You guys are going to kill me… I had this done last Tuesday and had multiple opportunities to upload it but…I forgot! I'm one of those people that can forget anything that can be forgotten.
Anyway, all I have to say is that everyone should go out and find a picture of Adam Pascal's butt for me. Because then I would absolutely love you forever. Hint: Go see Cabaret and bring a videocamera… ::grin:: I'm evil. But I want to see Adam Pascal's butt!
Peace
-elodie
The Smiling Game
02: We Begin
An old friend of mine just had his whole left arm amputated.
I was out on the streets, about to pay the man a visit, the twenty dollar bills burning me through the thin fabric of my pants. I was sweating. I needed a fix so bad.
That's when I saw George. He was a projects kid like me. His parents either beat the shit out of him or ignored him, same as mine. He'd run about two years before I did, but we'd been close before he'd left.
I recognized his t-shirt first. It was black but had a red and orange and green dragon on the back. If I'd been closer, I would have been able to see the sparkles imbedded in the intricate design. He loved that shirt. He never had any money to go to the Laundromats but he wore it dirty or clean. It always smelled like sweat, but most of us neglected kids did any way.
"George?" I asked, approaching him. What if it wasn't him? It might not be. But I've only ever seen that shirt on one person before.
He turned around; eyes wide open in a startled, deer-caught-in-headlights type of way. It was George, but not the George I knew. He was taller, sure, but so much skinnier and his face looked gaunt and purpled. And then I saw the loose flap of his t-shirt sleeve hanging limply off his shoulder.
"April?"
I nodded, my eyes tearing up. "George, what happened to you?" My eyes darted from his empty stump back to his face.
George's face clouded over. "Got infected. Turned black. Docs sliced it off."
I winced. "Oh, George…"
"You a junkie too?"
My eyes lowered and I nodded. I was still ashamed a bit to admit it. But once I was high, everything went away. But now… Now, I just needed a fix.
George grabbed my shoulder with his remaining arm. "April, I need your help. I need it so bad. I'm going through withdrawal like you'd never believe but I can't shoot up and you're the only person I know around here. Listen, I got some junk at home and you're welcome to as much as you like, but I just need you to shoot me up."
I didn't answer at first. If this was some anonymous person, I would have immediately jumped on it. But this was George. But then again, free drugs… I was starting to shiver, despite the fact that it was nearly seventy degrees out. I nodded to George, "Sure. Let's go."
A couple of hours later, I found myself naked on his bare mattress on the floor of some awful apartment. It was even worse than Roger's loft. At least the had real furniture. All George had was a mattress, a toilet and an old lawn chair next to the window.
We'd started to come down off our high. We'd had some great sex. Despite only having one arm, George was one great fuck.
The shared needle lay discarded on the floor. George had always liked having people shoot him up, but now he has no choice. The doctors had tried to get him into rehab before, but George would have none of it. He was a worse slave than I was.
I slunk home in the early hours of the morning. I wondered if Roger had waited up. Probably not. He was probably out with the band or asleep or something.
I'd moved in with Roger about a month ago. My old roommate kicked me out after I fucked her boyfriend and Roger invited me to stay with him. He was too drugged up to really notice that I cheated on him.
Roger's roommates didn't like me much. Mark knew I cheated on Roger, and knew that I sometimes prostituted myself out. He didn't think I really cared about Roger, but I did. I do. I really do love Roger. I didn't at first, but he really grew on me. His little idiosyncrasies, you know? His quirks.
Tom Collins hates junkies. Thus he hates me. He's such a hypocrite. He has no qualms about sitting at home all day smoking some weed but hates me just because I have to shoot up to get high. Benny doesn't mind me, but he's the indifferent one. He isn't as home as much now that he has this new girlfriend. Her name is…Shit, I can never remember. It's like Buffy or Allie or something. I know, it's Muffy. Only thing I know about her is that she's loaded.
I get along with Mark's girlfriend, Maureen. She isn't a junkie but she's like me in the fact that she sleeps around a lot. I guess I can bond with her better than the other roommates because of the feminine bond most girls share, but we we're similar in personality too. We'd grown up in restricting areas, our parents were less than perfect, we'd both been devirginized by age fourteen.
As I opened the door to the loft, I heard a dry voice cut through the silence. "Out again, April?"
I gritted my teeth. Count on Mark to say something. "Yes, Mark."
"Out with Roger?"
"No."
"Know where Roger is?"
"No."
"You're high, April."
I glared at him. "So?"
"You're high and you're cheating on Roger."
I wanted to hit that little blond face or grab those horrible glasses and crush them under my shoe. "Roger doesn't care." I tried to push past him but Mark grabbed my arm and held me in place.
"Do you know that Roger doesn't cheat on you? He never cheats. I don't think he's ever cheated on any girlfriend in his life. Did you know that?"
Sobered, I shook my head 'no'.
"Do you know why he doesn't cheat?"
I shook my head again.
"Because when he was a kid, his dad would cheat on his mom so openly, it was disgusting. But she never left him because she loved him. You want to be like that? Roger will stay with you because he genuinely loves you. And I have a feeling that's very one-sided."
"Shut up!" I yelled at him, yanking my arm out of his grasp. "I love Roger. I do. You may not believe me, but I do."
Mark's fact twisted in disgust and he turned his back to retreat into his room. Before disappearing into the darkness he turned back to me and said, "You might want to start showing it."
Defeated, I sunk down on the couch and drew my knees to my chest. I felt like crying, but no tears came. Tears never came easily to me. I don't cry much.
Later that night, when Roger slunk in, his clothes and breath reeking of alcohol, I drew him into my arms and kissed him tenderly and whispered that I loved him. It killed me that he wouldn't remember. It was, after all, the first time I'd ever told him.
God, did I love that man…