came from the den of sins

I remember the first time I took pills.  The muscles in my legs were rendered completely useless.  I slid off the couch I was sitting on and the bosom of the carpeted floor embraced me with a warm openness. We used to run and eat steak after football practice, then come home and drink stolen beer or smoke low-grade marijuana.  I was fourteen years old at the time, possibly fifteen; I suppose it doesn’t matter the age, but the mind set was warped into the past. They were neat little pills, off white in color, compact and ovular. We swiped them from Justin’s mother, she had brought back from her trip to Mexico; a whole damn box of the things, sitting in their odd packaging by the hundreds on her bedroom dresser. At the time we thought it was merely recreation, not to supply her habits.t’s strange to think that a parent would be doing something of that manner, yet sending her child to a Christian academy. She had a remarkable habit, we later found her collection of bongs and pipes and other such devices.  They were stashed neatly in a large cedar box, engraved in pseudo Middle Eastern designs. She kept a brick of hash and a brick of marijuana in the box as well. Back to the pills, I had about six of them in one sitting. I remember Justin had been smoking pot out of a color-changing pipe. We marveled idiotically over the luminescent shapes that were forming on the long, circular tube. He was sitting at his computer; his face resembled a tomato if some sort. He was staring at the screen of the computer, breathing heavily. The carpet had pulled me down and I embraced the warm safeness of the floor. I was tr

regret

miss them so goddamn much.

it was a party, a big screaming party. perhaps the biggest one most of them had ever been to. they were in the house, all of them crammed together smelling the sweat and life resonating off the walls. they swelled and pulsated wildly in and out of the front door. some called out in a strange manner, other drank and laughed, a few but not many stood against the walls and watched the crowds. there was a loud, common voice about the room that shook the ceiling. a few john and jane doe's were there, a charles also, francis who wore a sequin dress, a veronica and a slightly taller veronika, they were all there, nico and her armenian lover, chauncey, winston the post-abstract painter, sheila, peiter, and especially terry. terry had always been there. he stood in the kitchen with a few others that stood close to each other and spoke in low, indirect whispers. they talked about mostly nonsense but touched on kitsch and swedish pop music, also the train system. terry watched a group of illuminated bodies swarm in from the front yard. they spread across the living room and into the far corners of the house. among them was isabelle. the sunken lights shined just above her head. terry thought she was an angel and goddess, or at least did a good enough impersonation.

"i need to talk to her," terry said to victor.

victor nodded a slow nod after he wiped rubbed his swollen, red tinged eyes.

"what do you think will come of talking to her?" victor asked.

"nothing i suppose," terry said. "but i still think i should."

"c'est la vie," victor said. he sighed and shook his head at terry. "perhaps."

"the thing is-" terry started to say.

"The things always are." victor interrupted.

terry watched isabelle maneuver through the room with a slow, whimsical step that more resembled a waltz. her skirt seemed to be part of the ambience of the room and billowed around whiled she walked through the crowd. the people around her blurred as the light shone on her face.

"how long has it been?" terry asked.

"i don't know," said victor. "why would i know terry? you were the one with her, not me."

"it's mostly," said terry with a pause. "it's because-"

"not here terry, not now." said victor.

victor took a slow drink from his glass and scratched his hair. he wiped his eye once more and looked over toward isabelle. she seemed to be singing. he patted terry on the shoulder.

"not now," victor said softly. "let's have a light, yeah?"

"sure, sure. i'll meet you out there, i need to do this," terry said.

terry stared at isabelle, who was by the old couch in the corner of the living room. he coughed then finished his glass. he pulled a bent cigarette from behind his ear.

the thing always is, he thought to himself. "the thing always fucking is." he then said aloud. he turned and walked outside, the air was brisk and smelled like late autumn. he stared at the flickering porch lamp that gave off an absurd hue of yellowish green light. a moth flew by his ear, he listened to it sing as it passed him.

"what kind of party is this?" terry said. "they don't even have fresh ice cubes." he then sat on the ledge of the porch and flicked his cigarette toward the laughing moon that sat in the empty night sky.