All of this began the same way that most of life's oddities and serendipities do: we were drunk.
I mean, we were also young and stupid. We thought these passing moments of heat and sensation could pass for a crude imitation of a lasting love we didn't even believe existed. Lingering touches in the dark, in a shabby room smelling of desire and sweat, with only desperate pants and moans to fill the heavy silence. All we wanted was a distraction from the lives that were crumbling away to nothing all around us, threatening to bring us down with them.
But, most importantly: we were completely hammered.
That being said, of course, there aren't many things that I remember clearly about the night. Everything seemed to blend and blur together in a unique, abstract piece only one's intoxication can paint. There was an earlier moment, loud and filled with an illegal thrill, where I stepped into an underground warehouse. The scene was painfully stereotypical: dancing strangers pressed together in a breathtaking crowd, the rhythmic thrumming of a bass that ran through the floor and into my legs, and the blinding neon lights passing over our faces.
I took a step forward, and suddenly it was as though I'd leapt through time into the next moment. I managed to shove my way out of the masses and to a wall, like coming ashore after nearly drowning. There was a man I'd come to know as yet another passing face, but for the time being I saw him as something more. There was liquor on my lips and courage on my tongue, so I approached him, taking in the scar running across his nose and the familiar tattoo running up along his long arm. The words escape me, lost to time and the drunken abyss of my mind, but I remember the way his eyes crinkled with amusement as I spoke. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial; it was filled with these lovely little pink crystals, like sugar sprinkles glistening in the strobe lights.
Oh, and did I mention that we were stoned, too? No? Well.
Time sped forward again, and we were stumbling out of the warehouse's elevator into the chilled air. It was far past curfew hours, even for adult citizens, but we didn't care. I'd like to blame that on the crushed pink powder beneath our noses and the warm alcohol in our bellies, really. But one cannot deny the severe lack of brain cells that lead us to this moment in the first place, although I'd later find it was something a little darker and more sinister.
Whatever it was, we managed to make our way down the empty streets, somehow avoiding any officers on the way, and I found myself staring up at a rundown apartment. A few of the windows were broken in and there were smatters of graffiti all along the brick walls; inside the halls were signs of a past fire or even a struggle. But his hand tugged me up the stairs and I followed. I found myself fascinated with just how much bigger his hand was than mine, almost swallowing it whole, and I felt something akin to loneliness strike my heart.
Skip past all of the foreplay and the all of the pleasure, the things that make us feel better at the time and then stare our futures in the face with perhaps an even greater sense of hopelessness. We were laying in bed, reveling in the afterglow and the last of our inebriated states, when we heard it--the telltale hum of a police car landing on the rooftop. Neither of us made a single attempt to rise from the bed, not even to pull our clothes back on, because the futility of it was all too obvious.
Even if we managed to get away, they would find us--they always find people like us.
Sure enough, after a few moments of heavy boots thud-thud-thudding their way across the rickety floors outside, the door slammed open, sending splinters of it through the air and skidding across the floors. There wasn't a moment of hesitation nor any formality to the process. I felt the officer's strong, mechanical grip tighten around my arm, hauling me to my feet. I wanted to feel fear or anger or indignation--something, anything--but if I felt anything at all, I suppose it would've defeated the purpose of all my acting out. Suddenly, as the handcuffs were snapped into place around my wrists, I began to wonder just who the machine was here: me or the officer leading me out the door toward my fate.
Comments (0)
See all