Rec

V. Ugly

Foolish: that was the matter of seminar. Where I pottered, the watered anarchy, and the throats of life amiss. Metaphysical tears were the pipe dream, though my pins were fixed wrongfully, adamantine to the orchestra of fickle passions. Sensory there, drowned in an oil rig, and this synesthesia injured my sense of rights; I apprehended my sights, and when comes equal distribution, binaural riddles soak all to monopoly. Nothing to see.

And with these riddles, the sensitivity to, or intuitive digestion inched back to my conscious in partial measures. Weights dithered– virtues right, and a cold funnel left. But as realization jerked through the blackened paste, all that was contact grew superfluous in my dissent.

"Dennis, Dennis, look at me, man."

But then, the marbles of brightening trickled faster down the ducts. Waking conjured me such that it was a habit, a methodical doss. Multiple feelings glued to the cipher of my goalpost that was humanity. Though acutely was spite, that the combing was markedly substantial to my chemistry, lesser my judgement.

"Dennis, dude, wake up. You're scarin' us a lil' bit, man," it rung. And, with a crucial splinter upon the browned study, I juddered to my coequalities, all sensational knots massaged, left to oscillate, bowing in and out with a washed industry of direction. The gross of the occupants– those I've latched upon since several dawns heretofore– sat about as my frame to convoke.

Overlooking me, Alec sustained a steady few slaps upon my face from its nether end, whilst my dome was prone to the flax-yellow acoustic ceiling. Abruptly under the circumstance, I halted his labor with a scarcely equable bearing, contorted by the aftershock ever so lightly. He ruffled my smoked ligature of head of hair, stark in profundity whilst he pinched his eyes amusingly. "Ay, you breathing, chum?" he asked.

It seems as if the clench of the temper eased windlessly, there in the instance of my rouse. Danny and Quin abeamed in my sedentary hush, then Alec and Julian weaved upon my round-bringing.

"Jesus Christ," I bleated in a withered hem, briefly choked by the brittle wizening I've endured over the shelved consciousness.

A drink was placed in my hand shortly after I forced out a few more hawks. "He oughta be good by now, right?" Quin asked in a direction divorced of me, likely in harvest for a steadfast scan.

"Yeah," Julian mumbled. As that ornery tone sprung to my mind, dually, I felt my esteem pucker like a spider in the curl of death, and the rivets of dolor resurface. Quin and Danny sidled apart from me, while Julian ministered to my side, looking into my squalor of a condition. "I think you'd oughta go for a walk, or something, buddy," he stood up, and tossed my patch jacket into my lax arms, "Drink up, too."

With that, I felt a shade of irritation, "Why'd you feel the need to take my clothes off?"

"You threw it in the trash, man," Alec confirmed, piecing together the littered hairs of marijuana left about the dining table. "You started smackin' on the wall 'n' shit, woke us up real early. Sid got real fucked up, then got the boot."

As the name alluded to calling, the piece of novelty was rose aloft, simultaneously as the smarting of my orbs digested the sudden graze of dawn, "Where did Sid go?"

Almost punctual for the question, Julian appeared briskly out of his grandparents' room, shoveling the rest of the weed into a plastic bag. He then palmed off more of the bowling format of liquor bottles and flasks into a trash bag at his disposal, addressing me foremost with his eyes, and then a retch of the mouth, impotent on detailing.

"He's gone," Alec said, still unaltered in vivacity, "Julian kicked him out after lyin' to you."

"Lying?" I asked, sifting through the disarray of virgin belongings on the coffee table under my nose. And there, I reviewed the few pharmacy bottles bosom to me, one overturned, spilled in droves of ivory-white tablets, intersected by uneven trails of powder tinged a similar hue. I picked up one of the tablets of which streamed outside the bottle, glaring at the two divided segregates– ten, and three-hundred. It was the leftover of my Oxycontin, and by the differed look at the mingling, someone likely invited themselves into my wardrobe of jollies; I was angry. "Who took my fucking meds?" I growled, piecing the tablets back into the bottle anxiously.