In Hell We Dance

Rotten

The first week passed by uneventfully. Wake up. Feed Isaac. Wash Isaac. God, and to think half a year ago this was resigned to the daydreams of a twenty-four-seven hormonal nightmare à la me. You kind of lose the allure of a nude stud if he's just a catatonic zombie twenty-four seven. Anyway, where was I? Right. Washing. More eating. Shopping. Never for long, and I would sprint back inside to make sure he didn't have the gun to his head. Fuck. That.

Seriously, I get the chills every time. It's not right. So I keep to a rhythm. Which meant, at night, Hell continued. It's not something that's easy to just cancel. This isn't your ordinary, run-of-the-mill venue. Getting the word out can only reach certain circles, and that was Isaac's forte. I just work here. Kind of.

So at night, I would dip back and forth between Isaac and the employees. Spent a lot of time at the bar with Danny, downing shots till I was up to facing Isaac again. You know, he vomits sometimes. And I'm left to clean that shit up.

A lot of the day I'd just talk to him. Sometimes it looked like he might even be listening. I just vented about stupid celebrity gossip; what my fashion empire dreams involved. The parties, the mansions. Parties in those mansions. A whole lot of vain shit. In all honesty, I said that stuff just to get a rise out of him. I don't want uber fame. I don't know the first thing to do with that shit. I just want my designs out there. I want to make a name for myself. And yeah, if I gain some notoriety, and maybe that brings with it some big money, I don't want that extravagant lifestyle. I live that every day, and it's not the top shit it's cracked out to be.

But being real here, I will keep some of those luxuries. I mean, honey, if you try and take the van-der-Western-speedster-espresso-machine-from-the-Netherlands off me, I'll bite off your fucking ear.

And then, of course, I told him how I felt. It was cheesy as shit and doesn't bear repeating. A lot of jumbled, disparate thoughts that made no goddamn sense, but he was an attentive audience, and sometimes, when he would look, like, actually look at me I felt like maybe... Maybe he cared.

I don't have the miracle cure. (Sign me up for that shit!) I don't know how to help him. So I'll do the best I can, and when he feels up to it, we'll talk. That's all I can really offer.

The best times are when he sleeps. Which is a lot. Playing nurse to Isaac before was already a full on commitment. This feels like a lesson in extreme patience and willingness to put up with a twenty-two-year-old baby. I have to feed him with a spoon and give him stories to keep him sterile. I paint a picture of a useless fish, but that isn't all there is to it.

Isaac cries a whole goddamn lot. Which means I cry a lot too. Can't help it. He speaks frenzied whispers to himself, asleep or awake. When he does talk, it's void of emotion, or so brimming with it that it hurts like ice to the balls. Sometimes he was too much, sucking all the air, ripping the life force right out of me, and overwhelmed, I had to take a breather outside.

Can't believe it took me this long, but midway through that second week, I remembered that I wasn't alone. Hell is home to more than just one tragic soul.

The zen garden I'd avoided like the plague. Now, stepping into it, it's with a certain hum of anticipation. And wow, does it look gorgeous. Corin's neon wonders have spread across all the walls, an iridescent colourscape that transformed the zen garden into a room for the soul, not just the eyes. Everything from desperate shouts in the aching corners of her mind: 'If the world was blind how many people would you impress?'

'Close your eyes to shit that hurts your eyes, but you can't close your heart to the shit that hurts your soul.'

More and more, amidst the exotic patterns and creatures. Too many, till they almost crashed in on each other like the ocean at storm.