Maybe I should call this Back from the Dead?!...
Just more swearing
& not a particularly high word-count!
Part 1
Carl sees Peter all the time. A dark mop of hair on a tall stranger, a slender gent in a trenchcoat, owl eyes prowling around a pub. Carl's guts claw at his skin in anticipation, in primal instinct, until he blinks once, twice, thrice, and the illusion slips angrily away. But people don't just disappear. Nevermind testy diplomatic relations with Russia, nor that 'some people just don't want to be found'. Heroin can remove a person's essence, perhaps, but not physical presence, existence - a body, to see, not even death can vanish that. But maybe Carl has been misled, because Peter isn't here, anywhere, not even in Moscow seven years ago, or five years ago, or even last year - when Carl wasn't strictly 'in Paris for a week or so, maybe starting the memoirs!' Yes, maybe science has lied all along and someone can just disappear, come only to exist in the split-second glances of others before fading into the ether.
Carl is so busy (not) seeing Peter, still, that he doesn't notice when Peter starts seeing him. There is a sense, though, a sensory perception: a slight tingle on the neck, like the hands of a spectre, an illicit thrill of being watched but not feeling sure of it, head craning like he's missed something as Carl steps into a cab, muscles tighten, peversely guilty. It has been so long since Carl has been seen in this way, his subconscious has entirely consumed its explanation.
He says to Mick, in the studio, "Ever feel like you're being watched?"
Mick is old, older now, and he smokes even more weed and knocks back glucosamine tablets to ease his joints. "Yeaaah. Sometimes actually still get followed or people not sure if it's me. Maybe you've got a stalker."
"Maybe it's one of The Deans," Carl grumbles, "lurking in wait to finish me off after killing the last shreds of my reputation." He scratches his head irritably, angering further at the reminder of age in the thinning of his hair at the front. Carl looks at Mick and sees his future - only there's no grin on Old Man Barât's face.
"Hehehe, mate, you remember how the NME twists things. They're nice lads." Carl glowers. Mick soldiers on, "Anyway. Maybe some bird will turn up with a blue-eyed boy called Carl Jr." Mick laughs to himself. "Time for elevenses, I reckon," he remarks to himself, reaching for a pack of Golden Virginia, and that means Conversation Over.
It's one of those strange moments of fate that just as Carl is drifting off into contemplation of old indiscretions and responsibilities, Lisa calls. He twists his shoulders awkwardly, remembering how long it's been since he saw her and Astile, how much he's been slipping on his well-intended promise to be there for them. But Astile looks so much like his father now. "Lisa! Hi darling, I've been meaning to call," he says, as warmly as he can manage.
"Oh, really." Yes, she's pissed off. It has been a while, and fuck, Carl thinks, when's Astile's birthday? "You're a sick fuck sometimes, Carl Barât."
"Aww, Lisa..." Carl feels this drifting towards dreaded confrontation and feels quite maligned. Surely Lisa should be used to his old sins of avoidance and laziness by now? "I know it's been too long since I got in touch -"
"Don't play the innocent with me, you... you..."
"I'm not, I-" What now?
"So you're trying to tell me you're not the sick fuck responsible for the card stile got this morning: 'My darling boy,'" she spits. "'Happy Birthday, I hope we shall meet again one day. Dad.' Kiss. 'Peter,' in fucking brackets. And where's it postmarked, you cunt? Your fucking part of town. What were you thinking, Carl? I know you still have problems, but... Carl? Carl? Carl?"
Carl can hear her voice still calling to him from the phone, now on the floor. His hands are shaking. Mick's saying, "Carl?" somewhere to his left and his body curls forward involuntarily before he vomits all over his new leather shoes.
& not a particularly high word-count!
Part 1
Carl sees Peter all the time. A dark mop of hair on a tall stranger, a slender gent in a trenchcoat, owl eyes prowling around a pub. Carl's guts claw at his skin in anticipation, in primal instinct, until he blinks once, twice, thrice, and the illusion slips angrily away. But people don't just disappear. Nevermind testy diplomatic relations with Russia, nor that 'some people just don't want to be found'. Heroin can remove a person's essence, perhaps, but not physical presence, existence - a body, to see, not even death can vanish that. But maybe Carl has been misled, because Peter isn't here, anywhere, not even in Moscow seven years ago, or five years ago, or even last year - when Carl wasn't strictly 'in Paris for a week or so, maybe starting the memoirs!' Yes, maybe science has lied all along and someone can just disappear, come only to exist in the split-second glances of others before fading into the ether.
Carl is so busy (not) seeing Peter, still, that he doesn't notice when Peter starts seeing him. There is a sense, though, a sensory perception: a slight tingle on the neck, like the hands of a spectre, an illicit thrill of being watched but not feeling sure of it, head craning like he's missed something as Carl steps into a cab, muscles tighten, peversely guilty. It has been so long since Carl has been seen in this way, his subconscious has entirely consumed its explanation.
He says to Mick, in the studio, "Ever feel like you're being watched?"
Mick is old, older now, and he smokes even more weed and knocks back glucosamine tablets to ease his joints. "Yeaaah. Sometimes actually still get followed or people not sure if it's me. Maybe you've got a stalker."
"Maybe it's one of The Deans," Carl grumbles, "lurking in wait to finish me off after killing the last shreds of my reputation." He scratches his head irritably, angering further at the reminder of age in the thinning of his hair at the front. Carl looks at Mick and sees his future - only there's no grin on Old Man Barât's face.
"Hehehe, mate, you remember how the NME twists things. They're nice lads." Carl glowers. Mick soldiers on, "Anyway. Maybe some bird will turn up with a blue-eyed boy called Carl Jr." Mick laughs to himself. "Time for elevenses, I reckon," he remarks to himself, reaching for a pack of Golden Virginia, and that means Conversation Over.
It's one of those strange moments of fate that just as Carl is drifting off into contemplation of old indiscretions and responsibilities, Lisa calls. He twists his shoulders awkwardly, remembering how long it's been since he saw her and Astile, how much he's been slipping on his well-intended promise to be there for them. But Astile looks so much like his father now. "Lisa! Hi darling, I've been meaning to call," he says, as warmly as he can manage.
"Oh, really." Yes, she's pissed off. It has been a while, and fuck, Carl thinks, when's Astile's birthday? "You're a sick fuck sometimes, Carl Barât."
"Aww, Lisa..." Carl feels this drifting towards dreaded confrontation and feels quite maligned. Surely Lisa should be used to his old sins of avoidance and laziness by now? "I know it's been too long since I got in touch -"
"Don't play the innocent with me, you... you..."
"I'm not, I-" What now?
"So you're trying to tell me you're not the sick fuck responsible for the card stile got this morning: 'My darling boy,'" she spits. "'Happy Birthday, I hope we shall meet again one day. Dad.' Kiss. 'Peter,' in fucking brackets. And where's it postmarked, you cunt? Your fucking part of town. What were you thinking, Carl? I know you still have problems, but... Carl? Carl? Carl?"
Carl can hear her voice still calling to him from the phone, now on the floor. His hands are shaking. Mick's saying, "Carl?" somewhere to his left and his body curls forward involuntarily before he vomits all over his new leather shoes.