It's Not A Side Effect Of The Cocaine, I Am Thinking It Must Be Love

chapter one- between love and hate

"Bad Twin? 's comin' home."

I didn't want  to miss him. I wasn't even sure why I did. It was unsettling, for sure, and I sighed, trying to ignore it. I figured it was best to head home. Pancho wasn't coming back, and I just was wasting time by standing around at the lakeshore, staring at his soggy clothes. Besides, Bad Twin was expecting me home. We had lunch plans, and I wanted time to knit.

Taking one final, forlorn look out at the lake, I turned on my heels and made my way back to the house. Scuffing my feet through the fallen leaves, I continued thinking about Pancho. I hated myself for not being able to get my mind off of him, but I couldn't stop thinking it was my fault he was dead. If I'd just met him at the usual spot for coke instead of inviting him to my house, nothing would've happened. He'd pay, call me "pretty boy," tease me about something stupid like he always did, and I'd drive off thinking about how much of a pain in the ass he was. But instead, he'd come to my god damned house wearing a wire. I'd been too high to think anything through, and ended up chasing him into the fucking lake. God dammit. I told myself I was only feeling so anxious and guilty about Pancho because I was coming down, but I wasn't sure if that was the whole truth.

When I got home, Bad Twin was on the couch and half-clothed, as always. He nodded at me as I walked by and disappeared into my room. I dug the knitting set out from an old set of drawers and began clicking the needles, trying to drown out the strange feeling that still nagged at me. Drowned.

The familiar click of the needles in my hands was comforting, but not enough to keep my mind off Pancho. It was still sinking in that he was dead, even though not many that knew me ever got the chance to stick around for long. I guess that was mostly my fault, but it's also just the business I was in (the dealing, not the knitting). I'd grown fond of Pancho, though. I mean sure, he was a dick. He was wearing a fucking wire. But he had his charms. He could be a nice guy, and he wasn't too bad to look at, either. But none of that mattered anymore. He was dead. He had drowned, and it was my fault. The sinking feeling returned, and the scarf got longer.

I switched the yarn to a light turquoise color. It was a matched well with the pink I'd chosen to start with, and reminded me of Pancho's shirt that he had been wearing earlier that day. Fuck, everything reminded me of him, and it just made me sadder. I couldn't even knit a fucking scarf without getting emotional. The scarf was getting long, and I was crying. Great, I thought to myself, you're gonna cry now? What're you gonna do if Bad Twin comes in and sees you like this? How do you explain this?

I couldn't remember the last time I'd cried for real. It was nice to think of myself as a collected person who couldn't give a fuck if they tried, but there I was, knitting a scarf and crying about some guy who fucking drowned and who I'd never see again. I don't know how much time passed before Bad Twin shouted my name from the living room.

"Bedussey," he called. "What the fuck are you doing? I thought we had lunch plans!"

I blinked and looked down at the scarf, now too long to be recognized by normal standards as a scarf and soggy from my embarrassing, out-of-character, bawling. I wiped my eyes and walked to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. My face in the mirror was damp, embarrassing to look at. I made an attempt to pull myself together, and went to see if Bad Twin could be reasoned with.

He looked annoyed, which wasn't unusual.

"Sorry man," I said, proceeding with caution. "What do you wanna do for lunch? You gotta at least put a shirt on if we're going out."

He looked down, then at me, and sighed. "Shit," he replied. "Well, I could go for a filet mignon, but I don't wanna put clothes on. So," he paused, thinking for a second, "a sandwich sounds good."