Dylan Hayes (pushme) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-07-05 23:19:00 |
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Entry tags: | dave henderson, dylan hayes |
Who: Dylan Hayes and Dave Henderson
What: Finding Dylan
When: Sunday night
Where: Queens
The jungle receded, Vietnam bled away, and Dylan was left in the dark. The first thing he noticed was that his hands were wet, not moist like they were sometime when he slept in the park and the dew settled on them, wet. The second thing was the smell, a mixture of body odor, garbage, and salt, but he pushed that away quickly, it always smelled around him. The third was, well, he was too tired to keep track but his whole body ached and he was so tired, his skin still tingled with unseen mosquitoes, but there was more than the jungle to worry about. He was in a part of the city he didn't immediately recognize, it wasn't his usual stomping grounds and since he'd been spending most of his time in Manhattan, other parts of New York had blurred in his mind. He licked his lips nervously and felt the first twinges of panic twist in his stomach. It wasn't like this was the first time he'd woken up somewhere he didn't recognize, but this was different, he hadn't been asleep, he'd been hallucinating, and he'd come here and- A car with bright lights whizzed by his alley, briefly illuminating it.
Dylan saw red. He paled in the darkness and scrambled to his feet, the worst immediately entering his mind and then confirmed when another car passed. A body - he couldn't see the features or else he might have not been so frightened, because it was only another junkie who had been transformed into a long-sharp-toothed member of the Vietcong in Dylan's hallucinations but oh, oh he couldn't run with what he knew now was blood on his hands, his shirt. He fumbled in his backpack, pulled out the phone he had stolen off of another body and at another time, exchanged messages with Dave, smearing blood on the screen with his fingertips as he typed. Dave promised to come and Dylan in his state believed him. He stuffed the phone back into his backpack and began to scramble around the body for a weapon. He was so skinny, surely he couldn't have killed with his bare hands. He had promised to himself never again to do this, but how could he trust the large part of his mind that didn't work to keep promises to him?