Post by Evlyn Montgomary on Sept 1, 2006 10:38:50 GMT -5
"No way, Jack. Shit...." Xander paced around his room. "You're back with her again? I wouldn't have figured...." he went back to pacing without waiting for an answer, a comment, or anything. There wouldn't BE anything, no other noise but him. He hadn't seen Jack in almost a week, and he wasn't seeing him now.
He was instead standing in his room, the front door to his apartment unlocked for the first time in days. His place was one of the main hangouts for Wulf Truth, the 'gang' he and his friends had just started, and thus he kept his door unlocked all the time so the others had a place to crash. Except that wasn't true this last week.
Monday he'd been at a party. And one helluva party, too. He'd gotten himself royally fucked up before crawling home to deal with some sleep before work in the morning. He couldn't really remember that, but he must've, since he woke up the next morning in his bed, alone. No people crashing at his place, so he musta gotten himself there. But something was wrong with him that morning. All his thoughts were in pieces, crashing into each other and joining together.
He knew where he was, who he was. He remembered names and faces and dates, . He couldn't remember how to brush his teeth. He knew it was 5 in the morning, so he went about turning lights on, since he knew how dark it got around noon every day, and he had to go around counting the cans in his cabinet so he could give them to the rich people. Wait. Shit.
This must be a bad trip. Damn to f**k**g hell whoever had given him bad shit last night, he decided, gathering thoughts well enough to call his work, telling them he wasn't feeling well that day. They seemed to believe him, which was good. He didn't want to get fired, or stuck in one of those damn recovery homes. Everything'd be fine, he decided.
Somewhere in that time, that day, his sometime-girlfriend Carrie had called. He picked the phone up, letting her voice wash over him. But after the third 'hello, are you there?' a thought hit him, more like an emotion. He slammed the phone down, hoping it wasn't hurt. Later, he hoped she didn't think he was mad at her. He wasn't mad at her. He loved-- He didn't love her. He'd never loved her, and he thought she probably didn't love him either. Still, she was nice enough, pretty enough, fun enough. He loved Cassandra, though. But so did Jack, and Jack was his best friend. Did Jack love Cassandra as much as he did? They broke up a lot, and every time he thought he had a chance. They had broken up on Monday, actually. Maybe they wouldn't get back together this time, and she'd come running to him. Carrie would understand, he was sure of it.
Still, he hoped Carrie didn't think he was mad. He'd never get mad. He'd have to apologize to her when this was over. He'd buy flower, no he'd pick flowers for her, so she knew they were straight from her and not some damn flower shop. He'd pick flowers and go see her and he'd sing to her and tell her he was an idiot, and he was sorry, and.... He'd wait till he was better, first. He'd seen people on bad trips before, they never lasted long. He'd just wait, and things'd be better by the next day.
That had been Tuesday. Today was Friday, and he finally felt more himself. In the time between, he'd bare ate, hadn't slept, and he probably looked like shit. He felt like shit; he hadn't touched any drugs or alcohol in all that time, afraid that he'd never go back to normal, or what passed for normal. He'd left the house a couple times, buying paint and brushes, one of those tiny, fine-haired sets for artists. Lots of paint, dark green, and he'd painted his whole apartment with the smallest brush he'd had. It worked better, cause the paint didn't drip, so he'd never had to put plastic over the furniture or the fake tile floors in the kitchen and bathroom. He wished he could make them green, like the ceiling and walls were. He'd even made another store trip to buy food coloring, staining the carpet and furniture with it. But the floors, they weren't green, and he couldn't do anything about it. Still, now it was Friday and he was feeling better, despite having no sleep and paint all over him.
He felt good, though. Maybe he'd see someone today. Maybe someone would come visit him, now that the door was unlocked. Maybe he could see Carrie, or Cassandra, or Jack....
He was instead standing in his room, the front door to his apartment unlocked for the first time in days. His place was one of the main hangouts for Wulf Truth, the 'gang' he and his friends had just started, and thus he kept his door unlocked all the time so the others had a place to crash. Except that wasn't true this last week.
Monday he'd been at a party. And one helluva party, too. He'd gotten himself royally fucked up before crawling home to deal with some sleep before work in the morning. He couldn't really remember that, but he must've, since he woke up the next morning in his bed, alone. No people crashing at his place, so he musta gotten himself there. But something was wrong with him that morning. All his thoughts were in pieces, crashing into each other and joining together.
He knew where he was, who he was. He remembered names and faces and dates, . He couldn't remember how to brush his teeth. He knew it was 5 in the morning, so he went about turning lights on, since he knew how dark it got around noon every day, and he had to go around counting the cans in his cabinet so he could give them to the rich people. Wait. Shit.
This must be a bad trip. Damn to f**k**g hell whoever had given him bad shit last night, he decided, gathering thoughts well enough to call his work, telling them he wasn't feeling well that day. They seemed to believe him, which was good. He didn't want to get fired, or stuck in one of those damn recovery homes. Everything'd be fine, he decided.
Somewhere in that time, that day, his sometime-girlfriend Carrie had called. He picked the phone up, letting her voice wash over him. But after the third 'hello, are you there?' a thought hit him, more like an emotion. He slammed the phone down, hoping it wasn't hurt. Later, he hoped she didn't think he was mad at her. He wasn't mad at her. He loved-- He didn't love her. He'd never loved her, and he thought she probably didn't love him either. Still, she was nice enough, pretty enough, fun enough. He loved Cassandra, though. But so did Jack, and Jack was his best friend. Did Jack love Cassandra as much as he did? They broke up a lot, and every time he thought he had a chance. They had broken up on Monday, actually. Maybe they wouldn't get back together this time, and she'd come running to him. Carrie would understand, he was sure of it.
Still, he hoped Carrie didn't think he was mad. He'd never get mad. He'd have to apologize to her when this was over. He'd buy flower, no he'd pick flowers for her, so she knew they were straight from her and not some damn flower shop. He'd pick flowers and go see her and he'd sing to her and tell her he was an idiot, and he was sorry, and.... He'd wait till he was better, first. He'd seen people on bad trips before, they never lasted long. He'd just wait, and things'd be better by the next day.
That had been Tuesday. Today was Friday, and he finally felt more himself. In the time between, he'd bare ate, hadn't slept, and he probably looked like shit. He felt like shit; he hadn't touched any drugs or alcohol in all that time, afraid that he'd never go back to normal, or what passed for normal. He'd left the house a couple times, buying paint and brushes, one of those tiny, fine-haired sets for artists. Lots of paint, dark green, and he'd painted his whole apartment with the smallest brush he'd had. It worked better, cause the paint didn't drip, so he'd never had to put plastic over the furniture or the fake tile floors in the kitchen and bathroom. He wished he could make them green, like the ceiling and walls were. He'd even made another store trip to buy food coloring, staining the carpet and furniture with it. But the floors, they weren't green, and he couldn't do anything about it. Still, now it was Friday and he was feeling better, despite having no sleep and paint all over him.
He felt good, though. Maybe he'd see someone today. Maybe someone would come visit him, now that the door was unlocked. Maybe he could see Carrie, or Cassandra, or Jack....