Who: Dylan Hayes, GHB, and PCP What: The confrontation When: Very early Monday morning Where: GHB's apartment Warnings: Drug use, mentions of sexuality, violence. Sad Dylan is sad.
It was two forty-three am and Dylan was sorting out his backpack. He wasn't really sure why he was awake, but the moment his eyes had opened, he had known that he would need to go through the ratty bag, pluck out the pieces of his life, turn them over in his hands, and then put them back again. It wasn't cleaning, it was cataloging, making sure all the puzzle pieces could fit together in their helter skelter, moderately workable jumble. Actually, that hadn't been his first thought, Dylan reflected as he pried pieces of paper from the inside pocket. The first thing that had happened when his eyes opened was that he reached out a skinny, scared arm for Dave, his Dave. But Dave wasn't there and he'd slipped off the mattress and to the floor and thank goodness that GHB was out at his club or wherever he went because he'd been a wreck once again, a lonely, lonely wreck, descending into tears that felt like acid on his cheeks and what the hell was he supposed to do without him where was his bottle, where was the HEROIN bottle bottle who's got the beer let it slide down his throat and then here- relief.
And then the backpack called to him. He was seated at GHB's kitchen table, Dave's books of poetry and writing a safe distance from his flickering eyes - under the couch. The rest of the contents of the backpack were spread out on the table; paper, drugs, old needles filled with nothing that made his elbows itch an itch that went down to the marrow of his bones, the gun, clip emptied and bullets arraigned in a spiral next to Dylan's left hand. There were little things, too; bottle caps, half of a straw, the top of a super-sized MacDonalds cup, cigarette butts. All of these little pieces of life went into the trash can, he needed to cut the fat. He briefly recalled the chalk Dave had bought him - it was hidden away for the day when he could touch it without feeling like burning. The backpack was nearly empty, he pulled out a pen and pencil, another sheet of paper - this one blank. His dull eyes caught sight of something that glimmered at the bottom of the bag. He reached his slender arm down inside and plucked the metallic object from it between his index and middle finger. He recognized the object immediately, and wondered why he hadn't known it was there. That errant, foil-wrapped little smudge of white powder could have been yet another escape from the reality of his world crashing around his head, and he hadn't seen it?
He pushed his thumbnail into the foil and felt a chill go up his spine as bits of power spilled from the crescent-shaped hole. He stared at it for a moment, a vague tingle at his temple, and then the entire world exploded. He heard a loud crash and the thunk as a heavy metal object hit the floor. The hairs standing up at the back of his neck, he picked up the unloaded gun and crept from the kitchen to investigate. He took in the sight of what had once been a very sturdy-looking door, flung halfway across the apartment, and then he turned his head. A thin face, a small-boned body, a narrow nose, pursed lips, pale skin, eyes, and brown hair that topped it all off, stringy and straight but if it had been curly it might have made that woman standing there who did not belong in this life look ghoulishly familiar.
"Carlie?" He asked. Was he hallucinating? Had he already taken the PCP and not remembered? No, this felt far too real, tere were no ranching hanging down to obscure his vision. The woman's head turned slowly to regard him. Brown, pinched. "C-carlie?" He repeated, his voice shaking a little.
"Dylan." PCP's smile flickered with malice. Her brown eyes slicked over with silver.
At once, Dylan knew that there was a danger, but he still didn't understand what was happening. Who was this woman who seemed to be the girl he had known, loved, and then left after so many terrible things-
He was in love, in love, but what did a thirteen year old homeless kid know about love? And that older brother with his shaved head, experience, and a patchwork colored skin. And the needles, and flu-like symptoms and blood tests and a gun in his hand just like the one in his hand and why hadn't he thought to bring bullets? At once, the lights in the apartment burst into shooting stars behind his eyes as PCP leapted towards him. He screamed as her hands closed around his shoulders and scrambled against her as she dragged him back into the kitchen. He struck her knee with the gun but she kicked it away and he cried out as he felt the bones in his right arm scrape against eachother.
She dragged him into the kitchen, pushed him down into the chair and shoved his head down on the table so that his eyes were fixed on the foil.
"I told him not to give you the needle." She half-hissed. "I told him." Dylan's eyes were fearful. "Did you really think I would let you go?"
Dylan's face flushed, his eyes watered and he scrambled to push against the table, but PCP - Carlie's grip held firm. "I don't understand-" He whimpered, "What are you- Carlie, stop-"
"You're going to come back to me." She snarled. "Right now."
Dylan's eyes flickered to the foil and at once he understood. "Oh fuck-" He whimpered, "Oh fuck, oh fuck- You're a drug- You were a drug-" He felt sick, "Ryan-"
"Was a sick motherfucker in love with a thirteen year old boy." PCP snapped. "Open your mouth."
Dylan clenched his teeth tightly together and shook his head, his face wet with those acid-tears. PCP sneered and jammed a spider-like finger into his cheek, beginning the process of prying open his jaw. She would have him again.