"I want your heart, in other words. If you want to learn something, go to school." –Stephen King (Author's Note before L.T.'s Theory of Pets in Everything's Eventual)
Prose Fiction
Summary: Masen always plays follow-the-leader with Jazz, his smart, rich friend who slums with him but when things get messed up and reality begins to pummel downward, he wishes it was all a bad novel [gotta love me for being corny. ;D]
Rated: M
Characters: Jasper and Edward
Genre: Horror/Mystery
Chapter One: For Pinks [Russian Roulette style]
If it's one story that the folk of this town love without question, it's the story of a blond kid named Jasper Whitlock. Ever heard of that one boy who walked like he owned the place, smiled like he dared the world to tell him not to, spoke like he was just what the doctor ordered? That's Jasper Whitlock to a 'T'. Before, he looked like a normal teenager; freckles, pimples, braces and typically shabby-looking. It was the Grunge ear, which kid didn't look like they hadn't bathed in days? He did what other teenage boys had and for everyone to see. He smoked pot, snorted crack, shot up at every party with that rest of us and always chased it all by pumping his cock into some chick too drunk to even care to tell him to stop. After he'd blown his load all over – not in, over – the girl's naked pussy, he'd say the same thing to me, "Eddie, my boy, learn well. The best fuck of your life comes from screwing unconscious girls so if you suck ass at it, you can pretend you're one master fucker and no one would know!" Now, Jasper had this heavy Texan drawl and it was pretty hard to understand when he had been shitfaced like that but, come to think of it, I wasn't any better off. So I'd nod and say each time, "Nah man, I like to hear 'em scream." Truth be told, I'd never understood what he'd meant. It just didn't make sense but who cared then? Not us. We did the same thing every weekend for three months, and then instead of Friday to Sunday, we went from Thursday to Monday. By the end of the 1990, we partied like Kurt Cobain every night and, by George Washington's Tic-Tac prick, it was beautiful.
"Edward," he slurred on night. Jasper had a principle against using out full first names if we even used them at all. He was adamant that our first names were what our parents called us instead of calling us 'mistakes' and he was a hard-ass about it, which I didn't get; he lived in a pricey neighbourood with parents that doted heavily on him. But I didn't get much of what he thought, now did I? He was a junkie philosopher and I was a junkie who happened to also be white trailer trash. "Edward," he slurred again, fighting to get up into a proper sitting position and knocking down a half-a-bottle of Miller. The piss-water soaked into my cheap-ass shag carpet. "How old are you?"
I looked at him funny. "What are you talking about?" I smacked the piece of stale gum I was chewing on.
"Stop smacking that fucking gum." I smacked it again before I responded, "I'm sixteen." I was a stubborn, little jackass; I smacked it again. "Why?"
"You're sixteen, I'm sixteen and everyone we get fucked with is sixteen. We're a bunch of little kids with big boys' toys. We don't know what we're doing. I mean, look at us." I took glances at our bleached out, hole-ridden jeans, our scuffed up shoes – his brand new Doc Martens that he studiously half-destroyed in a day and my duct-taped Chucks that I'd been wearing for three consecutive years – and our dirty band jerseys. "We look like shit. I haven't cut my hair in months." Jasper shook out his matted, chin-length locks. "My braces are broken and my gums are leaking fucking pus 'cause they got cut up and I didn't clean them. We look like shit." The broken armchair groaned when he got up from it. You could've imagined my surprise when he stripped off his jersey and straddled my lap. He was scrawny, his ribs sticking out and his collar bone pushing up sharp points under his skin, and his stomach was riddled with needle marks. "I'd say it was time we grew up, Edward." Jasper had this sinister smile on his face. It was one of those smiles that told you someone was up to no good but it was frightening, drying out my mouth and drawing perspiration across my brow and upper lip. I scratched nervously at the razor bumps on my cheek. "We're always playing men so I'd say it's time we manned-up." From behind his back, he procured a standard, single action revolver, flipping open the chambers to show me one bullet lodged in there. I counted seven chambers. "Ever heard of Russian Roulette?" I nodded, he grinned wider. "Great! Let's play!"
With a flick of his wrist, the chambers snapped back into place and when they spun like a dial on a phone, I prayed that it wasn't my number being called. 'Let him blow his own shit,' I thought savagely. Like he'd heard my thoughts, he frowned. "No, no, no," he chastised, "that won't do." He tucked away the revolver and pulled out a switchblade this rounds. "You're fucking kidding me," I whispered – well, whimpered – as my eyes followed the glint of the shitty fluorescents on the blade. "No, I think not." He was smiling again and familiar warmth pooled around my ass and legs. Only when he said, "You pissed in your pants?" did I realize that I was sitting in a puddle of my urine. "Close your eyes," he whispered close to my ear. The edge touched my happy trial. There was a pulling at my jersey. "Open your eyes, princess." My jersey was cut in half.
"You're a real shit," I growled, shoving his chest. He shrugged getting the gun again. He parted the cloth with the tip. "Ready?" he laughed and pushed the tip of the barrel hard into my crotch. I dared not say a word. I closed my eyes on his manically-distorted face, not wanting to look at that smile any longer and his empty blue doll-eyes. The hammer went click when he pulled it back. "What if this happens to be the bullet?" he taunted, pushing the gun deeper down into my now sore crotch, "What if I happen to blow that cock you're so proud of away? You know that's all you are, right? A free fuck. You're only as good as your cock and with it gone, do you know what you are?" My head snapped to the side under the impact of his hand. I was starting to hate this game even more. "Answer me," he commanded in a pleasant voice.
This was some weird Jerry Springer fuckery. "Nothing," I guessed and he affirmed it, "That's right, nothing." The hammer hit an empty chamber. "You've still got your balls. My turn." I wished that he'd blow his balls into next week Tuesday. This son of a bitch was asking for it at any rate so why not temp fate a bit. Shit…He grinned at me oddly, jamming the gun into my chest. It was quite a strange sight to see someone looking with such unparalleled disappointed frustration at a situation where they hadn't blown their hammer down to hell. The metal was gentler against my breastbone but not that comfortable either. You know all that shit people preach about in movies where they say their life flashes before their eyes as they're about die? It was the biggest load of bullshit ever dumped, straight from the animal's asshole. I couldn't see jack-shit, not even the fucking maniac sitting in my lap, but feel? Damn…I felt everything – and possibly more. My body felt like it was being compressed under the weight of this state of affairs, not painfully, but compressed all the same and – I had to give it a shot – I wished that I would just be compressed into nonexistence. I felt – or rather, re-felt – every emotion that I could've remembered throughout the duration of my miserable sixteen years; every laugh, every scream, the pleasure of shooting up and unconsciously realizing that heroin had to be, by far, my favourite druggie's vice. I felt the relief each time I got sexual release, the aggravation of it being built up. Everything; it was nothing short of everything. The click didn't really startle me or disturb me 'cause I felt right, that I was ready, that maybe, you know, some things have to happen and this just had to happen for me, for Jasper, because he probably needed whatever was going to come of this. I did feel, however, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when the hammer struck an empty barrel. It had nothing on his, but the disappointment was evident. I might've been a simple-minded boy who followed rather than leaded but I was smart enough to know that when things got dragged out, it stuck with you longer and it hurt twice as bad.
"You just won't die, will you?" he let out a long, hard laugh that annoyed me rather than chilled me this time but I fought off the urge to thrash him within an inch of his life. Maybe this would all go away and he'd be back to normal in a while, or maybe this was just some cruel joke he'd planned for me and the bullet ended up being a blank. I didn't understand Jasper before this and I didn't understand him like this but whatever was going on, I still harboured a small hope that he would be the same ol' Jazz Whitlock in the morning. "Maybe I will!" That boy gleamed with glee at the idea, greedily licking his lips as he cocked the gun and fired it all in the same speed. Nothing.
"A little eager there, aren't we Jasper?" I laughed dryly at his face, all screwed up with fury. His hand shot out and his fingers closed around my neck, pressing down against my trachea. I spluttered like a fucking fish and the douche laughed at me. "Hey, look, you're turning purple." Purple wasn't too bad a colour but I was dead sure it would look better on him. "Now, now, now, Edward, we need to see how this game finishes." He released me, forcefully, making sure to slam my goddam head into the hard-as-fuck head rest. I smelt the copper of blood. Jasper cocked his head to the side curiously, inhaling deeply. "May I?" Like he'd wait for permission. With small tremors twitching his fingers he reached around my head to smear some of my blood on his skin. Cocking the gun, he sniffed his fingers, eyes rolling up into his head like he was cumming. "From psycho to vampire all in a couple of minutes? Wow, Jazz, I'm pretty blown away," I goaded softly, "Hey there, bipolar girl, take a ride on the Milky Way. Hey there, bipolar girl, take a ride on the Milky Way with me. On the Milky Way with me."He bobbed in head in time with my voice, humming the melody we cooked up one sober evening. "They call you crazy bitch, you call me insecure, but one day soon, we'll walk out that door- to the trumpet of our failure, to the drumming of our hearts, to a beat psychotic and things being torn apart." I shut my mouth there, watching warily as he snapped out of it.
"Ok, so maybe you have a voice on you, Edward," Jasper admitted with a queer scowl, "but onto the next round, shall we?" The hammer clicked softer this time, probably because I was focusing on the song in my head. "Hey there, bipolar girl, take a ride on the Milky Way. Hey there, bipolar girl take a ride on the Milky Way with me. On the Milky Way with me. You might be sad and lonely, I'm lame and false, but one day soon, we'll find our paths cross – to the scream of past, the pulsing of our souls, to a beat so sadistic and things growing old. Hey there, bipolar girl, take a ride on the Milky Way. Hey there, bipolar girl, fake love on the Milky Way with me. On the Milky Way with me. Fake love.""That's five empty chambers."
"Five empty chambers," I repeated dimly, nodding in agreement, "Who knows, Jasper, maybe this is your lucky bullet." He tired, honestly, he tried not to look like a snotty, little brat at Christmas, hoping for the biggest gift under the tree. He didn't move a quickly this time, cautiously turning the gun on himself and nestling it between his wanna-be-pecs. The gun clicked once then clicked again on an empty bullet. Fuck. Seven chambers, six empty. This was it. The last chamber; the loaded chamber. Well, I cried, I started crying like a kid, sniffling as tears stung my eyes – the sobs made their point to stick in my throat and I couldn't breathe, dry heaving, I cried harder for everything I had cried for, for things I hadn't, for almost forgotten unforgettable memories, for my past, my present and for Jasper. It was just one of those cries that purged you and I was sure I'd be as fine as a fiddler's fuck the next day but I didn't know that for a fact – nope, I didn't know that I'd wake up looking like ass the next day with the ugliest fucking bruises on my body and mangled fingers. I couldn't see shit through the waterworks and even Jasper's voice seemed far away. If I had been able to see him, however, I would've seen his insecurity and discomfort with the situation at hand. I would've seen him staring at the gun, probably trying to figure out who deserved the bullet; playing God.
"Edward, I know you're scared." He sounded tired and much more…sane. "You won't feel a thing really, you won't have time to register the pain but I want you to look at me. You have to wipe your eyes, stop crying and look at me." His fingers brushed away my tears almost roughly and awkwardly, slapping my cheek for good measure to make sure he had my attention. "Have you ever thought about how you'd go? 'Cause I haven't and I dunno if this." He waved the revolver around. "is befitting for anyone. I feel like Hitler, lining 'em up just to be shot down into some big trench. Do you think you'll fall into a trench or do you think you'll fly off through them pearly gates? You wanna know why falling in that trench is so much better than flying up there?" His eyes flickered up to my ceiling. Jasper sounded dead sober and his solemnity was, perhaps, slightly more appropriate for the situation but it rang with finality – the kind that shook your hand and pushed you through the doorway you were standing in. "When you fall in a trench and you're at the bottom, it's not like you can go any further, you're there already, right?" I nodded limply, feeling faintish. "It's the bottom. The end. Nothing goes lower than that but up there." I was pretty damn sure my dad was up there, what was so wrong about going up to him. We'd play ball and go running like we used to before he died. I was naïve and surely didn't know better. "Up there is where all the trouble begins. You fall and you fall hard. The likes of you and me weren't made for anything but trenches, Masen. When you fall from there, it's a long way down – a long painful way down. You willing to risk that?"
"I'd risk it for my dad."
"No, no, no, Edward Masen, not at all." He cocked the gun and leaned back so that he could stretch his arm all the way out, my head tipped back with the barrel angled down to rest flat and frigid on my heated forehead. "You see, I am Hitler and you're the Jew and it's the trenches for you." He cocked the gun bit by bit then grinned in an indolent manner and it was a sad thing to watch his eyes remain blank. "But you know what's the nice thing about being Hitler?" The gun felt slack and my nerves, pulled tight, frayed a bit more. "This."
He turned the gun on himself, pushed it up to his forehead and blew his brains out. He literally ejected out of my lap, sprawling back onto the floor and soaking the carpet through and through with blood and grey matter. It was everywhere, on the walls, on the floor, on the furniture, on me; the stench of death started to set in, making the blood look even creepier than it initially did. I looked everywhere except at the body of…except the body on the floor, the legs still propped up near mine. My eyes became painfully dry and the burned kind of like they did after a joint. I sat for a few minutes, staring dead ahead, letting the blood dry on everything, before I started shaking. It started at my fingers, then spread to all of me. I was fucking vibrating. The taste of cold metal and blood was heavy at the back of my throat – I had to get out of here. I unceremoniously kicked – yes, I kicked my best friend's stiff – Jasper's legs away and pelted out of the piece-of-shit I lived in, kicking the door halfway off of its rusted hinges. The night was deep, leaden and black – for lack of anything better. It was quiet, like it was waiting for something to scream. After all of that shit, it wasn't just a dream and it was definitely one of the most real things in my life. I hadn't pulled the trigger but I had still killed him. I had done something that lead to this point. Accepting your death was a completely different kettle of fish next to accepting that you killed your best friend – you know, the dude who beat the shit out of people for calling you poor even when you really are, who gets trashed with you and makes sure you're home first before going off, who tells you everything about the girl they just banged and invites you to a threesome. You know, the dude who gives up his filthy rich lifestyles and all the money in the world, who dresses like a hobo and smells purposely like one, even though he's got a nice warm bath home, to make you feel like you belong somewhere. That guy; I killed him.
"What the fuck am I suppose to do now?"
I knew what I was going to do. I was going to go back into the tomb-on-wheels and clean it up. The bleach was under the sink and the bottle was yet to be used and opened – all of our cleaning things had taken residence under our sink, forsaken because my mother had always been too busy getting off to even bother to use them but I sat back down on the couch first, taking a good look at my partner-in-crime. Jasper had that look on his face that I could link with either brooding or day dreaming, depending on whether his mouth had these small quirks at the corners – up or down. For the first time, his mouth was just a thin straight line – flat-lined – and his eyes weren't even blue but, instead, black, even the whites. He had speckles of blood dotting his forehead and cheeks, even reaching as far as his neck and chest. His blond ras was absorbing the blood and staining itself a foggy orange.
"I sure as Hell hope this was what you wanted."
AN: Ok, here's a new story for you. I hope this one gets a better response than the rest. I'd like you all to know that OH STAR, NO OTHER LOVE COMPARES TO MINE is on a hiatus. Until when, I'm not sure. I'll try to update my other stories as soon as possible. This was something I started nearer to the beginning of this month. Leave me some love.