when i die, fuck it, i want to go to hell
'cause i'm a piece of shit, it ain't hard to fucking tell
Mom and Dad are dead, Darry tells you in one long exhalation, hollow eyes and trembling fists, and the first lesson you ever should have learned, when you had a mother who spread her legs on the kitchen table for smack and a father who left you alone for days at a time to score his next hit: don't get attached. The second: don't wreck yourself.
But you did let these people worm their way deep beneath your defenses and you've always been better at smugly dispensing advice than following it, so you drink and drink and drink until Buck refuses to give you another no matter how much you pay him, and then you go back up to your room and there's two bottles of vodka under your mattress you stole from your old man because it's the least he owes you at this point and it burns down your throat and then you don't feel anything at all
Snap, and you wake up with blood in your mouth again and isn't that a familiar taste, knuckles crashing against your jaw, the unspeakable intimacy of someone else's skin and bone and body heat under you closer than sex, and it's so fucking good so incredibly fucking good to be able to hit something that cries out and bleeds too and something you can transmute the tiniest bit of your horror onto and you don't even feel it when your nose breaks
Snap, and you wake up with Sylvia grinding against your hips, her mouth hot and slick and sweet with marijuana smoke and even though you swore you'd never touch that bitch again when she gropes your hardening cock you sink your teeth into the side of her neck and let the swell of her breasts teach you how to forget and you can't get it up fast and your hands shake too hard to put the condom on and you're too drunk to feel it when you come
Snap, and you wake up with a little white pill under your tongue that someone shoved into your hand and the only thing you want whenever you blink into consciousness is to kill your mind and there are tears slipping down your face and stop fucking crying what good has crying ever done you it won't bring them back so what if it should've been the dad who didn't care if you turned out to be a drunk in the gutter as long as you stayed out of his liquor cabinet you were just a charity case they took pity on when their precious golden son brought home a stray that was all black eyes switchblades up his sleeves no explanations what the hell are you missing freshly-baked cookies and pick-up football games and high expectations for when you know your fate has always been belt buckles and handcuffs around your wrists and filling long silences with bravado— you swallow it dry and you feel amazing you feel pure your brain is on fire and nothing matters anymore and there's sunlight streaming through your skull right before your knees collapse under you
Snap, and you wake up with Tim sitting next to you on your bed, his eyes wide and his hands fluttering around your waist like he's trying to find an anchor, and you're tugging at the end of his shirt, talking much too goddamn fast, the words spilling out and they don't string together and he keeps asking these dumb questions like what did you take and how much have you been drinking and what happened to your face and are you okay and you don't want to tell him about any of it so you say, if you won't fuck me then get the fuck out of here, and he shakes his head and swears and walks out, and you feel so unbearably empty until you remember the beer you stashed in your underwear drawer
Snap, and you wake up with your head pounding and vomit coagulated all over your shirt, on your back and on the filthy floor of your room and you can't remember what the hell happened, and Darry is leaning over you and slapping your face, and suddenly you feel more disgusting and low than you ever have in your life.
You fucking idiot, Darry snarls, his brow furrowed. He never swears. Look at you, you fucking— you're so lucky you're not in the morgue right now, you've got no idea. He drags you onto the bed, and you're too bone-tired to fight him when he pulls up your eyelids to examine your pupils. Lord, if Mom could see this, she'd be dead of shame.
Dead, because she went through the windshield of a car, and it's like you're drowning above water, the breath being choked out of your lungs—
makes you want another drink.