DEATH ROW.

4 - AN AFFAIR.

AN AFFAIR.

May, 1982.

Mick.

I'm not human. There is no part of me that resembles the rest of humanity, even remotely so– It's funny, even, I wish I could send a satellite into deep space with just a picture of me enclosed, standing next to a crowd of average joes, with a sign that reads: "I'm with stupid".

When the world gets too loud (and it frequently does), I wish there were a way I could stop existing. I wish I could cart myself off to an alternate dimension where my existence is purely theoretical, and spend the ultimate vacation there– a fate better than death. I watched a documentary on T.V. not too long ago about alternate dimensions– more than a trillion universes, infinite versions of me out there, all wanting the same thing. How fucking depressing is that?

Hippies think that belief alone can change the world. I call bullshit, because if that were the case, the combined power of my dimensional clones and I wishing for the collective un-existence of our species would power all of Los Angeles a million times over. I'd be a rich fuckin' theoretical specter of existence.

Don't get me wrong, I love when shit is just theoretical– there's no comfort in absolution. Nothing, and I mean nothing, can be truly proven, because all we've got is our own perspective. If this entire universe of stimuli is in our blind spot the moment we close our eyes, or stop listening... What else are we missing out on? That's not even including the shit that's totally beyond our senses. Ultraviolet rays, an entire range of sound, hell– even parts of the color spectrum. Everything is theoretical– and that's good news for me, because that means there's no guarantee Mick Mars exists at all.

"You're a cheating fucking cunt." Jesus Christ, my back hurts. Linda was dumping my clothes out of the hamper and into the sand outside, screaming our way into another noise complaint, just saying the same things over and over. "You're a no good, cheating fucking liar." I didn't have the energy to stop her– not tonight. And really, there was no point in arguing. She wasn't wrong.

"Don't just sit there!" She was storming inside, and the plastic hamper she clutched was leaving her hip– next thing I knew, it was smacking a whole constellation into my vision. "Say something, you bastard!" I wondered what was on the T.V.-- the only thing on right now was a black screen. I stared at it anyway, because in theory, something was playing somewhere. "I knew it– I'm losing you!" When I tried to imagine what might be playing in one of those quadrillion universes, the only thing that came up was The Devil.

"What the hell does that mean?" I'd stared at that card for at least a minute before asking my question– I never took anything at face value. I liked to draw my own conclusions. But there was nothing to be drawn from a badly sketched illustration of some kinky couple tied up to Satan's ballsack. The girl who had drawn my card hadn't blinked once since she'd sat down, and I wondered at the time if she was high.

"It means you're chained to a vice." Her voice had this whistly, drawn out quality about it– like she was always somewhere between a whisper. "Your obsessions will drive you to self destruction. You are untethered..." Her nail tapped over the chains holding the couple, pointing to where they were bound– or rather, where they weren't. "The only one holding you back is you, Mick Mars." And then she smiled, in this downright disturbing way that reminded me vaguely of Regan Macneil.

I hated going to clubs. The drinks were overpriced, and there was no point in going someplace where you could look, but not touch. But I'd gone to Pillow Talk on a total whim– Maybe just to stare at a woman that wasn't Linda for once. And there was nothing disappointing about Aradia Lilium. Maybe just that she didn't dance.