Storymania - Popular? Part 2 by H Wood

Popular? Part 2
H Wood

“Party! Tonight! My place! – Be there, or miss the most fuc*ing brilliant night of your pathetic life, buddy!!”
Was the answer phone message he’d received after he’d finally crawled home, once the summer had finally started to burn his tanned flesh red, and send him blind. So it was with some excitement, a little nervousness and much needed frivolousness that he buttoned up his black Calvin Klein shirt, but not enough to hide his taut stomach though, and pulled on low-rise jeans, just not high enough to hide his slim hips. Whistling a tune he’d heard on the radio that morning he pulled out of the driveway and sped along to Baz’ house, number 32 Grande Avenue. He parked the car next to a dirty white civic and cut the engine. The house pounded. Fast beats rattled the driveways, shook the bricks and made the glass vibrate. A couple of already wasted youths that he did not know threw up over the railings, watching him lock his car door and turn to walk into his best friends home they waved, pleased to show off to their fresh faced girlfriends that they knew him (Him, Ken Smith…) It stunk like a brothel inside that door and he caught his breath when he saw his own closest friend throw up liquor all over the couch.
“Ken! Hey! Glad you made it buddy” it was Pete, a 20 year old crack addict that he
held a particular dislike for.
“I’m sure you are"“No, no I’m happy as hell, how are, you know...uh… things?”
“They’re, you know… okay”
“Listen pal, I heard about your accident…”
“Accident?”
“Yeah… I’m sorry”
“Pete for gods sake, what accident? I haven’t been in any accident! You see this?” and he pointed to the streak of red marking his face “This was no accident I did this on purpose!”
“Umm…yeah” there was a long pause, Pete started to pick the skin around his thumbnail “Hey did Tracey just arrive?”
With Pete’s pathetic attempt to excuse him self he watched the retreating figure disappear towards the door. Okay so now even his friends were acting weird. It seemed like this day was going to carry on in its first, cruel intentions. F*ck this!
“Excuse me?”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that out loud” He blushed pink then looked at the face he was talking to – it was a familiar face, youngish looking, almost pretty he was sure underneath all the orange makeup.
“Yeah well, I’m glad I bumped into you…Kenny”
The girl ran a finger up his arm suggestively. Immediately causing his flesh to tingle.

“Listen…uh…umm… Have you seen my brother lately?” It was a lame shot, and one, which he’d later wince upon remembering, Probably.
“No” the girl chewed on her gum loudly “Haven’t seen him since (chew, chew, chew) since Tuesday, why?”
“No reason” Out the corner of his eye he could see Baz gesturing for him to take the girl (Lindsey, he remembered) upstairs to his bedroom. Not tonight he thought. No amount of alcohol, or any other toxic substance for that matter could make him want to be that close, even touch another person tonight.
“So” she purred “Wanna go upstairs…talk for a while?”
He felt her hands touch his hips then slide slowly round to rest inside the back pockets of his Levi’s. He sighed, regretfully.
“Maybe later” Her face fell in disappointment, he knew that this girl had a thing for him, had done ever since 9th grade. What was wrong with him? He’d usually flirt with everything in a skirt – especially a sure thing like this one. Maybe it was the orange makeup- it made him uneasy. As too did the brown roots of hair fighting furiously to win over the bleached yellowy/white locks that Lindsey sported, the smudged pink lipstick that he’d not noticed before, or the too tight red bikini top the girl had on. Whatever it was, this girl didn’t look…Clean. She’d seen too much, knew too much, done too much and pretty soon she’d fall. Just like him, just like every other young fool at this party. Chattering, dancing, drinking, the smoke hurt his eyes in a way that he’d never noticed before, he made his way towards the kitchen. There she was. Wow.
  Breathing deeply for the first time in days he made his way over to where the blonde girl (without dark regrowth) with two fat braids sat – sipping delicately on a drink that looked suspiciously like vodka mixed with…what was that? Mountain dew? She didn’t like the taste of it he knew that, from the way she screwed up her tiny nose slightly every time she swallowed. Watching the girl with a new sense of admiration he discovered that he liked the way she politely tried to ignore the creep to her left with his arm about her shoulders and a whole nights worth of vomit round his mouth. Her friend, a tall, dark skinned, athletic looking beauty signalled something to her, waiting for a response that he could not see, she then walked off towards where a table of younger looking guys sat. The girl took another quick little sip, then gagged and set the drink down. Laughing out loud now, he cocked his head to one side, confused. What was it about this girl? She couldn’t be any more than 14, 15 at the most, and definitely not the usual crowd of over plucked, over bleached and generally over exaggerated screeching girls he usually encountered. She wore only the lightest makeup, and, when she stood couldn’t have been much taller than 5 ft 3, next to his 6ft 1 she seemed tiny – her curvy hips, although still young made her denim dress flare out slightly at the hem in a way that he found pleasing, if only because it emphasized the innocence she wore about her.
     One time, only last week in fact, he’d wore sex about him in the same way that a woman might wear Black lace. He’d whispered it in ears, laughed about it in rooms, done it in an airplane (family vacation to Greece, with a girl he’d just met) Oh god, the list was endless, as was the dirt. But hell, something about this girl! He noted that the wide eyed innocent look that she wore could have been a mistaken attribute, because when she reached for her glass a second time he saw a shake in her fingers and a tremble in her knees. That tremble grasped his heart in the same way that a young child might feel upon holding a tiny yellow chick in his hands for the first time. That small, warm, fuzzy body so delicately held between fingers and palm generated such tenderness, such infatuation - easily a child could play all day with a tiny chicken, and just as easily he could watch her all night.

         “Kenny!”

“Lindsey! What are you doing?”

She stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss onto his lips, the kiss, slow and wet lasted, and lasted, and lasted. He found himself responding much to his surprise and contempt, she tasted like smoke and strawberry bubble gum. Her hands slid underneath his shirt and touched his stomach, cool, pale hands that burnt his already baked skin. Just before her tongue touched his he pulled back, and blinked, raising a hand to his puffy lips.

“What is wrong with you?” she implored impatiently

Good question he thought, sick to death with all the nonsensical rubbish that ran thru his thoughts. He needed to forget this thing, this dark, unruly thing that had ruled his life for the past 3 days. Without thinking he put one hand to her cheek and roughly pulled it forwards. Again, they kissed, again he felt disgusted. His hands didn’t listen to his brain however, they stroked, grabbed, and finally pulled the girl upstairs. On the way up he looked down at them – same old cinnamony skin, long artistic fingers, nails so shiny they could have been buffed. These were his hands, his! Yet, they would not listen and he could not control them, they would have their way one way or another, his own passionate nature took control and he let his hands lead the way.

       Not more than forty minuets after, he opened the bedroom door. Looking behind him Lindsey lay stretched out beneath the covers, a satisfied smile decorated her ruined face, now covered in smudged black mascara, and lipstick. Her clothes littered the carpet – he’d dressed quickly and shut the door behind him, he wanted to take a shower but there wasn’t time. About to walk downstairs to get some water he looked about the empty hallway, on turning round he caught an eye. A violet wide open eye, belonging to a face with 2 braids, and a little denim dress that flared at the hem. The girl looked at him in with some shock, some shyness, and… He saw it in those violet eyes – the absolute disgust at what he’d become. She turned and fled back down the stairwell.
     For the second time that day he sank to the floor, frustrated enough to scream, cry, or both, he looked at the white scars on his left wrist, and rested his blonde head back against the wall. “Damn it!”.

They never lasted long, the actual periods of ‘doing it’. He couldn’t recall how many times he’d actually done this, although he remembered clearly the first time. That terrible, beautiful first night. Red. It ran fast, faster than he’d thought it would and it wasn’t so thick as in the movies. He remembered poking one curious finger into it, just to feel the heat. Hot. It ran quickly down one copper tone arm, covering the whole forearm in red, what wasn’t covered by the red river, was soon coated in the tidal wave he’d caused by grabbing his wrist with one hand and moving that hand up and down rhythmically. Afterwards that same hand left prints all over his white

bathroom. On the clean, fluffy towels his mother had washed only that morning, on the polished sink, even on his baggy white pants. He’d remembered wondering just how he was going to get the blood off the towels especially…then he’d passed out. He’d woken up in the same place except the morning sunrise stung his eyes, and the sound of his father leaving for work roused him further. Blinking furiously he’d pulled himself up, took a look at his scabby wrist, now covered in small, air-dried cloggy pieces and swiped his hair back from his face. He probably should have been dead he’d told himself, but he hadn’t been trying to kill himself. It was good that he hadn’t slept thru to his mom waking him up because she would never have believed that. Grabbing the towels and his blood soaked pants he’d bundled them up and tossed them into his closet – then he’d wiped the now brown coloured blood prints from the pristine whiteness elsewhere in the bathroom, and stepped underneath the cool shower spray.
  That had been the first time. Now, he could laugh at how confused he’d been back then, wondering why he’d felt the need to take the scalpel, usually used for his artwork to his skin, and also at how deeply he’d cut when there was no need to go so deep. Now he knew, it was the red. No paint could imitate the colour of human blood, not exactly anyway. He loved the colour. That deep, dark richness that appeared so refined. Some people he knew (well read about in newspapers etc…) cut for the pain, that sudden sense of release when the blood could rejoice freely. No. That wasn’t the way to live life he thought, people like that should see a therapist.
Anyway the actual cutting didn’t bother him, sure he felt the knife slash his skin, only he felt it in the same way some people might if they wave their fingers thru a candle flame, sure you can feel the heat from the flame, doesn’t hurt a bit, but its good to know that you dare to test it out all the same.

     Coming home late from the party that night, and undeniably drunk he’d swaggered rather unsteadily into the living room. His mom sat in one armchair half asleep, he stopped and looked at her. Feeling someone’s presence she’d woken with a start and stared at him
“Kenny?”
He swayed and dropped heavily into a chair, kicking the glass coffee table in the process and loving the sound of the inevitable crash as the pieces shattered. She didn’t say a word in punishment only offered a look of resignation in return for his look of satisfaction. Because he’d gotten no response he banged down his foot hard against the other half of the small table and listened attentively for the pleasurable clatter. Once again, no reply. She could see him eyeing up her white china cup so she picked it up and held it protectively
“Kenny, please sweetie, stop doing this to me and your father”
No reply, he looked down at his feet.
“We love you ken, don’t shut me out…I…I’ve been up waiting for you”
“I suggest you go to bed mom” he said without emotion, then added sarcastically “I’ll follow you up, I promise”
She’d obeyed, like she always did when he got cruel. He loved his mother and father more than anything in the world, why, how could he be so nasty? Did he think that his problems would go away if he were cruel enough to the ones he loved most? Respect was what they deserved for being such wonderful people, instead they got a brat for a son, a problem child too. Evil, disrespectful, mixed up, conniving, selfish, narcisstic… And he’d managed it again, that self- loathing thing. He’d once been so overly confident, where had those days gone? He followed his mothers footsteps up the carpeted stairs and sat upon the bed, pondering life for a couple of minuets, then
the need hit him like a blow to the stomach, need so great it gnawed at his insides and ate up the guilt he felt every single time…
      He took the blade to his disobedient hand and pressed down, it hadn’t actually broken the surface skin yet but still his heart thumped loudly in anticipation. Loving it he moistened his lips and pressed down harder, moving the blade back and forth as he did so – there – a few droplets escaped and ran down to the underneath of his palm, where they dangled precariously then fell screaming to the floor, after three more back and forth episodes a line of blood swelled from his flesh, he waited for it to spill over then bore down on his lips with sharp teeth, grinning deliriously. Sighing with relief he watched as the blood began to run sideways, following the contours of his hand and laughed when the warm blood ran backwards again and dripped, only this time the narcotic blood ran from his lower lip onto his chin, leaving behind a vampish trail of alleviation.

  To be continued….