my freudian slip - phan

iii.

After school, Dan goes downtown. It's what he does, everyday, slinking his way down alleys and the homeless– and he just wants a drink. He wants to forget.

Most of his reputation hangs on these after school escapades, like a vagrant in the dust bowl walking into a distance of neon lights until he fades into the scenery, Dan goes downtown in search of something other.

But that's really just what people whispered.

"I saw him running around with some gang, not even joking."

"He's fucked plenty– boy gets more game than any of us– but he ain't picky– goes for the blokes too."

"You can't deny he's seen more than any of us'll... Don't envy 'em either."

Dan doesn't like to think about what others say. They don't understand. They don't get why he does it. What they whisper about isn't him, it's blown so out of proportion he can only get a good laugh when he hears it. He finds the irony biting that the kids he's gotten off are the ones who speak the harshest, to be honest.

But what they do get right is that he's probably sad.

"It's for attention."

"He's looking for acceptance... It's obvious he doesn't get it at home."

"He don't have nothing to live for in my opinion."

That's what hurts.

What scares Dan the most about suicide is the idea of- well- being dead. He'll open his laptop– a gift from downtown – sometimes, blink at the camera a few times, focus on the slight lag of the screen as he can actually view his movements for at least a fraction of a second. He'll be a photo soon enough, something printed around school and passed at memorial services – not the living, breathing, moving thing he can see right here and now. It's in that split second that he can finally see himself as other do, and he thinks it makes him special, someone who can view the dead beforethey're even dead.

So it's the same as he looks over in the hardware store glass.

He blinks.

But it doesn't wait for him. He can't see his eyelids move this time, the blinks non existent to darkness. He tries to not be let down, and so it's a blessing that he's so distracted by how bad he looks. There's a reconsideration about going downtown at all. His little bar on 4th is only the haven it's become because of his bloody "angel face"; he can get in any time of the day– but he ends up ignoring the windows plea.

Except Dan can't. He can't help but fixate on himself, his blue coat fraying on the hood and his under eyes resembling bruises. He looks awful. He feels awful.

He needs a drink.

And he won't admit it, but he probably needs a line too.