Ash Addicts 2

The Start

The apartment is too stuffy. I throw open a window. Still stuffy. I open another. October air whips through the place and knocks a few pieces of paper around. The magazine by the window flips its pages.

Sitting on the couch, I finally let go of the baggie. It takes a moment to fall out of my hand and onto my lap. My hand is sweaty. I wipe it on a couch arm next to me. A black sharpied name stares up at me.

“Hey man. Uh.” It’s the first words that he’s said since we left Zeke’s. “Look. Do you want...do you want to do her together?”

I look up at him. The smallest of smiles touches my mouth. It looks like a million pounds is taken off him.

“Yeah. I realize that sounds way worse than I meant.” He looks down at the bag, then back at me. He looks hungry. He flinches. I didn’t realize it, but my fists are clenched.

“You know what. I’ll...I’ll hit the bars tonight.” He makes his way out of the door tossing me a small wave. Closed. Locked.

The bag of human remains in my lap feels heavy. I gently take it and set it next to me. Standing, I strip off my hoodie and go into the kitchen. The sandwich I slap together is made with bread that may have gone bad, but just has that start of it. Hint of decay.

It feels like she is on the couch staring at me. I haven’t turned around since I made it to the kitchen. I get a beer out and finish it facing the sink.

Kira “Krystal” Higgins is sitting on my couch in a baggy. I fight the beer and sandwich back down, and turn.

I thought it would move. Or maybe she would be there. Those cool brown eyes focused on me. Her lips drawn up into a smile, black hair reaching just below her chin. ‘Didn’t make one for me?’ she’d say. I’d laugh and tell her about the bread and we’d go to a taco joint with shitty lightning and greasy food.

Fuck it was cold in here.

I slammed the windows closed then picked up the bag.

(Read more after the jump)

Ash Addicts 1

This is something I've been working on for a while and really enjoy writing. This is definitely a work in progress and is being expanded and reworked everyday. I'm excited that it's longer then most of the stuff I put out and what I throw down here is only a section of it. I might put a new section up every other week if I can actually keep on top of myself.

We've seen how good I am with that.

  My father is holding my hand tight. My sister can’t quite contain her excitement. She babbles, but it just sounds like a high pitched lullaby. She is in the middle of exclaiming when a mechanical squeal drowns her out completely. A huge shadow falls over us as the rollercoaster rumbles by overhead. I can just barely make out her own yip of excitement and I feel the need to contribute my own.

Now I’m standing at a podium. Capped and gowned blobs stare up at me. I’ve been speaking words of wisdom. They begin to clap and stand and hoot. I’m flushed with gratification. 

I’m in the hospital. He is holding my hand, telling me it’s going to be ok. I can barely hear him. The pain is so intense. Its over. He is holding her and handing her to me. I smile at the baby. Clearly I can hear myself say “Roslin”. He smiles.

More images like these pound away behind my eyelids. Sweet moments and awful ones. I’m in the hospital again, Roslin was in a crash, we wait to hear if she is ok. Jump ahead, he’s died, I held him as his last breath left and said I love you. Finally I’m laying in bed, looking up.

This is my least favorite part. I can hear Roslin in the next room. She’s crying. I try to say her name, but my lips are too dry. What comes out sounds like a paper bag being crushed. Black.

“Christ, Trey, are you about out of it yet?” Jack’s voice burbles at first, but becomes more clear. The “it” rings especially clear, like a bell, and my eyes open lazily. The room swims into focus. Jack is spooning a bowl of cereal into his mouth and staring at me. His hair, usually spiked as high as it can go, was drooping, making him look like a tired punk wannabe.

“How long was I out?” I begin to orient myself on the leather couch and fix the world. Everything at the edges of my vision blurs like bad video. When I’m upright I fumble out a cigarette, it finds my lips, and I light it.

“Five hours. Who was it?” His voice is becoming more clear. I can feel reality reasserting itself like a child throwing a tantrum. I grab around the cushions of the couch and pull out a small ziplock bag with a name written across it in sharpie.

“Cindy Travis. Huh. Two first names.” I ball the bag up and throw it towards the trash. I miss.

“Cindy? I fucking love Cindy, man. When what's her name...” He snaps his fingers. His mouth is full of half crunched sugar shapes. “Roslin? Yeah Roslin. When she gets married. Man, I always lose my fucking shit. I think. I know Cindy does. Man. Cindy.”

“Well I hope you enjoyed her while she lasted. We’re all out.” I motion my cigarette to the slowly unwrapping ball by the trash can.

“Aw fuck man. I loved her.” Jack picked the bowl up and sucked down the colored milk at the bottom. I scrunch my face as I watch his adam’s apple bob. His skin hung a little loose there. Just a tad, nothing too visible.

Anyone looking at Jack could tell that he was using something. He had those kinds of movements, those little tics, of someone who's been away from the bottle too long. His eyes were always rimmed with circles. When we’d head out he put a little makeup on and make it all look part of his act, his persona.  Alcohol wasn’t his poison. Well at least not right now.

I shook my head. Shit. I hope I don’t look like him.

“Do we have any of Fred left?” I suck off a lung of nicotine.

“Frederick  Goldschmidt? Naw, I finished him off last night. Real strange one.” He dropped the bowl and the crash bounces around between my ears.

“Doctors always are.” I slowly stand. I’m not usually this fucked up after a snuff, what’s wrong with me? Getting old.

“You want some cereal? I already claimed the prize.” Jack shakes the box at me.

“Naw man, I’m good. I’ll grab something on the way.” With great effort I tug my shirt up and swap it out with something less covered in sweat. I mange to zip up my hoodie without pinching my fingers.

“Zeke?” Jack grabs at his sneakers and tugs them on.

“Well we’re out of everybody aren’t we?” I grab my hoodie and zip it up.

“I’m excited.” He stands and tosses the bowl into the sink. An atomic bomb dropped.

“Shit man, you stop throwing things? Fuck.” I grind out my cig on the table.

(Read more after the jump)