Leftovers

[kosherbacon]

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Afterparty
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I awaken from the murky, golden embrace of sleep to the ripe aroma of sour feet and cannabis. My bed sags in a way that no longer has me at the nadir of the dip in the mattress. If I had the power of making my dreams manifest, I should've dreamt about something other than my semi-homeless friend.

“Karin, get out.”

“No,” my bed-mate grumbles, with the forced hoarseness of someone who thinks acting sleepy will trick her body into making the endorphins go away.

“You should've called before coming over.”

I don't bother asking how she got in. I'd end up making wild accusations when it turned out I merely left the door unlocked.

“I had to get rid of my phone.”

“Again?”

“Pfsh...”

“Why're you here? Did you get evicted again?”

“Me and Vida got in a fight.”

“Was it your fault?”

“Probably.”

Karin's imposed on me worse in the past. I can let it slide today. I unceremoniously drag her out, feet first, and let laminated flooring gently nudge her head into awakeness. Once she finishes complaining about a concussion that's nowhere near as bad as the chemical burns in her hippocampus, I prepare a hearty feast of slatko and toast for two.

“Francka.”

“Hmmmm?”

“I got a letter from Marcin.”

“I'm surprised he found an address he could reach you at.”

“He sent it to school.”

“I'm surprised you show up at school often enough for them to hold your correspondences for you.”

“Peter's dead.”

The news is by no means surprising, but it still grabs at my intestines and twists them around my voicebox.

“I'm sorry,” she continues, as though a pre-recorded message instead of a response to visible grief.

“It's fine.”

“I know you two were close.”

That was a different lifetime. But what a lifetime it was. We were always happy, even though we were both diagnosed with various flavours of clinical depression. It was always mid-day in springtime, even though I'm certain our best moments came in the middle of the night.

Those were idyllic times, thanks in no small part to the fact we had enough ketamine between us to bring about world peace. He asked me to marry him once. I'm pretty sure he was high and he didn't mean it even then, but it was the thought that counts.

“May I ask what happened?”

“He didn't say. He was dead a while before anyone found him.”

I know what happened to him. Well, not exactly, but I know what kind of blow to brace for, should the truth be discovered. Overdoses and suicides have a similar flavour. Peter seemed like he was better than that, though. He always seemed like he could make it out alive if pointed in the right direction. On the other hand, Karin, and to a lesser extent, Marcin, survive hanging on a thread held up by God's sense of humour.

Speaking of divine comedy, that would mean that out of my old circle of friends, I'm the well one. That's an awful lot of responsibility. Not that it isn't hard earned. I've been medicated, I've been analysed, I've soul-bared and shoulder-cried, and in the past few months, I have been released on good behaviour.

All that is behind me now. Right now, the only thing reminding me of that other state I was in is Karin here. Soon, she will be gone as well, both geographically and metaphysically. It's all for the best, that she and the others exist in a different plane of existence than where I'm trying to reach.

“You know, he got me pregnant once.”

“Peter did? That could've been anyone.”

Karin's missteps into motherhood is a sad story that doesn't need to be brought up, what with all these dead bodies flying around.

“I'm pretty sure it was him.”

“Anyway, I have to go to school soon. I have to walk since I couldn't get a parking permit for my bike this year. What will you be doing today?”

“I'll go get some sleep at the bus station. Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“Maybe I'll throw a party. For Peter and all them.”

“How will you do that if you can't get a roof over your head?”

“I'll go talk to Lambert.”

“All of your things are at Vida's place. You should talk to her.”

“Yeah, but she'll listen to him.”

Memorialising a friend's overdose with a chemistry-fuelled orgy in the catacombs. The hilarity makes my appendix ache. Karin is the next to go, I'm certain of it.

“You're invited,” she says, as though I'd refuse. “And bring guests.”

“Like whom?”

“How about those creepy Russian girls you're always running around with?”

“Oh, them? I'd rather not.”

“I've seen them around. They're not kids.”

“They have school. And a future.”

“Unlike us? You're doing okay, aren't you? Since when were you their mother?”

I have no idea how that came about really. The girls remind me of days gone by, in a way that if they play their cards right, they can experience my good old days with none of penance. I want to say that I don't want them to get too crazy, but truth be told, I like reliving fictionalized nostalgia through them.

Besides, I'm really not their mother.

“Okay, we'll be there. Is there anything else you need?”

“Got any vitamins?”

Karin ignores my gasping attempt at starting a response and goes straight to my medicine cabinet.

“What's this?”

“Just paracetamol.”

“How about this?”

“It's for allergies. It doesn't do anything but make you drowsy.”

“Hey, do you still take phenelzine? There's a whole bottle here.”

“I haven't in a long time. Knock yourself out. Literally, if you want to.”

“What do I owe you?”

“Just take it. Leave the bottle. I don't want you getting caught with something that has my name on it.”

I know I'm doing the worst thing a real friend could possibly do for Karin, but it's her way, or none at all. Come to think of it, if she's throwing a party, she might sell my pills to raise funds. Or give out as party favours.

Next time, I'll give her laxatives and say they're a bespoke blend of PMA, MDMA, and ephedrine.

With my collection of illicit consumables depleted, Karin lets herself out so I can get ready for school. Every day, every contact, every conversation is a battle. And if one must die in battle, one ought to look their best.

Clean up.

Dress up.

Perk up.

Tighten up.

Shut up.

There, all ready. I'm the cool, suave, collected school yard hustler whose witty tongue is always three steps ahead, who always has her act together, and knows how to get a little dangerous without being eaten alive.

I'm such a fucking phony.

Now, now. No need for that language in mixed company. We're not all jaded lost souls. Only most of us.

God help anyone who stumbles into my wretched world.

[TonyTwoFingers]

I haven't wanted to live a drug-addled, dirtbag existence this badly since Trainspotting.

And I mean, I probably want that existence more often than the average person. Not a lot more. But still, more.