Something else that needs out of my system. It may or may not be more than a one shot. Companion to Mein Schutzengle Il Mio Protetorre, but YOU DO NOT HAVE TO KNOW THE PLOT. It's almost totally unrelated back story. In fact, if you read this and then that, it would make more sense.
Ditz is a character I made up a long time ago. His name is actually Christophe. He's a drug dealer dumb enough to sample his own goods. Like Matt, his choice is heroin.
This contains drug abuse, bad language, mental instability and depression. This might make it a little difficult to read (like, incomprehensible-difficult, not particularly heavy). FRANADAAAA~!
Just close all the windows, kids, and remember that you can't fly.
He scratched absently at the back of his neck, a sorry smile drawing at the corners of his wide mouth.
I'm sorry. The words beat a franticly complacent tattoo in this fever dream. He isn't sorry. He can tell.
I need to give this my all. This is something that I want.
But hasn't he been told a thousand times before, and a million after that? There's nothing he wants more than me. Was that a lie? Didn't he want him anymore?
It's not that I don't want to be with you, but this comes first. You're too distracting.
How can he be a distraction when no one ever sees him? The invisible man. The invisible Matthew. No one notices him, quietly high. Quietly. Quietly.
Not even Alfred, who has told him he loves him, again and again and again and and and and. The fever dream is ending and Matthew can feel the twitch of his limbs again. They're thin, so thin. Sticky-insecty thin. He wants more of that sweet stinging dream, so much more. Wants the sting of that antiseptic anaesthetic, because he can't fade if it hurts.
He doesn't have any money, but he chooses his clothes carefully. Ditz might take another form of payment. He's done before. But he was high that time, and he doesn't know what else he can do.
Short shorts, a little ripped and ragged around the edges. A loose shirt, thin cotton, low neckline. Hair is a little messy, and he looks like a girl. If he's high enough, that should be alright. It's only been a few minutes since he came down and already he can feel the twitches, the itches the sweats. Nausea rises and explodes behind his eyeballs. But there is nothing. Empty nothing. Only the retches that start that hack-hack-hack-hack cough; chipping axe-like into his airways.
Jitter-jitter, Tap-tap-tap. Nod-nod. Blink-blink, cough, cough.
Who's that coughing?
What? I didn't hear anything?
Who's that? Sorry. I didn't recognise you. Your face is gone. Ha, ha, ha, ha, hack, hack, hack, hack, hack.
Funny little jokes he tells himself. With a smile and a cough he sets off. Ditz's isn't far. Not that Ditz is his real name. Something with an E. Silent E. On the end. Something French. Fritty name. Pretty name. French name, Fritz? Ditz. Chris. Ditzy Fairy Chris. Ditzy Chris Fairy. Chris fey. Christophe.
That wasn't so hard.
He remembers when he could remember. That was nice, to not have silly rhyming ways to remember. But he also remembers remembering the pain, oh that hurt.
Said he loved me. Would never leave me.
Silly me, for ever believing.
Course he would forget. He'd forget his own head if he wasn't shoving a burger down his throat.
Try this, Alfred. It had been a trick, he knew. Carlos was trying to get Alfred hooked. But he was so pathetically grateful for the attention – why was it that people always assumed they were one and the same? – That he took the needle. Thank you Carlos. Dumb Cubana. Can't you even tell the difference between your friend and the dude you hate. Some friend. Stuck it in his arm, sweet and sharp. It hurt but the high was places he could go that he couldn't.
Dumb fuck. It was more than good. It was bliss. Euphoria. It was a place where he was never rejected, always noticed. Didn't need to be noticed. It curled warm and safe inside his chest and stuck catty claws into his lungs when it needed to be fed. Or else the warm happy would go away. All he wanted was the war and happy. When he didn't need to be noticed.
And there was no Alfred. That hurt, but that was good. Pain was grounding. And Matthew needed a little pain with his high. Sometimes the needle would go in to hard. That would bruise, and hurt and the little violet on his skin out bloom a little while. Shy violets. Shy Matthew. Matthieu. He spoke French too. Christo-ditz didn't. No one in this stupid country did. What wasn't back home? Scholarship kid. New-place varsity. Lost the scholarship. High in class. Acting weird. Failing school. Kicked out. Crashed with Carlos. Forgot who he was. Who am I? Je suis qui je suis. That's who I am. Am am am am am am.
Matthew is who I am. Mattie knock-knock-knocking on Ditz's door.
"Ditz, you there?" Some parts must be rational. Thinking. They make his voice a little high, a little girly. It's hard, but he can. Can. I can do the can can. Hello?
Me! I'm here! I am who I am.
Oh, it's . . . you. He doesn't recognise, but he remembers. Slim little hips, soft blond hair. Big blue eyes. Remembering is almost as good as knowing.
Now is a bad time.
Why is it a bad time, Ditzy, don't you want a little company? There are bags in his hands. Big bags.
Where are you going, Ditzy? Don't leave. I'll fade.
I'm going Marty. Away.
Mattie. Away where?
Away far from here. I need to go. Look, I just shot up. There's some in the kitchen. No. Let's go together. It'll be more fun. Mattie pulls out his own needle. Some neat-freakish behaviour means that he always has one. No diseases for him.
Together they draw the bile brown from the hot metal. Clink needles together with shaking hands.
It's a hard hit, but that's good. Hard is good. Hard is raw and hot and no emotions. Just being. Just darkness. Ditz is leaving. What's his name again. Chris Ditz. Why are you going?
But it's not hard enough. Only a little, and blackness creeps fingers across his eyes blocking everything out he would move but he can't. The twitches. The itches the sweats are back. He calls, but only a bubble of cough pops in his throat.
I'm Matthew into the silence.
Wakes up, Ditz is gone. The fever is hungry in his skin, feeding, growing. It burns. It's hotter and rawer than the hit; it hurts more, too much. Strung out like a wire. Pockmarked plague buboes on his arm, on his chest. Little white itches. Itches itches itches twitches. Needle still there. Pulls it out. Grabs, misses. Now where are his remembering kisses? Do you remember, Mattie, remember, remember? Yes you do? Clever, Mattie, kisses for you.
Door breaks down. Fever sweating. Eyes wide. Sweating. Switching. The feeling of eyes pulsating in his head. My head. Pulses, undulating eyeballs pop and burn. Make it stop. Arm is hanging, needle still in. Syringe hanging , wagging like a puppy's tale. Strung out. Hung up. High on a wire. Hanging on the wire now. Like an arm. Like a needle. Strung out. Washing line. Tightrope. Clothespin high slips and falls. Sickening churning stomach. Someone retches, nothing comes out. Headache, blood rushing through my ears. Haven't eaten in too long. Not hungry. No. Want more. Make this stop too hot too high not high enough too scared no more.
Voices voices. Strangers voices reverberate beat his head. A whimper thing, emaciated as another limb slips between cracked lips. They bleed a little and the war wet makes all this worse and tears spill from the pit of his belly, thin wailing whimpers. I don't want to do this, make it stop, please, just kill me.
Make it stop. Please, please please. Make it stop. Make the hurt stop. Please kill me. Please. Little beggar words pray from the blood beaded cracks in my lips.
Click click click clack heels. Shiny man shoes. Who are they, man and woman hot and burn? Under my skin, it hurts. Who are they?
What's your name?
Not who are you, what is your name. He wants to know.
Me and my M we go mmmm mmmm mmmm that little sesame street bitch sang. Me and my twitchy lips sang mmm mmm mmm.
Matthew, cher, can you stand?
Gentle fingers, not too hot on my arm. They pull out the wagging tail and I open my eyes. There's a man crouched down in front of my, blurry in the heat. Clear blue eyes. Not so deep sky blue as the eyes he wanted to forget. Brandelis blue. French Blue. Cool blue eyes cool and hot. My eyes are dark, I know. Indigo. Not blue not purple and aaaah it buurns. I need it. Give it to me or kill me.
He's taken something bad, Francis. Christophe isn't here. Let's go.
No, strange lady. Don't leave me. I want to stay with the blue eyes who asked who I am. The blue eyes slips a hand under my arm and pulls me up. I'm shaking and convulsing. He's convulsing. Having a fit. Spasming. He's having spasms.
Leave him, Francis. What's a crack head to you?
I don't know.
Leave him Don't leave me. He wants to die. I don't want to die. It's not his fault. Yes it is my fault, blue eyes Francis. Strange lady in a green suit don't leave me.
It doesn't even make sense, but the word has blue eyes Francis lifting a quivering, sobbing boy onto his shoulders and carrying him from the door. The small logic is working and the mind is clear. Again logic works and clear words come out;
"Thank you, Francis," sigh-whisper words that whimper as they're spoken in my throat.
"You're welcome, Matthew."
The sigh words don't correct, but invite. They invite him to say Mattie instead of Matthew, not Mattie instead of Marty. The whisper word doesn't belong to him this time:
Erm. Right. That doesn't make much sense, but it's not supposed to. I think I'll carry on with this. You'll notice when Matthew starts thinking sense again, believe me.
I do not write from personal experience. This is pure fiction.
Please let me know what you think?