The floor was cold, a mattress was available but the piss-stained mound was hosting a family of bees at the moment, and you just didn't wanna touch it. Being an urban explorer was becoming a bit much for you. But you couldn't bring yourself to quit. It was really the last thing you had of him, and you convinced yourself that reliving your old memories was a fine way to go about your days, and giving the state of mold in your lungs, there probably wasn't a lot of them.
You rolled over, your back was stiffer and sore-er (?) than usual, and the midnight air drift had a scent of allergens and sad to it. The concrete shack in the middle of nowhere was barely a shelter, but your lack of fame and stability made you feel wild. Like a 25 year old college graduate in New York. You were a free buck, antlers and all, a 1300 pound soul made of loss, heartbreak, and meat.
The absolute mountain man that you were carried three items with them,
1) A cell phone with less than five percent battery and a cracked screen, you wanted to be a blogger, but you sorta gave up half way through. Not because you were a boring unlovable internet goon, but because the police were starting to figure out who you were. And although you were an L simp back in middle school, your heart was taken, and your lust for casual encounters has depleted to a black.
2) A locket sporting a crumpled snippet of a hot blonde. He was a romantic, so he printed a picture of himself at the Walgreens, carved out the eye and shoved it into a heart shaped window and wove it around your neck, cause even though everyone knew you were dating, he pretended he was a Princess and you a lowly stable boy. A forbidden romance, a passion transcending time and barriers. You ate dinner at his parents house every Saturday. At least he always reminded you you were a hot stable boy.
You found the bread crust of the photo discarded in a pile of crap on his bedroom floor. It was scary in an endearing sense, ripped up and de-sandwiched. And in a scarily endearing sense you kept that photo, cause you were a romantic.
3) A burning red tattoo stamped into your shoulder. When you sang you were happy to be a crypton branded persona, but when you quit you just felt like a branded persona.
It's been a handful of years.
It was coming for a while. Your memories of the band were drugged with time. They were sweet, blissful, druggy. There wasn't a last straw. But there was a last time you saw him, so you cut contact with everyone and cut your hair, and cut your wrist. But then you licked up your blood and pulled up your socks and rented a cabin in Colorado.
A new life
almost
Your life was a shitty picture show of your old memorys, and a lot of
If he was actually dead he was satan's right hand man, an angel but a double spy. And if he was actually dead he would've ran into the woods and let them claim him; terrified of some crusty old science man playing with his guts. And if he was actually dead he would've evaded death and ascended to a higher state of being. He would've haunted every orphanage and left no mercy to the common man. He would've won capitalism, he would've became president. If he actually died he'd be the most popular boy in school, he'd win prom king then jump off a cliff and survive. He'd scale the grand canyon and arrive a savior, he'd create a twelve hour long play of the bible where he acts every character and come back a changed man.
If he was actually dead he wouldn't have just disappeared.
