requiem for blue jeans // bastille

requiem for blue jeans

notes: i've changed the perspective of this story from the last from third person to first, just because i think it fits with the story better. a more personal take. also, this will be an american au cos that's easiest for me to write rip. hope you enjoy!
DISCLAIMER: do not use any of the drugs mentioned in this story. they are ADDICTIVE and DANGEROUS. they ruin lives and in most cases, take them away completely. they're not to be fucked around with. don't even test them out. i'm writing characters who are not mentally stable and they turn to drugs and see them as something that's okay. this isn't meant to persuade anyone into drug use and i really hope no one reading this is suffering/or will ever suffer with terrible addictions like this. please stay safe. <3

Las Vegas, Nevada. 1990.

No lights were on in my small house. Every window had the curtains pulled aside to let in sunlight, but it was almost as if the 90 degree sun couldn't penetrate the chill and gloom that hung throughout the place. The tiny television against the back wall was on, but the VHS tape had stopped about an hour ago, and now the screen only showed black and white static. The white noise was turned up full volume, but it hardly disturbed us.

Our house was practically bare. The living room and kitchen were connected by an open floor plan and completely uninterrupted by furniture. We had a love seat set up in front of the TV, and that was where Charlie and I sat. He was asleep, his face as vacant as our home, mouth slightly open. The needle he stuck in his frail arm was still hanging there. As I watched him from the other end of the couch, it was easy for me to imagine that he was dead. Even with eyes open and speaking, he hardly looked alive. At the rate he was going down, it wouldn't take him long to match how he looked.

I didn't like to see him like this. It made me sick to think that one day I could wake up with him actually gone, and I might not be able to tell the difference. I reached across his limp body, plucking the needle from his arm and carefully setting it on the floor away from where he might step when he woke up. He didn't even flinch, far too lost in a coma of chemicals.

He was easy to move to lay on his side, giving no resistance. I made sure that he was in a good position for vomit to escape his airways if it came to that, then I left the rest to fate. I would love to hang around and watch over him, but I had to bring in money that didn't support his addiction, or we wouldn't eat.

The carpet was matted down and dingy after years of not really bothering to clean it. I walked softly to the hallway where our bedroom and the bathroom sat opposite of each other. I stepped into the bathroom over piles of trash and dirty clothes. I didn't close the door just in case Charlie needed me quickly, then stripped off my stained clothes to join the clutter.

My shower was lukewarm, but I still felt like I was being thawed out. The water washed away all of the drugs and the tears. The grime coating the house and everything in it washed off me, and breathed some life into me. I wasn't the corpse's boyfriend anymore. I was alive.

I stepped out of the shower and walked to the sink, standing in front of it, dripping and still somewhat of a mess. I took my time shaving and brushing my teeth, because it was really the only care that I got anymore. Deodorant. Hair Spray. Cologne. Steps closer to being a man that Charlie wouldn't even recognize if he passed me on the street.

The clothes I picked out to wear were ones that I kept stored in the top of the closet to make sure that they didn't get filthy like everything else. I even took them to the laundromat instead of our own washer and dryer because I was afraid they would collect the smell of rot. I picked out jeans and a white shirt from the collection to keep it simple. I gave myself one last look in the full length mirror in our tiny bedroom.