can’t control the feelings that seemingly overwhelm me. My past threatens to destroy me. Jay. JT. Chris.
Closing my eyes, I try not to think about any of them. They haunt me, awake or asleep. How do you run from a ghost? You don’t. They never leave unless I’m high. They can’t touch me when I’m nodding on smack. That’s the only safe place where nothing seems to reach me, but that’s not going to happen right now. Unless, of course, I want out. Forever. I’m not sure I’m ready for that next step. Yet.
Yawning, I try not to think about any of that. Only sleep. I slow my breathing and start to count backwards from one hundred. Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven. Ninety-six.
“What else can you do to possibly fuck your life up even more than it already is?” A familiar voice speaks to me.
I look around to notice that I’m sitting in mine and Chris’s old apartment that we shared in Los Angeles. I’ve known him since we were kids. He was several years older than me and the person that got me interested in music when I was fourteen. He’s also the person that supplied whatever drug I was into at the time. Chris was a guitar player for the Mavericks, and though he wasn’t the best, he got the job done.
Now, I turn to see him sitting on the couch beside me. Dead. I never dream of him alive anymore. Usually, he’s carrying on a conversation with me while the bullet wound to his forehead pulsates, blood bubbling out. When something he says or I say makes him laugh, it pumps out faster. Ruby thickness.
“Not another fucking dream,” I mutter to myself.
“You lucky, bastard. You still can score drugs and chicks. This is all I get,” he says, nudging my arm with his.
I close my eyes tight and will myself to wake up. For fuck’s sake, wake the fuck up.
“Chicks don’t dig the hole, man,” he says, laughing at his own joke.
I open my eyes in time for droplets of blood to splatter across my face from his gruesome wound. I lean my chin down to wipe it against my shirt, staining it with smears of crimson.
“Rhye, you’ve got to liven up. Life is way too short. Let me get you a beer,” he says standing, blood pouring in rivets down his face.
I finally notice the music blaring in the background. Trent Reznor, lead singer of Nine Inch Nails, sings “Came Back Haunted.” The bass reverberates through the room, seeming to bounce the pictures hanging on the walls until I realize that humanlike forms are actually dancing within them. The pictures move from their exaggerated gyrations. Faceless heads and arms stretch through the sheetrock, swaying to the movement.
Fear settles over me, freezing me in place. Chris comes back into the room, a beer in each hand and dancing along with the music. Streams of beer suds fly from the cans, landing all over the room as he sings. My mind threatens to break at the scene unfolding in front of me. Finally, the music comes to a dramatic end with a thrashing crescendo. He falls backwards onto the couch, beside me once again.
I look around, thankful to see that the fuckers in the walls have disappeared. He hands me a can that should be empty but feels full. I start to take a swallow when, at the last second, a big ass roach bug crawls out of it and almost into my mouth.
“What the fuck?” I yell, throwing the can down and watching hundreds of large, brown insects sprinkle out, crawling, and covering the floor.
“You used to be cool man. What happened?” Chris asks, sitting back and crossing his legs like nothing is wrong.
“I didn’t used to dream of my best friend with a fucking bullet wound to his forehead or people getting their groove on in the walls,” I say, leaning forward to place my elbows on my knees and cradling my head between my hands.
“Why do you dream about me, Rhye? Why do you obsess over something I did? Something you can’t change?” he asks quietly beside me. “Why?”
Not lifting my head, I answer, “You know why. If I
Closing my eyes, I try not to think about any of them. They haunt me, awake or asleep. How do you run from a ghost? You don’t. They never leave unless I’m high. They can’t touch me when I’m nodding on smack. That’s the only safe place where nothing seems to reach me, but that’s not going to happen right now. Unless, of course, I want out. Forever. I’m not sure I’m ready for that next step. Yet.
Yawning, I try not to think about any of that. Only sleep. I slow my breathing and start to count backwards from one hundred. Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven. Ninety-six.
“What else can you do to possibly fuck your life up even more than it already is?” A familiar voice speaks to me.
I look around to notice that I’m sitting in mine and Chris’s old apartment that we shared in Los Angeles. I’ve known him since we were kids. He was several years older than me and the person that got me interested in music when I was fourteen. He’s also the person that supplied whatever drug I was into at the time. Chris was a guitar player for the Mavericks, and though he wasn’t the best, he got the job done.
Now, I turn to see him sitting on the couch beside me. Dead. I never dream of him alive anymore. Usually, he’s carrying on a conversation with me while the bullet wound to his forehead pulsates, blood bubbling out. When something he says or I say makes him laugh, it pumps out faster. Ruby thickness.
“Not another fucking dream,” I mutter to myself.
“You lucky, bastard. You still can score drugs and chicks. This is all I get,” he says, nudging my arm with his.
I close my eyes tight and will myself to wake up. For fuck’s sake, wake the fuck up.
“Chicks don’t dig the hole, man,” he says, laughing at his own joke.
I open my eyes in time for droplets of blood to splatter across my face from his gruesome wound. I lean my chin down to wipe it against my shirt, staining it with smears of crimson.
“Rhye, you’ve got to liven up. Life is way too short. Let me get you a beer,” he says standing, blood pouring in rivets down his face.
I finally notice the music blaring in the background. Trent Reznor, lead singer of Nine Inch Nails, sings “Came Back Haunted.” The bass reverberates through the room, seeming to bounce the pictures hanging on the walls until I realize that humanlike forms are actually dancing within them. The pictures move from their exaggerated gyrations. Faceless heads and arms stretch through the sheetrock, swaying to the movement.
Fear settles over me, freezing me in place. Chris comes back into the room, a beer in each hand and dancing along with the music. Streams of beer suds fly from the cans, landing all over the room as he sings. My mind threatens to break at the scene unfolding in front of me. Finally, the music comes to a dramatic end with a thrashing crescendo. He falls backwards onto the couch, beside me once again.
I look around, thankful to see that the fuckers in the walls have disappeared. He hands me a can that should be empty but feels full. I start to take a swallow when, at the last second, a big ass roach bug crawls out of it and almost into my mouth.
“What the fuck?” I yell, throwing the can down and watching hundreds of large, brown insects sprinkle out, crawling, and covering the floor.
“You used to be cool man. What happened?” Chris asks, sitting back and crossing his legs like nothing is wrong.
“I didn’t used to dream of my best friend with a fucking bullet wound to his forehead or people getting their groove on in the walls,” I say, leaning forward to place my elbows on my knees and cradling my head between my hands.
“Why do you dream about me, Rhye? Why do you obsess over something I did? Something you can’t change?” he asks quietly beside me. “Why?”
Not lifting my head, I answer, “You know why. If I
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