whispers and mutters • blasnique

Prologue

I look at the man beside me, rapidly chewing his mint-flavoured gum bought at some convenience store beside the gasoline station that felt like the definition of pneumonia and some other lung cancer.

The gasoline station worker kept on coughing, which kept me irritated and disturbed. They probably pay the guy jackshit, and it seems obvious anyway. Their stained and dirty-looking uniforms that look like they haven't washed their clothes for days. Doesn't make sense, but I'm just disturbed.

"You have like, a stick or something?"

Unique was a rebellious teen - definition of a runaway child, taking his parents' car with him and checking in to some sloppy (and nearly abandoned) motel and then joining and creating some band that doesn't make shit.

What am I? A conservative childhood best friend, someone who grew up with him and also that person who watched him grow to what he is right now. The only person that gave a damn about him.

I watch him reach for the money and give it to the worker, then ran off, not even waiting for the receipt. I only remember the time that he waited for the receipt, 'cause it came with the change given.

I look to my right, watching the city lights as the vehicle passes by. It was dark, and the stars shine at their brightest, looking at the moon who stood still at its place, following the fast pace of the car.

"Unique?"

"Yeah?" He responds in monotone, looking down, fiddling his jacket to open his pack of cigarettes during the stoplight. I stare at him, "Why am I here again?" I ask, avoiding eye contact. I wait for an answer until he reaches for the lighter and lights up the end of the stick dangling in between his lips, blowing a puff of smoke towards my direction.

I cough, then I threw a glare at him, but I looked away, "What?" I ask, waiting for the answer that I wanted to hear at the same time I don't, really. He heaves a light sighs then glances at my direction, eyes dead, giving me a "You-Know-The-Answer" look.

"Barbara isn't home, remember? You'll just keep me company for the rest of the night, I guess. But it's not a biggie anyway, right?" He raises both his eyebrows, then elbows me lightly, then letting out a small chuckle before holding the steering wheel and driving off as the stoplight turned green.

Yeah, right. I'm only there when someone else is gone, you only call me when you need me.

I just wish I was that gum that you chew, I just wish I'd be your addiction instead. I want to be inside your mouth, and I want to be the only one you taste. I want to be your fantasy and I want to be yours.

I hate the girls you bring over almost every single time, I hate your remedies to supply whatever your lungs need. Can't you see me? Can't you feel me?

"Yeah. When will we be goin' home?" I ask, dodging every topic that comes up to my mind. "You wanna go home now?" He asks then bobs his head, "Yea."

Innocence. Fantasies. Addictions.

You're right, I am sometimes being delusional when we both know I'll never be yours, but you can't blame my fantasies. You make me feel guilt almost every single time, you make me feel some type of way but you can't even dare to feel the same for me.

Can't you just stay clean? For once?

I don't want to be another support system that you hold on to, I don't want you to see me just as a friend, I want to feel something different with you, and I want you to feel it mutually with me.

You talk nice when you're sober, and I want you to stay like that.

Who am I anyway? I'm just a friend anyway that you only look for when you're lonely and suffering.

You only call me when you're high; I call you almost every single time.