt plastic. He must sweat plastic. I laughed. He didn't. I didn't say it – I'm not that stupid – but he could laugh, since a human being beside him did. He didn't. I stayed there looking at the 'water' (blah!) and thinking 'what swimming costume if we aren't absolutely going to swim?'

"OOOOOOOHHHHHhhh… Look, who's here to finally wash himself? Think this water's clear enough, baby?" Shelf sighed. He simply didn't make a notice of those guys. He dropped his t-shirt on the ground and sat on it. He then shouted: "What's back again, Filth? Can't you stop harassing younger boys?" And the way he said: younger – boys. Oh crap, I could get it in time…

"Baby": the other gone STONE-COLD-ANGRY. And I knew it wasn't that good. So I said, "Shelf, go away." He: "Don't call me…" Filth: "SHELF? Shelf? Hahahahaha! Oh, guys, here's what I told you! Shelf, we need a cavy. We have to try some beautiful product that our – ehr – sales manager gave us to sell…." Someone behind him laughed. And they were many, many – all black dressed. Them. But I never saw them armed. Chains, steel bars, those combat boots – I felt suddenly afraid. Like I never felt before. Shelf said "Go away…" I lingered. I was out of my mind. "Don't act stupid, ye damn hero. Go away, you won't stop them". So I went. It was when I was far away yet that I heard him saying, clearly and calm: "But you, Filth, try to touch me again that way and I'm gonna kill your four entire families before killing yourselves." The answer was a laughter.

One thing: when Shelf put off the shirt, I saw his chest and back were covered with scars. Scars, and clearly beating scars. And bruises. He only wiped those lying in the face, he didn't heal the wounds. So strange…

I wasn't arrived at the nearby street, when one of the fascists came to call me back. "Come, you too" He grabbed my sleeve and I followed, silent. There was no one there. Only me and him: and I remember, he telling me to get a jump in the water before – to troll me, to bully me – and I did. I was too afraid. Later, I'd had a shower at home. Oh, crap, if I'd had a shower later. Then he says, when I'm in the dirty, muddy, stinking 'water', and I'm swimming wearing pants and shirt – "naked". Don't ask questions. You're not big enough to ask him questions. And anyway, ok, he may be laughing at me – but he's not hurting me. Do it. Anyway. I do it. "Get out of the water" But… "GET OUT OF THE DAMN WATER!" I do. He looks. He watches me. He laughs. He tells me to put my clothes on again and follow him, I'll have a real jump in his house's swimming pool. Ooh. Crap. Wonderful. I never saw a swimming pool, a real one, I mean. We go.

At his home, I think, whatever, whoever's house this is, I never saw it. Ok, here, or well, there, he says: "Go upstairs, take a shower, put on the white robe and come down". I do. All. Right. Then I go downstairs. To the garden; where may be a swimming pool. No: they yell at me from the ground floor. "The garden is exposed; this is a covered swimming pool". Exposed to what?

I sit, with them: Shelf, completely out of his mind. The "Filth", gone out the same, with an angry, violent, aggressive face but wearing a smile on it; like he was sweating, his face skin red and deadly white. Shelf is leaning with one arm to the sofa shoulder. He looks in the void, smiles with the mouth open – but showing teeth. They all look like animals. Then my 'officer commander' fascist says: "Here, smoke". And then I only remember things seen like that thing made me see them. Clearly, high-lighted, bright, incredibly important; preys, and euphoria. I know what I did; I know what they did to me. I know what they tried to do; it was quite – it seemed they didn't want, they were just trying themselves to know if they liked it: this may be the reason why they never did this after. To me.

Ok, I accepted my memories of it just a bit of time ago; I rejected these memories until now. I simply had no way to accept those strange, strange things, that never happened to me again. But I can tell you this: that we all knew perfectly what, a week later, was going on between the fascists and the others. They were just drug dealing. The worst thing was, that our parents told us "Avoid them, they are criminals"; or well, in fact we all hated our parents. This meant to us: DO IT. We just began to think: ok, that's wrong, but they are not forcing you to buy it. If you want, you go there, if you don't, you're perfectly free to avoid them. So we did. Or well, so they did.

I was already an addicted. The same afternoon of that first time that I smoked crack, I went home completely high and my parents didn't notice it. I had just been fucked (for this is the truth), I had just smoked crack cocaine, and my parents simply didn't notice that I couldn't walk straight –or well, I couldn't walk at all. It hurts, Jesus. I do remember how many, how much and how many of them have been; but I think I can avoid talking of this. It was just – a thorough proof of my bisexuality.

The differences between me and Shelf were these: 1. I had only been fucked, and I wanted it; he'd been stuffed with crack, raped and beaten again, as I remember – 2. That was my last and only time; I don't know how many times they went catching him again - 3. I wouldn't ever see those guys again; he'd be another year at school with them.

And I notice another difference: "Filth" and Shelf's father were talking friendly some days later. "Filth" said: "Don't worry, he'll win the place. I talked with my sibling there…" Good job, father. Good job.

I heard, after, of a full complication of the thing: the others stepped back and worked only with drugs, being payed in money, only; the fascists stuck on this thing of "natural checking" or of the "credit card" like we called it. You could not pay? They fucked you. That was simple, enough; simple, but someone didn't like it. Someone was seen, nighttime, in the street, near Shelf's house; someone was blond and log haired – all dressed in black. "Who is this? The nazi Viking?" I asked myself. The others, the next day, were disappeared. Evaporated. Also the blond someone did, he evaporated in the summer's liquid sun. Leaving a scarless Shelf alone in a town, that he only remembered for that girl, child mate of his.

Shelf doesn't remember my face anymore – or well, the last time I saw him he didn't. It was six years ago, after he got his graduation and I lost my third job – I was addicted. I was a junkie. I never saw those strange guys again, I never saw Shelf, I never saw the blond one; but I heard of strange things going on around, some strange deaths…I heard that quite all the fascists died. But I'm stuck in a hospital – a junkie hospital, they're seeing if I can be healed from the addiction. I can't know, I don't know. I can't guess.

If I could just forget. Forget. Forget it all. This has been placed on the Web, Shelf. If you don't want me to put this all to the public, with names and so on, you got to do it –

Erase these things from my mind, Shelf. Like the blond one did to yours. Like he did to your scars. Like you did with your wounds. Like they did, evaporating – like you all always did it, just without a notice, a trace, a mark – without logic, so strange, like it suddenly waked up from the matter's energy: LIKE A MAGIC.

LIKE A MAGIC, SHELF.

Free me from this monkey. Free me from myself, Shelf. But don't kill me, no. I want to live – all new. Back.