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Epilogue

I start acting out in August of 1983.

I'm sad for awhile. Really, really fucking distraught. I figure Vic dying was my punishment from God for shoving my dick into a craphole. It's unethical, right? It's just the natural order of things; love is for an egotistical male and an insecure female to find as soon as possible, get hitched, and have an unhappy family. The American dream. Survey says I should've fucked a woman. Now, because of my dumb-ass faggot brain, the guy I loved, or at the very least adored, is rotting in a coffin beneath twenty square feet of dirt and a vague, callous headstone.

The self-pity carries on for much longer than I'm proud of. I stay inside for two weeks straight; I lie in bed all day and chain-smoke out the window like a goddamn chimney whenever my parents are out. Once the official letter from the district comes in the mail about my grand flunking of eleventh grade, Richard literally drags me out for a lecture and then decides I need to get a job or volunteer at a homeless shelter or enlist in the military; then stops screaming and sends me back to my room still smelling like stale sweat and self-pity without dealing me an actual punishment. I can't even bring myself to give a damn. I'll probably die by twenty-five anyway, so why gripe about it?

Mind you, this is before I come to my profound realization that I need to fucking live. What, did you think that I immediately started up my passive-aggressive 'I love life' agenda?

No, I'm a tornado of despair and angst for a long time.

It takes almost two months of Tony ignoring me for me to snap. School lets out mid-June, and I'm either sneaking out to the liquor store for whiskey and cigarettes, or I'm on my windowsill ingesting them. Before I met Vic, I would sometimes climb onto my roof to drink or smoke. I can't do that anymore. Roofs are sacred. I can never go on one again.

The thing with Tony is, I've been depressed before, and he's helped me snap out of it. Everyone has that phase between thirteen and fifteen where the tiniest thing sets you off and you're either ready to punch someone in the throat or burst into tears. I was a goddamn crier. I started skipping school and working up the nerve and the money to buy a gun off someone so that I could shoot myself because I thought that it would never fucking end. I thought I'd be a tortured fourteen-year-old forever (yes, I am aware of how melodramatic that sounds). Anyway, Tony slapped some sense into me eventually. He made me realize that everyone gets sad, especially when they're teenagers. That's when the sex drive kicks in and it's all a mess of hormones and angst.

It's different with Vic's death. For one thing, Tony isn't here. I became a faggot, he became a stranger. It really fucking blows because he was the one person who could tolerate my bouts of bitchiness and hyperactivity. Me putting my dick somewhere I shouldn't was enough to send him packing. Figures. Tony was a loyal friend, but he was biased to all hell, and now he's nothing but an asshole.

The other thing is, death isn't temporary. Me being fourteen and upset that I had to mow the lawn? That ended. But Vic...Vic isn't coming back. And that's why, close to the end of July, I get really, really pissed off.

Vic did not deserve to die. Aside from the whole gay thing, he was an exorbitantly good person. I'm the one who fucking deserved it. I'm a basket case with a short temper and no talent. The fact that anyone—fucking God—could let him die and let me live shows me that the world is chaos. Vic could've made a difference. He could've gone somewhere. He probably could've toured with Bowie or Black Flag; I'm sure either one would've loved to take him. Well, fuck you, God, and your goddamn death list. There's no chance in hell I'll listen to you if you let shit like this happen.

Occasionally, my mom feels bad for me and loans me a few dollars to get myself something from the grocery store. Usually, I hoard it until I have enough for liquor or cigarettes, but on the sixteenth, I really want some chips.