Boys Don't Cry ✵ MCR

Raindrops And Record Fuzz

     A record and raindrops. Two sounds that continually bombard our ears. Currently a Lou Reed album and a western downpour serenade us. It's raining, it's always raining. Even when it's warm, the air is still damp with the remnants of grey clouds. The room is always dripping whether or not the sun is out, the once-beige carpet sopping, constantly. Sleeping bags and mattresses are strategically placed to avoid holes in the ceiling, because no one likes to awaken to a face covered in brown tinged water from god knows where. A person accompanies each bedding arrangement. Counting myself, there are four barely humans living here. We are a little community in ourselves, burn-outs, runaways, junkies, the kids your mum tells you to avoid for she is afraid you'll become like us, become one of us, whatever you think we are, whatever name or detrimental phrase you affiliate with our existence, we're them. Drug addicts. Everyone has a vice and some are different, some are the same, some are added upon and some take their final toll before they can multiply. In some respects I've been lucky. Nevertheless, we're all dying at a rate quicker than we'd like.
It may be raining, but each one of us is sweating as if it were hot and dry, Vancouver doesn't have a hot and dry season, we all know this. The voice of a young man pops up from across the room, to be quite honest, I can't tell who it is. Of the four of us, there are three boys, including me.

"You know, the shit we're pumping into ourselves is very detrimental to our progression as human beings, maybe-"

the sentence is broken with a cough and I decide it's Mikey, he uses big words; it pisses me off. 

"Perhaps we should try to-"

Another deeper, strained voice belonging to Frank, cuts him off,

"Shut up Mikey, just shut up."

"Oh, ok.."

Mikey sputters and the rest of us sigh with relief. When your veins are pumped up with heroin and whatever it's been laced with, you want silence. People's voices are like sirens in your ears. The heavy breath, near silence of four jaded addicts fades with the end of 'Hangin' Round.' As 'Walk On The Wild Side' begins with the slow bassline and acoustic guitar, each one of us slips into an individual world of euphoria. I guess this is our wild side, too bad it's consumed us. And we're gone. Souls let out into the room, syringes on the floor, tea candles in our bags, bloodstreams and immune systems poisoned in what a lovely way. Eyes roll back into our derelict skulls and not one of us notices the A side of the vinyl crackle to an end.