Notes: So… short… urg…
The title 'Heroin Is So Passé' comes from the Dandy Warhols song of the same name
Heroin Is So Passé
I heard him before I saw him, light footsteps zipping up the drive, through the door, and up the stairs. It was Saturday, not a school day, and I had no idea where he'd gone. He'd left before I'd woken up that morning, the way he usually did on weekends. It never used to concern me; he'd usually return with groceries and a newspaper. But now I was suspicious. Where exactly did he go?
What places did he have to go to?
I only had a split second to prepare myself before he reached the landing and threw open the door to his room. The wood of the door cracked and split; I winced with the noise.
He stopped, surprised by my presence in his room and on his bed. Dropping the plastic bag he'd been clutching, he slumped against the doorframe. "What do you want, Lance?" His voice was weary and it seemed to drag on every vowel.
For a moment, I was struck dumb. Where to start, where to start? I glanced momentarily at the bag lying at his feet; its contents had spilled slightly and I could see they were toiletries like shampoo and toothpaste. Ordinary things. But there was also a bulge at his hip pocket that could have been something else.
Silently, I held up the bag of hypodermic needles I'd been clutching on my lap for the past hour. He didn't flinch.
"So?" He glared at me, ice-blue eyes intimidating.
"Why do you have them?" My throat was dry. I didn't want to have to confront him about something like this.
"Why is it your business?" He countered sharply, bending to pick up the items he'd dropped. "I don't remember inviting you into my room to go through my stuff."
"I was looking for that cd you borrowed last month," I mumbled guiltily as he breezed by me and dumped his stuff on the already crowded dresser. From the corner of my eye, I could see him stop momentarily to preen in the wall mirror, expression slightly distressed at the way his facial features had decayed. He touched the dark circles beneath his eyes, long delicate fingers following the purple curves to his temples and then running them through his limp hair.
"And you couldn't wait until I came home?" His voice had a razor-sharp edge to it, the sarcasm seeming to hide a deeper pain.
"I didn't think it would be a problem."
"Well," he faltered for a moment and then strode to where I was sitting, "Give them back, then."
I stared for a moment at his outstretched hand before making a decision. "I don't think I want to."
"What?" He narrowed his eyes in disbelief, unable to comprehend that someone was actually saying 'no' to him. "What did you say?"
I stood. "I said 'you can't have them.'"
He put his hands on his hips and did his best to look threatening. "Why not? What gives you that power?"
"I'm older than you, I'm stronger than you, I could beat your scrawny ass to a pulp that no one would recognize," I stuffed the bag into my pocket and let my right hand extend to make a loose fist around his neck. He tilted his head defiantly, but I could feel his Adam's apple brush against the palm of my hand as he swallowed his nervousness, "But most of all… I care about you…"
He snorted, tossing his head slightly. I ignored him and continued. "I care about you, and I don't want to see you get hurt."
"And if you'd stay out of my business, you'dseethatI'mnotgettinghurtatall!" His speech sped up and I barely caught the last half of his sentence. Taking advantage of my confusion, he slipped from my grasp and, before I could even see what was happening, I felt his hand in my pocket taking back the needles. He ran around me in a flash of blue and white, coming to rest directly in front of my face. He was smirking with disgusting self-assurance; it looked like a skeleton's grin.
"Not at all," he repeated, dangling the bag in front of my nose. With a snarl of frustration, I grabbed for him… dumb move. He was so fast; it just made me look foolish and weak. With a haughty laugh and a smile, he turned away from me and began to saunter out the door.
I grabbed him from behind, clutching at his elbows and holding him as tightly as I dared. "I'm not stupid," I growled in his ear, punctuating the last word with a shake, "I'm not."
"I never said you were," his voice dripped with condescension, "Now would you get off of me and leavemethefuckalone!"
"I lived on the streets, too," I whispered. "I know drugs…"
"I hate you!"
"I don't want to see you get hurt…"
"Stop it! Let me go! Stop talking!"
"I care about you, you stupid fuck, I care about you…"
"Oh, you only care because I gave you free head!"
His words shocked me, hurt me, and I let him go. Breathless, I watched as he turned to face me and sneered.
I think anger is like a cup of water. We have a tendency to put it all in an enclosed space inside of us, let it build in small increments. And it only takes one little thing, one little nudge, to tip the anger and let it spill over everything and everyone around us.
"You see?" He smiled, but it wasn't a real smile. It was the kind of smile you put on when you don't want anyone to know that you're ready to cry. "You see? Wasn't that all you wanted out of me?"
That simple question struck something inside of me, and suddenly all I could see was red. Red, everything was red, and I could hear my pulse. The blood thudded like a bull's hooves in my ears, like a fucking stampede it sounded so loud. Before I knew what I was doing, before Pietro knew, I was swinging my arm, fist half-cupped. It connected with his chin, and I could feel the bone and flesh beneath mine yield and soften. It was disgusting. His head snapped to the side and he fell at my feet, moaning and clutching his jaw.
I closed my eyes and concentrated on trying to stay upright. The anger was slowly evaporating and I was left with the unsettling feelings of exhaustion and relief. The emotion was physically draining; all of my muscles hurt, my head ached, and I felt nauseated.
Carefully, I knelt beside Pietro and tried to coax him to move his hands so I could see the extent of the damage. When I tried to touch him, he pushed my hand angrily away. "Don't touch me, fuckin' abuser."
"I'm sorry," I said helplessly.
"Yeah, I'll bet you are," he laughed bitterly as he stood and gingerly touched his fingertips to his bottom lip. They came away bloody. "You damaged your little whore."
"You're not a whore."
He stared down at me, eyes full of contempt and hatred. "You wanna bet?"