Oct. 2nd, 2012

liesinwriting: (Default)
Author's note: I swear I finished this yesterday. I just completely forgot to post it.




Jamie

It’s a neat place. It’s got all sorts of neat things in it. These aren’t things that you’ll find in any kind of advertisement aimed at the well-to-do: walls painted white and patched in various shades of off-white, wire-frame bed and mattress with springs, broken window covered with a piece of wood—“It gives the room character,” Corey says when I walk in. She’s judging me, just like everyone else. She doesn’t say anything, but it’s obvious from her body language that she wasn’t expecting me to be me. This reaction is not at all uncommon. I am used to it. It no longer bothers me.

The bathroom has a sink with shaved hair in it. I take the towel from my bag. It was wrapped around other items to protect them from the rain. Now, already wet, it is difficult to dry my fur. A considerable amount of time passes as I move the damp cloth over wetter fur. A towel decorated with cartoons rests on a towel rod. I take it and finish drying off, replace it and leave. I will have to apologize later for doing that. Not to Corey though. It doesn’t smell like her. It smells like someone else.

My new room is small, broken, and livable. I am on my back, on the bed, when I hear Corey leave. I contemplate falling asleep, then find that I have. Whoops. Daylight has burned and I did not help myself. I searched for no jobs, produced no résumé. And now I will be unable to sleep at night. Through the window’s unbroken top half I see only a brick wall of another building, weathered and peppered with scars of decades of war with the elements, with human interaction. Rust flowed like rivers from the gutter, brachiating at random and creating a sort of dark masked effect against the brick, almost Gothic, creepy. Loud air conditioners whined somewhere above the picturesque damaged wall before me, and for a moment I am in the rivers of rust, watching them etch themselves into the wall through accelerated time, days and nights blending as the sky turns above me, stars then clouds then stars then blue sky. And then, suddenly, I am back in the room. On the bed. My brief sojourn into the waking world is over. I don’t even consciously track my hands anymore as they work the tasp into place in my left wrist. A cold buzz races like ice in my veins when I hit the plunger button. Except the ice isn’t in my veins, technically. It’s my nerves that carry the signal. My whole arm briefly becomes an icicle. Then the spike drives deeply, deliciously into my brain. The bottom of my skull splits. My identity falls through the new hole. I sigh. Probably I’m getting an erection.

Saying the tasp interacts with the pleasure center in the brain is disingenuous. It manipulates your nervous system so using criteria predefined by you. If your mind has a preferred mode for pleasure, set the tasp to that. It will twist the dials until you feel your quantifiable best. The device is named for a similar device in a science fiction book. It works nothing like that device, but the principle is the same.

The device is simple: size of an eye-drop bottle, metal tip on the tapered end. Press into your hand, it releases a drop of serum. I call it serum because I do not know what it is, and that is how it is marketed: serum. There are no guidelines on illegal drugs. Then all you do is rub the serum into your skin, and wait, and within moments your world shifts without changing at all. Important things are relegated. You can get carried away sitting in one spot, drooling. Some people use it so much they forget to eat, die on their beds and floors. I won’t do that.

The tasp is still going strong when I walk to the kitchen. I take some time to look through the cupboards for glasses, eventually realize I must wash one if I want to use it. This place is messy. Not dirty, exactly, but messy. I have to dig through dishes that have been rinsed and maybe washed, but not well. Everything my hand touches buzzes with electricity. My arm is on fire, a beacon of warmth and life. Ultrasensitive. I can feel tiny currents in the air. I spend ten minutes washing the glass, at peace with the warm water flowing through my fingers.

The tasp was once the source of turmoil in my life. Then it became the blanket I threw over the turmoil. The process was simple. At first, I spent more time off it than on it. When I was off, I felt guilty, and my family compounded the guilt. I began to spend more time on it. Now I am more or less always on the tasp. I don’t have bad days anymore. That’s one aspect of the tasp. The other is the physical change. A drug dealer with a sense of humor. The people who make the tasp are smart, mischievous and resourceful. The first time you try it, the random sequence embedded in every drop of the drug goes to work. From then on, it doesn’t matter what you do or how many times you use it. The change is irreversible. I got lucky and drew a wolf. I know someone who drew a platypus. At least I look imposing enough that people don’t mess with me. Not usually.

One problem: I need income to pay for the habit. It is difficult to work while on the tasp, so I haven’t found a job yet. I left my house when my parents announced I would be stopping the tasp or fending for myself. They dangled my freshman year tuition in front of my face like a carrot on a stick. I did not want to be treated like an animal. So I left. I have no money and very much hope that Corey doesn’t ask for the rent until I’ve had a job for at least long enough to have a paycheck delivered.


liesinwriting: (Default)
Author's note: I originally thought this was going to be a short story (as in, <5000 words) but I don't think that's the case anymore. In fact, at this point I'm pretty sure I have written myself into a slightly larger story that needs telling. This will be interesting because of the other story I am supposed to have written by a week from Thursday. This is gonna be a challenge I can't wait to kick in the ass.

Anyway, enjoy part 3 of "Gateway Drug."



Jamie (continued)


I have surmised that another person lives here, but I do not know where that person is. My nose tells me it’s a male, and which room his, but I have yet to see or hear him. His smell is… interesting.

Corey returns while I’m still holding the glass of room-temperature water, imagining I can feel Brownian motion with my fingertips. I know immediately what I look like, standing in the semi-darkness, staring ahead at nothing. I have lost time again. The tasp has that effect sometimes.

She looks at me, and I realize that she was probably at work. That means what she is wearing now is probably what she wears to work—important because she is wearing jeans and a t-shirt. A place with a dress code that lax is less likely outright deny someone like me a job. I should ask her for a recommendation. She looks non-confrontational. Asking should work.

She says, “How was your day?”

I take a deep breath and focus on the full message I want to convey. It’s getting harder and harder to complete a thought aloud. Everything in my head is abbreviated. I follow lateral strands of thought like a bloodhound, but one that picks up a new trail each second. When I think I have the thought, I say, “It wasn’t bad.”

“Not bad is not bad.” She walks to the refrigerator and stands before the door. It is covered with magnets and menus. “I’m going to order Chinese. Want anything?”

“No. Thanks.” I shake my head for the sake of clarity. Though I am hungry, eating takes too much time. Each hit of the tasp only lasts for a finite amount of time. I must make use of every second by enjoying every second. I hardly have time to eat anymore. Then an image comes to mind: black and white wolf-boy found dead in his bedroom. Newspaper headline: Idiot Forgets To Eat. “Actually yes,” I add. “I would.” That does not make sense on its own. “Like to order Chinese food.” She’s probably just going to tell me to do it myself, but I won’t do it if I don’t do it now. “With you.”

She watches me for a moment, but instead of talking simply hands me a menu from the refrigerator. “Their shrimp fried rice is good,” she says. “But it’s hard to fuck up shrimp fried rice so I guess that’s not saying much.”

“No,” I agree. I stare at the menu, uncomprehending. My eyes keep falling out of focus. The menu needs to be redesigned to be catcher, to make you want to look. I shouldn’t have to work when I want to order food.

And it’s then, as I’m squinting at the menu, that a voice behind me whispers, “Helloooo,” and I feel a surge of adrenaline bursting through my extremities. I yell and drop the cup. The voice laughs, says, “Hey, hey. Chill man. Sorry for scaring you.”

When I see him, I stare. I know I do. I am trying to break the habit, but this is really too much to ask of anybody.

Standing before me is a creature that looks like it came from a dream crossed with a history lesson gone too far. He’s six-foot I bet, at least. Hunched over so I’m not sure. He has feathers where I have fur and Corey has skin. He’s some shade of dirty blue that reminds me of water back home, in the low dip of the east field when it was empty for rotation, reflecting the sky half covered with rain clouds, with mother calling out—

“You all right, dude?” The dinosaur’s snout is inches in front of mine. I smell his breath. It’s spicy, like some Asian noodles that I like. I blink it away.

“Yes. I am fine.” But he’s sorry for scaring me. “I am just jumpy.” I was actually spacing out, but I probably shouldn’t say so. “Apparently.”

“No worries.” The dinosaur looks from me to Corey, back and forth. “Introductions?”

Corey obliges. “Jamie,” she says, pointing first at me, then moving with a flourish to the dino, “this is Tamlin. Tamlin—” the arm comes back to me, “—Jamie.” I watch it complete its arc and then settle on the counter. I look up at her face, see her watching me.

The dino sticks out a clawed hand. “Nice to meet you. So you’re the guy, huh?”

I try to think of what guy he’s talking about. I cannot come up with anything. “What guy?” Then it hits me. “Oh. Yes, the room guy. I am.” The room guy sounds stupid. More accurately, “The new guy I mean. Nice to meet you.” We stand awkwardly for a moment, with him staring at me and Corey watching us both. Then I realize what is missing. I raise my hand and shake his. “Sorry,” I say.

“It’s cool, man. You finding cohesion with the place so far?”

“Yeah. It’s not bad.”

“You know what you want yet?” Corey taps the menu in my hands. I look down, just remembering it is there. “We were gonna order Chinese from Harry’s. You want anything?” I focus on the menu, trying to make the blurry shapes resolve themselves into words. They remain blurry.

*

Corey

Well, I don’t know what I was expecting from a user. Something a little less creepy, maybe. Tamlin shows up and says “hello” all creepy-like, and then the wolf dude just stares. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he wasn’t so damned big. He towered over me, was at least half a head taller than Tamlin, and he just stared for almost ten full seconds. When I finally got him back on track—I was really hungry—he just stared at the menu for so long I thought he’d forgotten how to read. Maybe he had. Eventually he just pointed at an item and handed it back to me.

I once introduced Tamlin to a friend of mine who was completely unprepared for the idea that I was rooming with a male—scandalous—but a male genie as well. I probably shouldn’t call them that, but the way I see it, once you do the drugs, you’re using with full knowledge of the consequences. You forfeit the right to have me feel sorry for you. Pity, maybe. Anyway, my friend about jumped out of his skin when Tamlin laid a claw on his shoulder. I suppose I was hoping for a similar reaction from our doped-up genie wolf, but the only thing that happened was he took that blank look that he wears everywhere and turned it on Tamlin until the raptor got uncomfortable. On some level, I had to admire the self-defense mechanism being employed, here. The tasp did its damage to the brain, and slowed reaction time was definitely a side-effect. But instead of being purely detrimental, Jamie had adapted it for a kind of self-defense. He stared down a raptor, and then was apparently fine with it. Case in point: two minutes later, he and that same raptor were talking, the raptor looking up at him with something akin to awe in his face.

By the time I was finished placing the order Jamie and Tamlin were leaning against the counter, both talking animatedly… well, Tamlin was animated. Jamie moved his head some more than I had seen him move it so far.

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Brake

December 2012

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