Page 49 of Psycho Boys

He lights two cigarettes, handing one to me, and the nicotine rushes to my head like an intense high, I'll admit, making me a little wobbly on my feet. I grab Ash's shoulder for support as my sight blurs and colors pop like a kaleidoscope.

"Woah," I mutter, feeling sluggish all of a sudden. "What the fuck kind of cigarette is this?"

Ash, smirking as he puffs away on his as normally as can be, winks, scooping my bag up off the ground and slinging it over his shoulder.

"The kind laced with that dust, bro," he laughs as he helps guide me away from my masterpiece, toward the end of the tunnel that I came in through.

"Bro, you could've at least warned me," I mumble, slurring my words.

I was never a fan of angel dust; downers are more my thing, but the different high feels good, loosening me up in ways I've felt so stuck in lately.

The tunnel’s mouth yawns before us, a dark, promising escape. The city sounds—a distant siren, the rumble of traffic—seem muffled as if filtered through a thick fog. My legs feel like lead, each step a monumental effort. Ash’s arm is a surprisingly steady support, his grip firm but gentle. He’s silent, letting the drug do its work, letting the haze settle over me.

We emerge into the harsh sunlight, the brightness a painful difference to the tunnel’s gloom. The world swims, colors bleeding into one another in what looks like another dizzying kaleidoscope. I squint, trying to focus, but the images remain blurry and indistinct. He guides me towards my car parked a few blocks away; its paint is glassy and perfect, the complete opposite of our own lives.

He opens the passenger door, and I slump into the seat, the warm leather surprisingly comfortable. The world tilts, then rights itself, but the dizziness lingers. Ash slides behind the wheel, the engine sputtering to life. As we pull away, I catch a glimpse of my graffiti in the rearview mirror through the iron bars of the tunnel—the rose, vibrant and defiant, a stark contrast to the grey city fading behind us. It’s a beautiful piece, I think, even if I can barely see it clearly.

The ride is a blur of sensations—the jarring bumps in the road, the smell of stale cigarettes and exhaust fumes, the rhythmic thump of the music on the radio. I drift in and out of consciousness, the angel dust weaving a strange, hallucinatory tapestry of images and emotions. Cali’s face flashes before my eyes, then Five's, Dom's, and Ash’s, then my father’s—a grotesque, distorted caricature of the man I’ve always known.

The car slows, pulling up to a familiar building—our apartment, a dilapidated complex on the edge of town. Ash turns to me, his face etched with a mixture of concern and something else—something like pity.

“We’re here,” he says softly, his voice barely a whisper.

He helps me out of the car, his hand steadying me as my legs threaten to buckle. The air is thick with the smell of decay and desperation, a fitting reminder of what's to come.

We climb the creaking stairs, each step an agonizing effort. The door to the apartment is unlocked, and Ash pushes me inside. The room is dark and sparsely furnished, which I've never realized before—the only light coming from a flickering bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling—the neon lights for once aren't on. He lays me down on the couch, pulling a thin blanket over me.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm against the chaos swirling in my mind. “Everything will be alright. By the time you wake up, everyone will be home.”

I close my eyes, the last vestiges of the angel dust fading into a deep, dreamless sleep. The city, our fathers, Cali, Dom, Five, and Ash—they all recede into the background, replaced by a quiet, almost peaceful darkness. For now, at least, the game is over. The painting is finished. And I am finally free... in a sense.

TWENTY

ROAD RASH

YOU SHOULD'VE KILLED ME WHEN YOU HAD THE CHANCE: A DAY TO REMEMBER

ASH

Gripping the edge of the sink, I let the faucet run just for background noise and the occasional splash of cold water on my face to bring me back to focus and soothe the turmoil within. I’ve always hated looking at my reflection in the mirror because I couldn't stand what was staring back at me—the disgust, the pity, the overwhelming sense of loss, fear, and shame. The bruised and broken version of myself. The list is endless.

But now, staring into the mirror, I see something different: determination, a fierce resolve, strength, independence, pride.

Yet, beneath the surface, the cracks remain. I'm still mending, piecing myself back together, a process Calista’s return has immensely eased. Having the group reunite lifted an unbearable weight I was carrying on my shoulders; each day feels a little lighter and easier to deal with.

There had been a time when, ending it all, just killing myself seemed the only option, a preferable alternative to confrontingthose who had hurt me. The future had been a bleak nothingness of darkness and betrayal. But now, it shines with a brilliance I never thought possible. I don't believe in murder, but I do believe in justice. In reclaiming the fucking power they stole. In retribution. And I believe in an eye for an eye.

My father ruined my fucking life—he shattered it—and now I'm about to fucking shatter his.

A smile touches my lips as I notice the newfound brightness in my eyes. I'm ready. Ready to reclaim my life. The consequences will come later; for now, I’m prepared for the battle.

Turning off the water, I dry my hands and face. Opening the bathroom door, I almost collide with Calista, a wide grin illuminating her face. Her arms are crossed, accentuating the curve of her breasts beneath the neckline of her tiny red shirt.

"Feeling better?" she asks, her gaze intense, almost predatory.

"Much better. You?" I reply, lifting her into my arms as her legs instinctively wrap around my waist.

"Oh, I'm feeling fantastic," she purrs, cupping my cheek with one hand, the other at the nape of my neck as we walk towards the commotion in the living room.

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