In the Basement, In the Sky

One

So, Jen, or Atreyu, or whatever name you're going by today. Here you are on the kitchen floor again, face pressed to the cold tile and hair falling every which way. You're in your boxers and the rest of your clothes are in the kitchen sink (because that was important for some reason) and the tile is cold and oh, wait, you said that already, didn't you? Or you thought it, or whatever. But it is cold, and it's so nice against your flushed, hot skin, and holy shit you know what would be even better? A cold bath!

But the bath is too far, and you know yourself, and you'd just end up on the bathroom floor instead, and the faucet leaks, and the dripping would drive you crazy, and your neck tightens and your spine twitches just thinking about it --

But the floor out here is cold, even if it's not as nice as your bed, because Kylie locked you out of the bedroom again.

His loss. He's the one missing out on the kitchen floor.

Almost three hours later (and you know, because the molly is wearing off and things aren't quite as shiny and bright any more), the lock on the bedroom door clicks. You try to lift your head to look, but you're so tired, and everything is heavy like sand, like each molecule itself is nothing but you put them all together and they're impossible to move on your own. The door creaks open and soft footsteps make their way across the creaky, carpeted floor over to you, and a brightness spills from your chest out into your limbs and head because Kylie came for you, he's worried, he cares --

But no. He just nudges your leg aside with his foot and walks around your back, opens the fridge and pours some water. He doesn't say a word.

"Kylie?" you finally manage. Silence. Maybe his cochlear implants aren't in?

With all the energy you have, you roll over onto your back and tug at his pajama pants to get his attention. They feel like denim. Weird. Why would he go to sleep in jeans? He doesn't look down at you.

"My ears are not in. I am going to work," he says, with that familiar slur he gets when he can't hear.

Work? What time --?

He makes his way past you again and opens the blinds on the window opposite. The sunlight burns you, so bright, too bright, the molly hasn't quite worn off so it's still brighter than it should be and --

Kylie makes his way back to the bedroom, uncovering every window as he goes. It hurts so bad, why is he doing this to you?

Suddenly the jangling of keys comes from the front door, and Kylie says, "Jen, do not forget you have work later tonight." He's not slurring as much. His ears must be in. "I will remind you again in a text two hours before you have to be there. Please go in. We are behind on almost all our bills."

And even though he can hear you when you say, "I love you, Kylie," he closes and locks the door behind him without response.

Even if you were to turn your head, you wouldn't be able to see the door from here. But Kylie's right, you do have to work tonight, and damn, that means you have to save the acid laced Sweet Tarts until tomorrow.

Or, you know. You could eat some now. Would make work a lot more interesting.

Now that you have something to look forward to, you somehow manage to push the sad sack of bones that is yourself off the floor. You gather your clothes from the sink and rub your shirt against your face. It smells like sweat and deodorant, but it's soft, and with the oncoming headache, that's what you need right now. Last thing you need is to drop acid with a migraine and have a bad trip.

What you need right now is a shower, but what you want is to lie down and smoke a blunt, so what you do is give yourself a sink bath instead. You stumble into the bedroom, suddenly heavy and exhausted, and you dig your keys out of your pocket -- which is a lot harder when your jeans are a crumpled up mess on the floor -- and unlock your little personal drawer. Kylie has one, too, in the bedside table on his side of the bed. His has, like, pictures of his estranged family and his pain meds. You've never stolen from someone you know, whether it be drugs or money for drugs, but you can understand why he's be worried. Fuck's sake, you're an addict, and you steal from work all the time. So, you know. Fair.