I ended up driving a few miles up the road to Credo's apartment—because I couldn't actually go home—trying to shake off the traumatizing realization that two close friends of mine have been fooling around like giggling school girls for god knows how long.
School girls.
School girl outfits.
Who knowswhat they've been up to.
Oh shit. Fuck.
You know how when you find out some crazy radical thing about a friend of yours—acquaintance, maybe—that revolves around their sex life and now every so often when you look at them, all you can think of is them performing said sexual act? Yeah, my brain tends to do that.
A lot.
The human brain is constantly going and going and going, compressing, repressing. .You start associating details with the people that surround you. Jane hates dogs. Jane loves the rain. Jane always smells like peaches. Jane cant stop running her mouth. It was around thirteen that I learned my brain can spit up what I like to call: brain stew.
The brain stew effect. Unwanted sexual thoughts about people that you're not attracted to.
They're not meant to get you off or turn you on. They're meant to drive you nuts.
So here I am at thirteen, Tuesday morning, my then close friend Frigore Daemon, or Frost as I called him, comes up to me and stage whispers erratically 'I heard Kyrie Aloa gave Virgil Sparda a blowjob behind seven-eleven!' And my first thought was, I didn't give a shit, girls had already become uninteresting to me at that point.
But then, I walk into third period and see her sitting at her desk, idly flipping her red hair while chatting it up with Trish Fulmen. And immediately my mind starts its associations—most of the time you aren't even aware it's happening—pulling up tiny personality details to go with the face in front of me. Kyrie Aloa loves drinking diet coke and secretly adds Splenda when she thinks nobody is looking. Kyrie Aloa has an irrational fear of dogs. Kyrie Aloa—
KYRIE ALOA GAVE VIRGIL SPARDA A BLOWJOB BEHIND SEVEN-ELEVEN.
I shook my head dazedly, blinking a few times to shake my stupor. Whoa.
Said ginger caught my gaze and waved. Her smile was kind but my brain kept screaming and imagining her giving Virgil—scary ass—Sparda a blowjob. From then on, I'd learned to compress and repress the brain stew effect, but sometimes bits and pieces still leaked into my thoughts, all consuming.
I knocked on Credo's door with frustration, trying to block out naughty thoughts of what Virgil and Dom could possibly be up to at this moment. I paused for a moment, listening for any noise from within, before resuming, banging twice as hard as before.
Eventually, I remembered the spare key under his mat (isn't it funny how forgetful the human brain can be, even to the point that you automatically doubt its abilities to remember where a simple key is) and let myself in.
The lights were off and no one was home—no surprise there—so I decided to plop down on the couch and make myself at home, feeling the lack of sleep suddenly drag me down. I curled myself up; facing towards the couch, shivering because, fuck, Credo kept this place like a meat locker, and slowly slipped my eyes shut.
I prayed my brain wouldn't dream dirty things about my friends when I wasn't conscious enough to tell it to shut the fuck up.
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Sorry for the late update