tezcatl_ipoca: (all roads lead)
[personal profile] tezcatl_ipoca
It's raining when I arrive, hot close drizzle. Stare out of the cab window; it's not the city I remember, and it is. Gives me a tight sick sort of feeling, like the beginnings of a hangover.

His apartment's in a better building than I expected, a solid middle-class neighbourhood. The super, short and broad and scowling, lectures me as she takes me up there, gives me the key: Everything paid up, she says, as if it's an insult, until the end of next month, and how can I let it? Who will rent it when a man has died there? When all his goods are there, still? I shut the door firmly in her face, lean my back against it as if she's going to break in.

The sparseness of it's too familiar, too like my own place. Nothing of the boy, the young man, that I remember. He was always neater than me, and he's gone about this like he went about most things, methodical, respectable. No clothes discarded on chairs, the kitchen clean. The fridge empty, though that could have been someone else. Bed against one wall, sofa against the other, tiny kitchen and bathroom. Almost a hotel room.

The bed's made up, hospital corners like my mother taught us. I feel my jaw clench hard.

I drop my suitcase to one side, my carry-on on the sofa. I'm tired and stiff from the flight, and I just want a fucking drink.

[continued in comments]

8 hours

Date: 2010-02-18 03:12 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] tezcatl-ipoca.livejournal.com
I don't want to sleep in his bed, so I pass out on the sofa for a while. When I wake up, I'm already sweating more than the cool air of the room would cause, and there's a shake in my hands.

I can feel myself getting agitated, anxious. I force myself out and to the grocery store, pick up bottled water and soup and rice, and garbage bags.

I strip the bed down, skin of my hands crawling, but still can't face sleeping on it. Make myself up a bed of sorts on the couch with my thin airline blanket and my jacket as a pillow. Shovel clothes from drawers into garbage bags without looking at them, stack crockery and pans in folding crates I found in the back of the wardrobe. I don't want anything of his.

I find something else in the back of the wardrobe, too, the first thing I recognize: the beat-up old footlocker he had when we were kids. Open it, find nothing but clean folded sheets.

Don't you think I forget that easily, you bastard. Oh, I remember.

Get a knife from the drawer and pry at the inside of the lid. By now my hands are shaking hard enough that it's an effort, metal slipping on sweaty skin. Pry the hidden panel off at last.

Some things don't change, I guess. He used to keep dirty pictures there when we were kids, the sort of thing you wouldn't want your mom seeing. But among the big-titted girls this time are cheap gay porn magazines - don't suppose he'd want mom to see those, either. The boys in them look very young, and hairless, and the pages are well-thumbed.

Probably the withdrawal that makes me move fast to the bathroom to throw up, but I'm not sure.

Know things're only going to get worse from here on in.

24 hours

Date: 2010-02-18 07:12 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] tezcatl-ipoca.livejournal.com
Pretty sure I've got nothing left to throw up; just bringing up thin foaming yellow bile now. Fucking disgusting.

Wish there was a tv here. There's a radio, but it's stuck on some country music channel. Never realised before just how many country songs are about whiskey.

Something wrong with it, too, because it keeps turning itself back on. Swear I turned it off again a few minutes ago, but now there's some chirpy girl singing that:

'Cause I don't need Jose, believe me, honey, I'm ok.
Jack Daniels or Jim Beam ain't gonna pull me through.
You wasted my time, my heart and my mind too:
I ain't wastin' good whiskey on you.

Growl and turn it off again. Hardly turned round when it fucking starts up again:

Yeah when I go over yonder
I will see my mother
My sister and my father
But my brother is going to hell.

...Starting to think that he must've been driven to suicide by a fucking possessed radio. Don't need a doctor, Al, I need a fucking priest.

Oh yes I loved him but I won't miss him
As he's burning and he's twisting
For his heartless dedication
To the devil and it's creed.

Knock the thing to the ground and smash it under my boot, but it just keeps on playing.


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