Scene Sensory Distortion Snippets

one. Waking

He bruises pristine in the morning, just after the sun has barely risen and the red orange glow that spills through the window paints Jell-O on the black bedspread. Blotchy, blue tie-dye shadows itself to Billy's knobby hipbones, so unlike the smooth curves of Joe's.

Hungry. Joe awakens, flipping over on his side to stare at Billy's slack face and parted lips. They pull him closer, closer, enticing and inviting. He doesn't realize he's shifted until he feels Billy's lashes flutter against his cheeks. And by then it's too late.

"Sore." Billy mumbles, eyes still closed but awake.

"Serves you right for being so bitchy yesterday."

Billy opens one eye, the perfect, crystal blue of the orb shattering the early morning fog of Joe's brain. "Fuck you." Billy's standard reply.

Joe snorts, and rolls over so his back faces Billy, traces cracks in the old, peeling walls with his eyes.

"You wish."

Walls that remain silent forever, walls that never betray their love to the public.

When Billy scoots closer, molding his body to the curve of Joe's back, Joe releases his breath and closes his eyes. They can drift for a little while longer, enclosed by the silent walls and the silent air, thick with silent love.

Waking is only optional.


two. Sick

When Billy touches Joe's skin, it's clammy and cool. He feeds him some instant noodle broth and waits as Joe sweats it out. One, two, three hours until Joe's teeth finally stop chattering. By then his shirt is soaked through, but his eyes aren't so bloodshot and puffy anymore, and he's stopped bitching about the human body and its weak defenses against common cold germs.

He tells Billy he's going to puke. Billy pulls his mohawk back, preventing loose strands from stinging Joe's eyes, and Joe empties last night's beer and this morning's chunks into the white toilet bowl.

Billy wipes his face, puts him back to bed.

Joe curses, a low, agonizing and sick sound. It's the closest Billy will get to a thank you.

Later. Seven o' clock, when the crickets start chirping, Billy wakes up from his nap to Joe's retching. He finds him slumped over the toilet bowl, dry gagging and not pretty.

Billy tells him to go back to bed. Joe agrees silently, and wobbles when he stands.

"I'm gonna fucking die." Joe croaks. The sound pricks Billy's ears, makes him wince to think how it will sound come morning. When they have to perform.

"No you're not," Billy tucks him back in bed, smooths down his mowhawk, "Freak."

Joe wants to get the last word, but his brain is sloshing around in his head. Instead, he tries to sleep.

Billy curls up on the floor next to the bed, and pulls Joe's hand down to his.

In the middle of the night, Joe wakes up, drenched and sticky, and tries to crawl out to put a gun to his throbbing head.



He knows Billy has latched on - never could get away from the fucker - so Joe spends the night staring at the cracked ceiling, Billy's hand coupled with his, and thinks about things.