post-party [for Flagg]
[after this]
It's kind of funny how he can go from feeling fine, maybe better than fine, to feeling like a piece of shit, all in the space of blowing his fucking wad. If funny can also mean stupid and really fucked up. He can tell himself everything he likes about foresight and not wanting to be around to be a dick in the morning, but it still sounds like bullshit. This isn't the kind of guy he's ever wanted to be, leaving as soon as he's got whatever he came for.
Not that he did, he thinks, stumbling back the way they'd walked through the trees, no clue where he was but not really caring. It would've been nice, the way everything leading up to it had been so fucking nice, to actually fall asleep with someone. Even if you'd shared a pod in Oz and were so inclined, there were always the hacks with their flashlights and clubs, banging on the plastic like kids at the zoo. In the light of day, they'd catcall and jeer at the guys like that, but he wonders if everyone didn't get a little bitter over it at night, didn't think, let the fuckers have what they can get, 'cause someday it could be me. And today, apparently, it's him, but he's his own goddamn hack rattling the bars of his own cage, even in this place where nobody, nobody will care.
That's not why, though; the ugly voice twists up his guts and he wants to physically say no, wants to cover his ears like it would do some good, because he can handle the nerves, the constant edge of quitting his meds, but not the voice. It'll drown out anything else and bury him, until he feels too worthless to stand, to get out of bed and be alive. Their under his pillow, he tells himself, just go home and take them, just do it.
But home is a ways off yet, and he doesn't even know if he's on the right path back to the clearing. Man, woman, the voice says, and the voice is a tickle at the back of his head more than it is words, just makes him think the worst of himself and feel so fucking bad--you just don't want to take responsibility, you never fucking have. Don't give two shits if you hurt him, if you wake up tomorrow sick to your stomach at how he touched you, you just don't want to be there when he decides you should go.
Get the fuck home, he thinks, crouching down among the ferns and roots for a moment, trying to collect himself and tell the voice, the bad feelings--maybe he is a child, to call what he knows is mental illness bad fucking feelings--to just go away. "I don't have to listen to this shit," he growls, hands clasped against the back of his neck like he's trying to force his head between his knees or some shit. "It was nice," he adds, arguing with it, almost pleading, bargaining, anything; "it was nice and I didn't do nothing wrong, but I swear I won't do it again if you'll just shut up."
And maybe it really is the ghost of his grandfather, appeased with the promise, because everything's quiet again and he can stand, and he even thinks he knows where he's going. Wiping a hand over his face, Miguel picks himself up and picks his way back to the clearing, unsurprised to find the party still going, even this late.
It's kind of funny how he can go from feeling fine, maybe better than fine, to feeling like a piece of shit, all in the space of blowing his fucking wad. If funny can also mean stupid and really fucked up. He can tell himself everything he likes about foresight and not wanting to be around to be a dick in the morning, but it still sounds like bullshit. This isn't the kind of guy he's ever wanted to be, leaving as soon as he's got whatever he came for.
Not that he did, he thinks, stumbling back the way they'd walked through the trees, no clue where he was but not really caring. It would've been nice, the way everything leading up to it had been so fucking nice, to actually fall asleep with someone. Even if you'd shared a pod in Oz and were so inclined, there were always the hacks with their flashlights and clubs, banging on the plastic like kids at the zoo. In the light of day, they'd catcall and jeer at the guys like that, but he wonders if everyone didn't get a little bitter over it at night, didn't think, let the fuckers have what they can get, 'cause someday it could be me. And today, apparently, it's him, but he's his own goddamn hack rattling the bars of his own cage, even in this place where nobody, nobody will care.
That's not why, though; the ugly voice twists up his guts and he wants to physically say no, wants to cover his ears like it would do some good, because he can handle the nerves, the constant edge of quitting his meds, but not the voice. It'll drown out anything else and bury him, until he feels too worthless to stand, to get out of bed and be alive. Their under his pillow, he tells himself, just go home and take them, just do it.
But home is a ways off yet, and he doesn't even know if he's on the right path back to the clearing. Man, woman, the voice says, and the voice is a tickle at the back of his head more than it is words, just makes him think the worst of himself and feel so fucking bad--you just don't want to take responsibility, you never fucking have. Don't give two shits if you hurt him, if you wake up tomorrow sick to your stomach at how he touched you, you just don't want to be there when he decides you should go.
Get the fuck home, he thinks, crouching down among the ferns and roots for a moment, trying to collect himself and tell the voice, the bad feelings--maybe he is a child, to call what he knows is mental illness bad fucking feelings--to just go away. "I don't have to listen to this shit," he growls, hands clasped against the back of his neck like he's trying to force his head between his knees or some shit. "It was nice," he adds, arguing with it, almost pleading, bargaining, anything; "it was nice and I didn't do nothing wrong, but I swear I won't do it again if you'll just shut up."
And maybe it really is the ghost of his grandfather, appeased with the promise, because everything's quiet again and he can stand, and he even thinks he knows where he's going. Wiping a hand over his face, Miguel picks himself up and picks his way back to the clearing, unsurprised to find the party still going, even this late.