Street Feeling

13 - Stagnancy

Churches had dropped Carp off at his house, unlocked the door and simply just let them inside. They were standing in an old house with poor insulation and heat trapping ability, rickety and dark. It was prettied up by strange furniture that nobody would actually have in one's home, as if it were an idea of a home and not a real one. Like living in an abandoned department store. Nonetheless, it was quite less intimidating than Bill's house, and Carp barely remembered what a home looked like anyway. They looked around and they were alone, although they didn't feel alone. Strange. It was usually just plain alone, or perhaps the other way around -- not alone but feeling lonely. Wasn't that how this was supposed to go? They walked in further, although they felt like crumpling where they stood on the doormat. They decided not to. They had to wash their hands first, as they were covered in Lanky's blood, so they ventured into the house. Funny, they never actually got to see what happened to Lanky. They hoped he was alright. He didn't seem alright. But they had seen some make it out alive, they had seen some miracles in the red swamp. If they had ever been religious they would have bargained with some God for something. But there was nothing. Wishing was the first step to hope, so all they did was wish that Lanky was okay. And if he wasn't okay now, they wished he was okay some other time, somewhere else, some other reality with any possibility where he was alright.

For now, they walked through the dark house, turning some of the lights on as they went, looking for a sink. They eventually wandered through the kitchen, where they smelled previously-cooked chicken tetrazzini and admired how all of the items on the counter were neatly arranged into a perfect little disturbance, a mess that was clearly thought out and organized. Flour was spilled over a part of the counter in such a picturesque way that it had to have been staged. Better yet, a whisk was angled next to the flour in just the right way so it was pleasing to the eye. Churches always did that sort of thing, manufacturing imperfections just to make himself seem more human or whatever. Carp thought he was plenty human. Even after tonight, he was plenty human. Or not. They never could decide, especially because Churches always insisted when there was no need to. No sane person would ever insist on such a silly thing in order to gain what? Self-respect? Bullshit. Even if it mattered to him like it mattered to them, he would never understand the pain of having his identity stripped away and being forced to build a new one around being someone's little peasant boy. They were thinking about how potent the smell of fib was on his breath as he told them that he didn't hate them. Everyone hated Carp. And that was okay. It was just how things were supposed to pan out. Even as they grasp at nothing to try and gain more control or more respect, all fails eventually. It hurts them when they think about it. Although, when they look inside themselves and ask the little Carp inside their head if it hurt, it always seemed to lie to them too. And the pain overwhelms them again whenever they hear it from themselves. Liar, murderer, decapitator, or something. Whatever Churches had said to them. They felt dirty even though they were washing their hands. They can't remember the last time they washed their hands. They felt nauseous. They felt sick. It was probably withdrawal. Their eyes stung from previous tears, and their head hurt from stress, feeling like they were about to cry again. None of these things were new sensations.

They went toward where they believed the living room was. They looked upon the dark, perfectly arranged furniture, perfectly messy and ever so slightly out of character for Churches to own. It was all so surreal to behold. A draft came through the building. They turned on the light and they were right in believing it was the living room. They sat down on the couch. It was stiff, uncomfortable to sit on, even though it had been worn enough that it should have been broken in by then. They yawned, and yet didn't feel tired as they took off their blazer and rolled up their sleeve once again. They took a look at all the track marks on their arm, even though it had only been last April they had started using the drug. It sort of scared them. Sometimes they had nightmares that it would mark them up forever. They turned their arm over and over, trying to find anywhere that hadn't already been stuck with a needle and scarred up. They rolled their sleeve up further, still looking for anywhere, and as they rolled it all the way up where they constricted their arm at the armpit, they came across a hickey on their shoulder that Bill had left on them, the skin still purple and sore. They shivered in disgust looking at it, the tears that they felt welling up earlier threatening to pour. Fuck my life. What abomination have I become? Why did I let him do that to me? Their face felt wet as their lip trembled. They unrolled their sleeve, covering their markings up immediately so they didn't have to look at them anymore. They decided to do this a different way. The last thing they wanted was more pain in taking their pain killer. They took off their sock and shoe of their right foot and prepared their syringe, which was already full of what they produced earlier. They put in a new needle and stuck it between their toes, skeptical if it would be effective but desperate for relief. They pushed down the stopper.