Anger Management [Meloghia]

Chapter 8: Self-medication

Ghiaccio breathed in the smoke and let it out again. He felt lighter, his mind not so bothered by the trivial stupidity around him. He sat on the balcony with Pannacotta passing the joint back and forth. He reclined his chair back to look at the sky and propped up his feet. Pannacotta soon followed suit after a couple of drags. At first, Pannacotta had almost choked on the smoke which made Ghiaccio laugh, he was such a privileged kid, and yet, Ghiaccio liked him. People like Pannacotta usually pissed him off, they were entitled and looked down on people like him, but Pannacotta wasn't like that. He sought out Ghiaccio, he wanted to hang out with him. It was strange. People usually gave him a wide berth because of his anger. The only person he'd ever met who wasn't put off by it was Melone.

Until Pannacotta.

"Oi, Pannacotta—"

"You can call me Fugo. Everyone else does." Sounds like Fugue. Ghiaccio laughed to himself, it seemed fitting.

"Okay, Fugue."

"Fugo," he corrected.

"No, like, cause you go into fugues, get it?" Ghiaccio laughed again.

"You are weird when you're high. Like a different person."

"Cause I don't give a shit." Ghiaccio smiled. "The guys like getting drunk, but that's not nearly as fun. I'm usually confused and don't remember shit, but when I'm high, I just feel so relaxed. Even Melone doesn't bother me."

"You do know that if you can't remember shit, then you're drinking too much, right?" Fugo warned, raising his brow.

"I can't let that fuckass, Formaggio, drink me under the table. Thank god his tolerance isn't that high. If I went against Illuso, I'd be dead. Again," Ghiaccio laughed hard.

"You are one dark motherfucker." Fugo took the joint from him and inhaled before handing it back. "What was it like?"

"Being dead? Shit, I don't know." He took the joint back and smiled. "I know it hurt. Scar's still there." Ghiaccio pulled down his collar to reveal a giant red gash on his throat. Fugo's eyes got large and Ghiaccio chuckled. "Yeah. I remember feeling cold, which I remember thinking was weird because White Album regulates my temperature. I can make it -200 degrees and still won't feel it."

"Damn," Fugo said.

"I can tell you, getting impaled sucked, but for some reason though, I remembering feeling relieved."

"Relieved?" Fugo cocked his head as he looked at Ghiaccio who took another drag.

"Yeah," Ghiaccio said, breathing smoke into the sky, trying to remember that moment. "Like I was glad to be done with it. I didn't have to try anymore. I felt like I do now, relaxed."

"So dying is like getting high?" Fugo asked.

"I guess." Ghiaccio snickered and then took a deep breath. "I've been fighting for survival my whole life. My dad's been beating me since I could walk. Mom left and then I had no one. I've never really had friends. People don't like it when you get mad at them. Even if they are dumbasses."

"Yeah, that's why I got into it with Mista this morning. Just being a dumbass that can't clean up."

"Oh, shit, don't get me started on not cleaning up. Illuso is the absolute worst. He takes forever in the damn bathroom and just leaves shit everywhere. He just thinks he's king of the world and that we are all his servants." Ghiaccio just shook his head and Fugo laughed. "I think Prosciutto's probably the best at that. He can be a real nag but he's not the worst one in this place." Ghiaccio handed the joint back to Fugo.