Page 21 of Impossible

Grayson makes neat lines of powder on the table between us. He uses a single to suck one up his nose. I wish Hollis weren’t Hollis. He’d use hundreds. It would be glorious.

I accept the wilting dollar. The powder is bullets punching through the soft membranes in my nostril. It doesn’t play nice with the liquor. Or maybe that’s the pill. Ash, all of it.

Saturdays are crowded. Orange and blue lights. Cigars and cigarettes and spliffs and joints. Whiskey and vodka and tequila and regret. Breasts—perky heavy saggy pear-shaped fake flat full. Eyes—jaded empty glazed sad hurt scared. More tracks are occupied. Absorbing it all. Better.

Jessalyn dances badly. Or maybe I see badly. The pill makes things swimmy. Tracks go static. Much better.

When she finishes, she comes over to us. Still topless from the stage. Ones stuffed everywhere. She brings a peace offering—a pipe. Homemade. Piece of shit.

“What’s inside?” I ask.

“What you want?” she asks.

“Ups.”

“Ok.”

Grayson comes with. We wait for her together outside. Topless and night time don’t mix. Unless you’re Grayson. He doesn’t feel anything.

He tries to kiss me. I’m too swimmy. I need ups.

Pretty pale blue rocks. Jessalyn helps me light—still too swimmy. The crystals glide in the bowl when they melt. Then I’m shaky. So shaky.

Grayson tastes like metal and nicotine and I decide he isn’t the shape I want. Jessalyn tastes like rum and sour milk. Wrong too. All wrong.

The wrongness angers me. The tracks in my brain devote themselves to it. An electrical storm of rage out of a sour milk kiss. My knuckles slam into the cinderblock wall of the club. BAM BAM BAM.

Joshuais the right shape.Joshuaisn’t home. Not really. None of them are.

I don’t know which Hollis I hate more. Dead dead or dead alive. My yearning is fire scorching me.

“Risk!” Grayson’s arms are around me, trying to hold me back. But I’m superhuman. I’malpha.

I growl. He lets go. He’s alpha too. Technically. Packless. Misfit. Like me.

But. I have more dominance.

The pale blue ices my veins. Just like Joshua’s eyes. I want to use it. I want to hurt Grayson. Just to see. Like ripping legs off a bug. Like ants under a magnifying glass. Like peeling skin back from sinew and muscle and bone.

His eyes are wide. His pupils are shot. My anger vaporizes.

I go back inside. The dancing and the noise and the chatter and the smells occupy more tracks in my brain. Not enough. But more.

A girl dances on me. I watch her muscles coil under her skin. A thread on her thong is loose. Caught in the crease of her thigh. My cock is a dead thing between my legs. She gives up.

I pull my knife from my pocket. I play tic tac toe on my palm. Not deep. Cat scratches, really. Another few tracks filled.

Still not enough.What else what else what else?

I’ve taken everything the world has. It isn’t enough.

The knife presses deeper in my palm. Just one spot. Pin prick. Deeper. Crucify me. Let me be reborn. Or not.

7

Impotent

Indigo

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