Part 21 (1/2)

”Yesterday,” I said. ”You and Trent met me at Mama C's and we went to that place, that store, right? In the dressing room?”

He shook his head. ”No f.u.c.king way. Wasn't us. We were here. We had Bailey go out and get us food. Trent couldn't f.u.c.king move!” Trent was sitting on an overturned milk crate on the other side of the room and he started to laugh. Johnny shook his head and shot me a look, a private look, mocking Trent.

”But you pulled blood from his veins,” I said. I was getting agitated and confused. This happened, right? I didn't hallucinate all of that s.h.i.+t, did I? ”We shot it. It was, it was ...”

Johnny gave me a really strange look, like I'd just unzipped my pants and started peeing on the floor. He actually inched away from me.

”Take this, man,” Johnny said, holding out a baggie of H. ”You need it.”

I looked at the bag and suddenly I found myself vomiting, splattering acid bile across the floor, across my shoes. Just looking at that stuff and I felt queasy and off-balance, like the whole room had just tipped over the edge of a cliff.

”f.u.c.k man,” Johnny said. ”You're cleaning that up. If you can't hold your s.h.i.+t together, I'm certainly not holding your hand ...”

I tried to see Taylor again last night. I made it through the front door this time, but there was no one inside. Then I heard music coming from the backyard. They were all back there, gathered around Floyd and his guitar.

I stood in the kitchen for a while, watching them through the sliding gla.s.s door. They looked so happy. They looked so far away.

I could only see the back of Taylor's head, but she looked comfortable out there. And that new guy was sitting across from her, wearing an idiot grin. Just like Trent. I'd be surprised if there were even an ounce of brain behind that smile.

But I would have apologized to him in a second. I would have begged his forgiveness, begged Taylor's forgiveness, if it got me out there, into that semicircle. But it wouldn't. There was simply no way out there, no path I could take. They were just too far away.

My veins have collapsed. They're flat as a pancake now. Just a minute ago, I was flexing and trying to work blood into my arm, but there was nothing there. I'm empty. The pinhole from my shot in the dressing room is turning dark, and I started working it with my finger and ... f.u.c.k! I don't know. It opened up. That tiny hole opened up and my finger slipped inside. There was no blood in the wound and it all felt very, very strange.

My stomach flipped as I watched my finger moving beneath my skin. All the way up to the second knuckle. I could feel suction in there, like my heart was trying to suck my finger into my circulatory system. And as I sat there, with my finger inside my arm, my vision started to dim, and my heart grew loud inside my ears, beating, beating, beating. It was a heavy, distant sound, and the beats started to fall farther and farther apart. Gray spots gathered in the corners of my closet.

I pulled my finger out and immediately I started feeling better.

There was no blood on my finger. None. Instead, it was sticky with some type of mucous or bile. Slimy. Chunky and gelatinous. Is that what's in my veins now? Is that what my heart is pumping?

f.u.c.k. None of this could have happened, right? It's not possible. There's just no way. I'm just hallucinating, right? f.u.c.k, next the walls will start to pulse and my b.a.l.l.s will disappear. The sun will rise in my closet and I'll go blind.

But. But the wound is bigger and darker now, and the vein leading away from that spot is turning black. It's like someone drew on me with a f.u.c.king Sharpie. No, it's like someone drew inside of me with a f.u.c.king Sharpie.

I want some more of that s.h.i.+t. I need it! The boy with the million dollar veins. Is he still out there? Is he looking for me?

I need to feel that again. I need to push back against this stupid f.u.c.king body.

This is it, isn't it? Game over. This is how it happens. This is how it gets you.

f.u.c.k. I. Just

(The next page is missing. The rest of the book is blank.)

Taylor didn't say a word. She kept her hand pressed against her face as she picked herself up off the broom closet floor and retreated back into the hallway. I packed up my camera and followed.

I still had Taylor's flashlight, and I watched with growing concern as she staggered back and forth in its light, swaying from side to side in the dark hallway. Maybe it was just her obscured vision that was throwing her off balance-she refused to move her hand, keeping it steepled across her face-but probably not. It's all emotion, I thought. The sight of Weasel's fingers had hit her hard; it had knocked her punch-drunk.