I'm not dreaming of you

I've dug myself into a hole. There's no way out. I'm trapped. Not in limbo, in life. I'm sad. So terribly sad. Seventeen, horny, and totally alone in a crowded room.

They are standing around us and looking at Mr. Pink. Guy blinks at me. I kick at the floor. The circle is complete.

"What's up?" Guy asks, semi-confused, semi-wasted. His face is puffy and he looks like an owl. A sensitive, sallow, drugged-out owl. Very sagacious; kind of toxic. That's not new. I just couldn't tell before. I was too concerned with me and him, but not us. This is the guy that's suppose to have my back.

Avermen shrugs nervously. Goldberg and Russ sort of stare. I'm impatient. I want something to happen. Here. Now.

To someone else.

The door swings open, but before I can see who –or what- my savior is the lights go out. Even in the darkness I can't slink away gracefully. I mentally call myself a coward, but I also mentally slap that side of me that's doing the name calling.

If I were bigger, I'd be a bully. The kind that beat kids up for lunch money or for looking at their 'girl' funny. Problem is, I'm not big and I don't have the charisma that should make up for it. You'll never see directing a posse. I'd be the one hanging on to the coattails of their success. Aye de mi. Spanish is infectious. Note to self: stop skulking around with Luis.

"Quack, quack, quack..." It has to be Charlie. He's deluded enough.

"What's going on?"

"Get off my foot, Adam!" That's Julie. Disgusted, confronting, ready to strike. Stay away from her when she's angry. I once saw her snap a rabid clown's neck with her bare hands. It was a clown puppet, but that's still kind of scary when you think about it.

"It's not me." Passively, politely, and Adam. "I'm over here."

"Someone turn the lights back on!"

Somewhere from deep inside a labyrinth of gray matter, a synapse fires, a chemical lets loose, an axon hits the pedal and a thought strikes. Get the fuck out of there. I am a highly skilled individual. I should be able to figure this out.

"It was Professor Plum, in the observatory, with the lead pipe!"

"You have all just witnessed a Happening-"

"Shut up, Avermen. Quit watching those stupid British shows."

Someone grabs at my arm. I feel their rough hands around my forearm and try to decide. Friend or foe? Either way the only option I have is to consent and give up.

Luis has more tacit than this. He's fast, but he's not that fast. "Come on, hurry up," the mysterious enigma hissed into my ear. I hang on to every word, picking at the phrasing and articulation like an old scab.

My body goes limp. I am easily dragged across the dark room without making a sound. Same old, same old. It's not like I've ever cared before.

"Where are you taking me?" I breathe.

No answer. I retaliate. I stop.

But it doesn't matter because he's stopped too. The showers, I guess. It's secluded enough. There's a small changing room connecting it to the locker area, and I had heard both of the doors being locked as we passed by. It smells funny. Funnier than usual I mean. Some substance that I just can't place.

"Luis?" I say, but not loud enough for anyone to hear and take offence at. I am guessing blindly because I am very much so. I squint at the darkness, like it will help. Reveal your true form.

"Ar-ar-are you my friend, Ken? Can I trust you? Can you trust me?"

Spill your guts, "Sure." Still no clue.

"I've been thinking…"

"Uh-oh. Those are some dangerous words." I don't even give myself a tiny, nervous giggle. Pathetic.

"I made up my mind. I'm going to do it."

I stare at the direction I think his voice is coming from. "Do what?" I ask, but I think I already know.

"You know what."

I have an AP European History Test I need to be studying for. Better make this fast. "Let's say that I forgot. Could you maybe please remind me?" I beg, even adding in a please.

"No."

His voice is tiny, like it's coming from far, far away. Someplace secluded and green and not our hell-in-paradise, Eden. The echoes nearly swallow me whole.

"Don't," I say, sounding just a little panicky. I need to get out but the door has disappeared. My hands fumble at the wall. Tile, tile, tile. No wood. No door.

"I have to."

Look, there's only about a hundred and forty days left until school is over. You can do whatever you want with your life then. We'll graduate. You never have to come back here again if you don't want to. You never have to see the team again. Don't fuck with my life. Don't ruin everything. Walk away from this and get into counseling, for Christ's sake. Everybody in hockey is psychotic, what makes you think you're so damn special? You're not the only one with problems. Quit moaning and bitching and make something out of yourself, I think.

I don't actually say that. It would be very, very out of character. Stepping up, taking a stand. I chew on the side of my mouth and spit out the most asinine thing I can think of:

"Did you turn the lights off, Guy?"

"Who me? No. I think it was Portman."

That would explain why the door had crashed open with such force.

Why am I the one who always gets stuck in dark rooms with loonies? I blame myself. And Wal-Mart. You always have to drag down a big cooperation with you when you're going to crash and burn. And I didn't even know how bad it was going to be this time.

"Don't do it," I say again. I lace my voice with confidence and a million apologies for anything that's ever gone wrong.

There is a metallic clicking noise. A small, orange flame bursts into existence near where I thought Guy was. I back away until I am pressed up against the moldy, mildewed tiles.

Yeah, that's it. I've finally placed that odor. That pungent, chemical odor I thought was out of place, but only because it was. Gasoline.

Guy holds the lighter up to his face. My eyes follow the tiny flame. A cigarette lighter and Irony cross my mind. I was going to give up smoking today. Tomorrow. Soon. Maybe. Damn it, Guy. And what exactly inspired this impromptu cry for help?

"Why?" I must know. It's killing me. Slowly, gently, sensibly.

"You know why."

He just assumes that we're on familiar terms. To quote a very obscure -but not in the way you're thinking- movie, "Nobody really knows anybody".

And I am really too late. He's really going to do it. But what he really doesn't understand is that I really don't care why he is. I just want to know why he felt he needed to drag me into his downward spiral when I don't even know him.

Guy gets it. The stoner, he understands. He mumbles an apology. Not my fault. I just sort of stumbled into his plans. But it's a good thing. Tell Connie he's sorry. Tell Charlie he can have his stereo.

I feel so drained, but I'm actually all right. I listen to him. I hear. All right, all right, all right, all right.

There. No. Not there. There. Door handle. I palm it, fumbling with the lock.

He's really going to do it. Drop the lighter. The gasoline.

What I'm doing, in sex, they call it Coitus Interruptus: pulling out before ejaculation. Nobody's ejaculating, but something is definitely exploding. The lock clicks open.

"I'm sorry," Guy apologizes again. I can just barely see his eyes, shinning in the darkness. Kind of empty, kind of sad. Kind of… desperate, with nothing to live for. Anyway, it doesn't make sense, I'm thinking.

I get out just in time.