Written for Lady Simoriah for the 2009 xmas_rocks exchange
| This story is a work of fiction and therefore completely untrue. No harm or libel is meant or implied about any of the individuals named within this work and it was written without their involvement or permission. No profit is being made. |
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It was no different from other nights in those sorry times, really. Well, for the most part, at least. At home, alone, with a lovely bindle and incense for company... and then, when I had hardly pulled the needle out of my arm, the doorbell buzzed. Goddamnit.
It was Joe, guitar case slung over one shoulder. Fuck, was I supposed to work on something tonight? No idea, but his face gave away the answer. "...You've forgotten all about this." "This?" Trying to seem innocent and sober at the same time is very hard. "This being the fifth attempt at a fruitful songwriting session because the previous four you've forgotten or cancelled for some miserable excuse." Joe's gaze was disturbingly sharp as he examined me. "You're wasted again, aren't you?" "No." Eyes wide, I shook my head in a manner that always reveals a junkie. Joe sighed and turned to leave without another word. "Heyheyhey." I grabbed him by the back of his jacket. "If that really is the case, then you can't leave. We'll have your fruitful writing session right now." I said that just to seem like a good friend, not for a moment thinking he actually would agree to stay, but to my surprise - or maybe more to my mild shock - he did. "Whatever." He stepped in and headed for the living room. I closed the door and then only remembered all my drug supplies were still on display on the couch. He was examining them, his expression impossible to read, when I arrived. "Why do you keep doing this?" he asked quietly. I pretended not to hear, fumbling to collect the syringes, tinfoil, spoons and paraphernalia, feeling the delicious headrush that usually accompanied a shoot-up quickly wear away. "Steven." "Huh?" I turned around so fast that it sent my head spinning. Shit, having people always brought out smack's worst sides. "I asked why you keep doing this. Destroying your life. Yourself." "Geez." I was getting annoyed. "You sound like... a Jedi Master or something. 'Don't slip to the dark side', blah blah blah." He chuckled drily. "A Jedi Master? Have you seen Star fucking Wars at all?" "Yep. The newest 'un three weeks ago." Stoned out of my mind, so I didn't remember much of the movie, but that I left unmentioned. "Right. Though you don't learn to use the Force at the NA." Still smiling, he took off his jacket and flopped down on an armchair... but his mention of the NA had pissed me off again. "So what do we do now?" He raised an yebrow. "You invited me in, so you tell me. But keep in mind we're supposed to write songs, 'cause that's what albums consist of." "Yeah." On a whim I grabbed the plastic bag containing china white and made myself a line, not in the mood for writing artsy lyrics. He sighed, pursing his lips. "A little discretion, if you please." "You never minded before." It was hard to hold back the anger in my voice. "And how in the fuck is what I do in my own home your business?" He knelt down to the floor to take out his guitar, not responding or even looking at me. I felt - or the smack made me feel - like irritating him, so I added a touch more of the snow-white powder into the line, snorted it extra loudly, then threw myself to the couch, this time intending to take full advantage of the upcoming high. "I asked you a question." Some dope that had missed its destination tickled my upper lip. I licked it off. "It's usually called friendship if I consider it to be my business." Still not looking at me, he sat back down with his guitar and began to strum idly. "Oh yeah? Silly me who always thought friendship meant respecting the other and what they do." Three cheers for heroin-induced self-confidence. "That, and also taking care of the other. By the way, I remember I too asked you a question which you never answered." He finally deigned to glance at me, his eyes narrowed with anger. I was no longer pissed off alone. Great. "Oh, your rehab talk? Well, what if I don't want to spend days puking my guts out and then go sit on foldable chairs in someone's cellar and listen to people weep about how fucking much happier they are after giving up their narcotics of choice? 'Cause, Joe, my friend, I don't have that sort of stories to tell. I'm happy just like this. Live fast, die young." He neither flipped nor began to preach about the joys of soberity, which surprised me. "Do you even remember your life before drugs?" I suppose he had meant to catch me off guard, but that wouldn't happen. "I had no life before drugs." "You sure didn't. 'Cause you were fucking born to be a junkie." I was sick of this. "Did you come here looking for lyrics or a fist in your eye?" "Neither, I guess." His fury was giving way to weary surrender. "You just... don't answer the phone, weasel your way out of meetings, and when someone does find you you're always out of your head. I'm worried about you." I was probably the first person to whom he had confessed that he was worried about them, but I didn't find that particularly flattering. "As I said, I don't think it's any of your business." "Steven." I was astonished to notice tears in his eyes. "Do you always have to be the showman? The one in control of everything? Because we both know in real life you aren't. Neither showman nor in control of everything, especially not of your habit. Sooner or later, and I think sooner, it's gonna devour you." "Fucking poetic." My voice was cold. The second so-called high had worn off just as prematurely as the first one. "Now, if you intend to just talk shit and not make some goddamn music I'll have to ask you to leave." He collected his things in silence, less than ten minutes after he had got them off his hands. I thought he was finished with talking - and then he bent down and kissed me, softly, with just the slightest swipe of tongue. "We're brothers, and I love you," he whispered. "I just want to see you healthy again." And gone he was, like the wind, leaving me dumbfounded, for once not craving a fix. But you know what? Eventually I did get clean, for a considerable part just because his 'I love you' remained echoing in my ears, its meaning changing shape over the years, always giving me something to think about... and one day making me realise I wanted to say it back to him, and not necessarily with the brother part. He has never said it again, nor hinted anything of the sort... but I've seen the way he looks at me, the way he never laughs it off when I drape myself all over him on stage, his manner of calling me once or twice a month to just chat, with no real business to take care of, and so on. If I only could bring myself to tell him.
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