Darker Shades of Fear

Darker Shades of Fear

(Installment 20)

As I fumble through my lines
Tripping wires in my mind
There's a script to find
From another place in time
Where the memories race to a higher price to pay

Gonna take a trip down memory lane
For the millionth time today
I'm still waiting
Gonna take a trip down memory lane
And I don't have much to say

* * *

He’d taken to wondering how he’d gotten to this point.

Just when he’d thought that he had finally gotten himself out of a proverbial hole, he plummeted downward into another one. Part of him anticipated this plunge and the other part feigned surprise.

It was like his life was a perpetual rerun. The same shit in a different place, or simply a replacement for something or someone that had moved on. He hadn’t. His life had no plot, no intricate storyline full of tension right up to the dramatic climax and unpredictable resolution.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.

His life had been one hell of a story, however that was the life that he had (and refused to have) knowledge of.

It was the series of random memories flashing through his mind, scenes from this supposedly “deleted” life that had driven him to this. This time though, things were different. This time, he could not will these thought away, nor could he prevent them from occurring. He’d smoked five packs of cigarettes in one day. Even for Kenny, that was a little much. His manner was nervous, almost neurotic. They struck without warning, no symptoms or signals, no known elixir to cure the poison of these thoughts. But they weren’t poison. He failed to realize that it was his current existence was the contaminant and his mind was the cure – but we so often choose poison over truth, and Kenny was no different.

So here he sat, hoping to drink these memories away. He knew that it was probably a bad idea, but at this point, he had no other options. It offered a distraction for the time being, and the longer he could distract himself, the better off he felt he was. Once he’d lost count of drinks, he took to lighting cigarettes.

“Jesus… you look like shit.” Said the voice he’d come to know as the bartender.

“Good.” He replied through bleary eyes. “Hey, what’s that stuff…?” he asked, pointing at a slightly obscured bottle behind the bar.

“You don’t need any of that right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re shitfaced.”

“No, no I’m not. I’m just a little tipsy.”

The bartender laughed. “You can’t stand up.”

“So?”

“You’re gonna kill yourself. How much have you had?”

He struggled to count on his fingers, and promptly gave up, “I don’t know.”

“Go home, Kenny. If you don’t get yourself killed on the way there.”

“I don’t have a home.” He replied matter-of-factly, fascinated by one of the empty glasses of gin.

“You need a place to stay?”

“No.” He replied, “I got one of those. I hate that motel so much.”

The bartender shook his head, “You’re not making any sense. You’re drunk.”

“Yes, we’ve established that.” Replied a drunken Kenny trying to appear sober and failing miserably. “Please? Can I at least see the bottle?”

The bartender sighed, too annoyed to do anything else. He handed the bottle over saying, “Fine. Do whatever you want. Just stay out of the street.” With that, he left Kenny to his own devices.

He studied the bottle. It was an embarrassingly cheap brand of rye whiskey… but somehow it seemed familiar. Had he not been drunk out of his mind, he would have known that familiarity = bad, but he lacked the sober mindset. He shrugged and took a swig from the bottle, tasting the awful bitterness and the searing burn in his chest. He clenched his eyes shut and immediately regretted his curiosity.

The heavy scent of alcohol was so thick he could smell it from his room. Not that their house was very big, it consisted of no more than four rooms and a bathroom. It wasn’t really the smell that bothered him, he was used to that by now. It was the shouting and screaming and shattering that went on down the hall that he despised. He covered himself entirely with his blanket in hopes of obscuring his shape from view. With a little luck, they would forget about him and pass by the room without so much as a glance.

SMASH

THUD

SMACK

The young boy now assumed the fetal position, hugging his knees as the noise drew closer. His breathing grew heavy, despite his best efforts to silence himself completely.

“You got no right, you drunken lazy ass whore!” a loud male voice boomed.

High-pitched manic laughter sounded in reply, “‘lazy ass whore’? I’m the one with the fucking job!”

“Oh, I forgot! Working at seven-eleven is an accomplishment!”

“At least I bring home a goddamn paycheck you alcoholic piece of shit, I swear to God, you’re worthless!”

SMACK

“Don’t you talk back to me! This is all your fault! You and that goddamn kid!”

“That ‘goddamn kid’ happens to be your son!”

“If you couldda kept your legs closed, he wouldn’t be!”

“Oh, because I got knocked up all by myself without any help from you, Dave!”

“You couldda aborted it!”

“Yeah? With what fucking money?!”

The smash of a bottle shattering on impact when it hit the wall rang loudly through their poor excuse for a house. He watched it sail with the grace of a brick through the air from a distance in his doorway. It collided against the wall adjacent to his bedroom. His pulse pounded in his ears, his heart thudded so loudly he was sure they would hear it. At nine, they still held him prisoner.

By four in the morning, he was certain they had retreated into separate places and passed out. He breathed a silent sigh of relief and managed two hours of sleep. All variables considered, this had been a pretty good night.

He gripped the edge of the bar tightly, escaping from the grasp of whatever the hell it had been. He buried his head in his hands and a feeling of desperation settled over him. This memory had little effect on him. The mental paralysis was induced by the knowledge that he couldn’t escape it. He was no longer the prisoner of two alcoholic excuses for parents, but he found that he was very much still the same nine-year-old boy shaking beneath the sheets, prisoner of his own past.

Perhaps the most infuriating aspect of this infernal circumstance was the fact that he could not isolate the catalyst. An entire week (or what he assumed was an entire week) had passed like this, each day he was falling deeper and deeper into something he refused to think about. The question he couldn’t answer was: why? He figured that if he didn’t think about the reason behind it, he could avoid facing it all together. As usual, he was wrong. And as usual, he really didn’t care.

Or that was what he told himself, anyway.

“Christ, I told you not to drink any more!” Cried the bartender, snatching the now half-empty bottle of rye away from the dangerously intoxicated man opposite himself.

“You said I could have it… I think.” He managed.

The bartender had never seen him in this bad a state.

“What happened to you?”

“Good question.” He replied.

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Kenny. What the fuck happened to you?” He demanded forcefully.

“I said I don’t know!” He shouted, “I have no fucking clue what’s doing this to me!”

“Doing what to you?”

“Making me remember!” He replied, on the verge of tears.

The bartender saw this and his jaw dropped, but he was wise to close it again. He had no response, no idea of how to reply. He’d never understood Kenny, and maybe he was wrong to make such an assumption, but he’d never believed this man had the ability to cry. He was almost certain that this occurrence marked a sign of the apocalypse.

“…I don’t want to remember…” He said in what for all practical purposes was comparable to a whimper. “But I can’t make them stop…’

“Make what stop?”

“The memories.” He answered, “At least, I think they’re memories…”

“What’s so bad about them?”

“…I don’t know!” he cried, too confused and tired and drunk to understand. Had he been sober, his answer would have been the same.

“What do you remember?’

“I don’t want to think about it.” He said, holding his head in his hands, regaining some sort of composure.

He sighed, “You’re hopeless.”

“I know.” He muttered as he stood from his seat. He staggered a bit before reestablishing equilibrium.

“Why don’t you go into the back and sleep it off?” The bartender suggested.

He laughed a little. “I don’t sleep.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I don’t know. And I’d prefer to have it that way.” He replied, so very far from sober as he began staggering out of the bar.

The bartender made a quick sign of the cross as he watched the blond man depart. He was now more confused than ever before. Just when he thought he’d discovered Kenny’s “true identity” so to speak, he was shocked to find that his conclusion was completely false. He’d never known anyone so complicated. He shook his head and went back to work.

Kenny managed to make his way back to his motel room alive, but only in the literal sense of the word. He felt sick to his stomach now, and the spinning room did nothing to ease the sickening sensation. Luckily, he’d made it to the bathroom before he could throw up on the floor, promptly passing out after the contents of his stomach had been emptied.

He wiped his mouth absentmindedly, still sick and lightheaded as a result of what he guessed would classify as bulimia, but it wasn’t like he was doing it out of vanity. It was punishment, really, and this was the only way he could think of that wouldn’t be breaking his promise. Well, from his end he was, but what Clark didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. It was a believable enough scenario…. He debated this until he felt himself collapse, smashing his head forcefully on the porcelain sink.

‘I wonder if I’m bleeding…’ Kenny thought idly before his world went black for what he had hoped would be the last time.

Unfortunately for Kenny, the sound of his head smashing against the sink was loud enough to get Clark’s attention. He’d been so overprotective lately. It was probably because he was afraid that Kenny would pull this sort of stunt again, which completely justified his behavior.

He wasn’t as shocked as he should have been when he opened the bathroom door. More disappointed and sick to his stomach… Kenny had broken their promise. Desperation took hold of him for a moment, but the sight of his friend shook him back into reality. He found, much to his relief that Kenny was still alive. He was noticeably paler… upon further observation Clark noticed that he looked really sick. Maybe, maybe this time it really hadn’t been his fault… maybe Kenny had really fallen ill…. He didn’t have time to contemplate possibilities at this point. If he wanted to find out, he had to get his friend some medical help, and as soon as possible. With this in mind he ran to the phone and dialed for an ambulance.

This hospital was in a completely different state from the last, but they all looked the same, or so Clark concluded. He still didn’t like them and he was still worried. This time, they’d forced him to stay in the waiting room all night and forbid him to visit Kenny until they deemed it appropriate. He’d been more than upset by this news, reacting violently and then practically breaking down before the present staff. Tears weren’t enough, though, and he no exception was made. There had been one nurse who’d taken his side… but her conviction was overruled.

So he sat in the dark hospital, just waiting. All he knew was what they had told him: that Kenny was okay, and that they had managed to stabilize his vitals. Whatever the hell that meant.

Kenny came to with a feeling of disappointment as he realized that he was in the hospital… again. His eyelids felt heavy and a dull throbbing was present in his head, but he figured it was a result of the sink he’d hit his head on. He didn’t feel hungry or dizzy and guessed that they’d taken care of it. ‘So much for that idea’ he thought.

“How are you feeling?” Asked a female voice.

He turned to see a nurse approaching his bedside. She’d probably been ordered to watch him overnight. “I’m okay.” He lied, squinting to make out her name on the tag she wore. “Alissa?”

“It’s pronounced ‘Elise-a’, but I won’t count it against you.” She smiled.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” She said, “They page me by the wrong name all the time.”

“Really?” Kenny asked, sort-of amused.

“Oh yeah,” she replied, laughing, “I get Alyssa, Alannah, Eliza…” she sighed, “Anything you can pretty much think of.”

He offered a small smile, and then it vanished as he sighed. “Aren’t you gonna ask me why I’m here?”

“I think you know the answer to that. Unless you want me to ask you, of course.”

He sighed, nodding his head. He debated telling her the real reason why he was there, but decided that she would probably have him locked away.

Shit…

He scanned the room, but found no sign of his best friend.

“What’s wrong?”

“No, nothing… was there anyone… I mean, who brought me here?”

“Your friend. Clark, I think his name was. He’s outside in the waiting room.”

“Oh.” He replied, deflated. Then again, Clark had every reason to want nothing to do with him.

“The doctor thought he might be ‘a detrimental influence to your recovery’,” she mocked, “but I think he’s just what you need right now.” She explained before leaving the room.

When the door creaked open slowly, he was surprised to see Clark step across the threshold instead of the nurse he’d been expecting. Without looking up, he made his way to Kenny’s bedside with his hands stashed in his pockets and dark hair obscuring his eyes. He sighed before finally looking up, his confused, tired eyes traced with guilt met Kenny’s worried stare.

“So… um… how are you?” He asked.

“I’m okay, I guess. Um, what about you?” It was a dumb question, but the awkwardness in the air was too much for him to bear in silence.

He ran a hand through his hair with a sigh and a fake laugh, “To tell you the truth, I’ve been better.”

Kenny just nodded and looked away as silence passed between them.

“So… yeah, um, the doctors told me that you were… um, bulimic, or something.” He said, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

Bulimic. He didn’t deserve to be called that. He wasn’t worthy of the title. At least real bulimics had a problem.

“They said that you weren’t eating, either.”

All he could do was nod.

“I just don’t understand it, Kenny. I really don’t understand.”

He turned his head, wondering what he meant.

“There’s nothing wrong with you… I mean you’re fucking ninety-eight pounds, Ken, that’s just disgusting! You could have died!”

“I know.” Was all he could say.

Clark’s face illuminated with disturbing revelation. “Please don’t tell me you-”

“I didn’t, okay?!”

He was silenced by his friend’s interjection.

“I didn’t try to kill myself, if that’s what your thinking. I mean, I did, but not like that…” He struggled to explain. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“So you stopped eating for what? The sheer joy of starvation?”

“No! I did it to punish myself.”

“For what?!”

“Everything I’ve done.” He replied dejectedly.

Contrary to Kenny’s expectations, Clark reached out and took hold of his hand. Ignoring the needle and tube stuck into it, he gripped it as firmly as he could without hurting the bedridden boy. “I think you’ve been punished enough, Ken.” He said softly. “I think we both have.”

He nodded, solely to appease his friend. He tried to believe it. He tried to believe that they had paid for their sins adequately. Clark assured him that everything they had gone through in the past justified the wrongs they’d committed. The more Clark tried to talk about it, the less Kenny wanted to.

When he woke up, he found himself passed out on the bathroom floor with a headache; complimentary of the hangover he’d received as a reward for his previous binge. He sat himself up and lit a cigarette and refused to think until he’d smoked the headache away. He managed this task and sighed, unable to remember a time during which he’d been this much of a mess. Drinking was now crossed off the list of options, as it had created more problems than it was worth. This left him with only one avenue left to pursue.

He sighed before standing up and carefully making his way out of the motel and into the streets in grudging pursuit of something to clear his head.

“I don’t know if you remember me,” He began,

“Of course I do.”

Kenny looked unconvinced.

“I traded you the GHB for coke like, a month ago or something.”

He was surprised. “So you do.”

The kid nodded, taking a last drag on what remained of his cigarette.

Kenny recognized the brand. “Newports?”

He nodded, “More menthol.” He said, flicking the filter to the ground. “So, what can I get for you?”

Kenny looked confused, “What?”

“Coke, acid, E, crystal…”

“Oh.” He replied, “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Said the kid, “You want something.”

Kenny said nothing.

“Here. You look like you’ve got shit on your mind.” He said, offering Kenny a joint.

He held it in his fingers, inwardly deliberating. It was what he’d come for and he’d gotten it free… but something told him not to.

“Just smoke it like a cigarette.” He said, casually blowing smoke into the air.

The other boy still looked wary, “You’ve done this before?”

“No!” He responded all too quickly, earning a slightly shocked glance from his friend. “… Well, yeah. Only once or twice.”

Kenny just nodded, the pit in his stomach not easing in the slightest.

He sighed, almost bored. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing… I – I just don’t think I want to try it, that’s all.” He replied unconvincingly.

“Ah, come on! It’ll be fun!” He said, grinning. “It makes everything go away. All your problems, all your worries, all your pain… just disappear.” He replied in a drug-induced muse.

He sighed, afraid of the effects of the drug and the effects of not doing the drug.

“Hey.” He said seriously, “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you.” Kenny replied, as if stating a fact.

“Would I ever tell you to do something that would hurt you?”

“No.”

“Then let yourself enjoy it.”

Kenny sighed, glancing from the joint to his dark-haired friend. He slowly raised the small cigarette to his lips and lit it as he took a drag and coughed deeply for a good half of a minute.

“Relax, Kenny. You’ll get used to it.”

The kid exhaled a puff of sweet smoke, coughing a little. “It’s strong shit.”

Kenny reluctantly put the joint to his lips and lit it, inhaling the semi-familiar taste. He was surprised that he hadn’t forgotten it. He coughed on the smoke as he exhaled.

“And I thought you’d never done it before…” Said the teen.

“What?” Kenny asked, ignoring the revolting taste in his mouth.

“Pot.”

Kenny rolled his eyes, starting to feel the effects of the joint. He wasn’t pissed off like he normally would have been at the kid’s comment. He really didn’t care. He didn’t really like not being in control of his actions, but it sure as hell beat remembering them. He was too high to really care about the feeling of disgust his actions were sure to bring about after it wore off.

“So what’s your name anyway?” Kenny asked.

“Blake. Yours?”

“Kenny.”

“That’s cool. Good name. A very good name.” He said, before breaking into laughter.

Kenny laughed too, a side effect of the drug.

“My offer still stands, you know.” He said.

“What offer?” Kenny asked stupidly.

“I’ll still fuck you.”

Kenny choked on his third joint, dropping it onto the asphalt as he tried to recover.

“You okay?” He laughed.

He inhaled a few times, enjoying the flow of oxygen through his lungs. “I don’t know. Maybe. Am I?”

“You look fine to me.”

That struck Kenny as sounding disturbingly like a pick-up line.

“You never answered my question.”

“Um, no… thanks.” He replied, for lack of better.

He laughed, “You should really get over that masculinity complex.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Kenny replied, laughing at the absurdity of the suggestion.

“Unless… you’re just in denial.” He said, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Kenny laughed, doubling over in hysteria. “This is ridiculous!”

The boy sighed, shaking his head.

“Fucking Christ!” He sighed, exasperated, “Do you want me to prove it?”

“…Yeah. If you prove it, I’ll never bring it up again.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Kiss me.” He replied nonchalantly.

“What?!” Kenny shouted, appalled and shocked despite the high that was still strong. “How the fuck does that prove anything?!”

He laughed, “If you’re as straight as you say you are, you should have no problem with it.”

“…I can’t believe this. This is fucking ridiculous – you know what, I’m leaving. I don’t need to prove shit to some lunatic addict.” He rambled.

The boy threw his joint to the ground, grinding the stub beneath his foot. “Are you afraid you might like it?”

Kenny paused. Under normal circumstances he might have broken the teenager’s neck. He hated to admit it, but the boy had a point. Why was he so wracked by the idea? If he had nothing to hide, why was this so disturbing? It could have been the drugs, but the logic lined itself up neatly.

“If I do this,” he said, “I’ll never have to see you again?”

“Never.”

Kenny sighed, and finally consented. “Fine.”

It happened so fast it made Kenny’s head spin. Before he was aware, another set of lips were against his and he detected the faint taste of menthol cigarettes mixed with the semi-sweet scent trademark of marijuana. It was a familiar taste with a soothing effect. For a moment, he completely forgot the circumstances.

He pulled back, giggling. “You’re high.”

“So are you.” Replied the other, leaning in for another kiss.

Then, it was over just as quickly as it had occurred. The drugged up teen was smiling giddily and Kenny was horribly confused.

“Was that so bad?” The boy asked with a knowing smile.

“…No.” He replied, wondering why this was true. What bothered him more was the scene that had randomly consumed his mind. It was impossible, he would never have-

“So, having any second thoughts?” he asked knowingly.

His world began to spin, not from drunkenness this time. Instead it was pure confusion. “No. I have to go – I, I need to go…” he managed, putting one foot in front of the other without the faintest idea of where the hell he was headed.

His mind was fogged, a reward for his three joints and he hoped that he wouldn’t pass out before he got to where he was going… wherever that destination might have been..