Hey, everyone! I'm back. Did you miss me? I've actually been on vacation in Tennessee visiting relative. Let me tell you... Everything they say about small town Southern Baptists is -true-. Color me lucky to be away.
Same ol' disclaimer applies. I know nothing about anyone that you would know. This is all false, and no fact. The title is from Orgy's "Stitches", and I just thought it fit. Plus, the music was -great- to write this part too. Gave me the pictures, the feelings. Good stuffs.
Enjoy!
Remembering Petticoat Lane Part 9: "I'm so deranged you know, I will never be the same."
Joey had been busy the first night, and Chris the next, et cetera, until their lives became a crazy routine that featured getting up, going to therapy where Lance would clam up and tell nothing (which really screwed up the other guys, what could you say when they couldn't talk about the main issue?), followed by a tense and unhappy few minutes with JC before he would retreat out of the room, and Lance would cut. His arms were covered in red, swollen cuts, some scabbing, some just red. It was insane, and something had to break, sooner or later. On the fifth night, it broke. Nobody had anything else to so, so the group decided to go clubbing.
The club was acrid. That was the only way that Lance could possibly describe the sensation of the smoke filling the room, the way it burned at your eyes and nose just slightly, announcing its presence. It was more than just cigarettes, he was smart enough to know that much, but, having the teenhood he had had, hadn't come into full blown contact with any substances before. He had certainly seen their effects, though. Nobody in the music business was an angel, including his very own band.
He had lost track of his bandmates after they had entered the club. Everyone had really grasped onto the idea of a club outing, it had just been a matter of bad timing that had kept it delayed until now. So much had happened in the past week that Lance was almost awed at the unity they still had. These guys were his brothers, there was no doubting that, ever. Lance caught a glimpse of shock red hair, and allowed himself to be pushed in that direction. When he came upon Joey, he found that "Superman" was in a rush of friendly banter with some schmo (no doubt just off the street) and Chris. They were the type of people who actually came to clubs just to meet other people. Hard, dancing beats didn't make a club for Joey or Chris, the people did. In fact, those two often left clubs with more phone numbers then any other member of the band. This wasn't because they were any friendlier or cooler or more handsome than the other guys, it was simply because they were not distracted by drinks of music, they were focused on one thing and one thing only: people. Lance smiled, just faintly at that thought, and turned back away to the dance floor.
Lance found that he was able to spot JC and Justin on the floor pretty easily. They were a complete and total contrast to Joey and Chris, almost to the point of being Shakespearean Foils. JC and Justin lived for beats, fog machines, and strobe lights. They rated a club based on the DJ, and that elusive thing they called "style". When those two were on the floor, they -moved-. They were natural dancers, and it showed in everything they did.
Now he was another beast entirely. In reality, clubs weren't really his "thing", they had too much noise, too much action, and too many people. Years of having his defensive reactions worn down had made the very idea of a crowd a harrowing experience for him. However, he enjoyed seeing the other guys work the floor, or the crowd. Normally Lance would sit by himself at the table, watching, or chatting with one of the guys whenever they came to get a drink. Tonight was different, though. Tonight, Lance needed ... something. He needed something different, he needed something that could make him feel the rush he had felt that afternoon, without having to bust out an exacto knife at the club. So tonight, Lance wandered the floor, looking.
After a few more minutes of unfulfilled need, he headed into the bathroom. Despite all the normal rumors about club bathrooms, he had never run into any problems. In fact, this one looked deserted. Lance took a few minutes to just.. look at himself.
As he looked in the mirror, he saw exactly what he thought he was. He saw what the demons in his head made him see. The long-sleeved black shirt he had decided to wear made him look even paler then he really was. He looked sick, but he was too fat. He looked like a girl, his nose was funny looking. Altogether, very unattractive. The pure hatred and anger dried out his mouth, and fired through him again. He hated this, he hated himself. He growled, and his first blow (from his just newly healed hand) rained down upon the mirror, and the mirror shattered in his image. His face, already distorted by anger, was now cracked apart just like he felt. His second blow fell on his own shoulder, right where he had cut. Two blows, and the tingling was back. It wasn't nearly intense enough, and he didn't know what he was going to do to get that feeling back. At least, he didn't, until a voice interrupted his thoughts.
"You're a self-destructive little one, aren't you?" Lance wheeled around. The man was a typical club dealer, an "X" on his shirt (and it was obvious that it did -not- mean Straight Edge...)and a self-assured grin. "Don't worry. I don't care, I only want to help you. I have something you might be interested in. Here. Take a free sample."
The man pressed some drug into his hand. It was in tab form, and not like anything Lance had dealt with before. "What is it?"
"It has a million names. Don't worry, little one, the first dose is safe enough. Enjoy. If you want more, well... You know where you can find me."
Then the guy was gone. It only took a second's hesitation before Lance took another step into Hell. He put the tab on his tongue, and let it dissolve into his bloodstream. Immediately, colors swarmed, and the world ... shifted. He couldn't have described it well, if he had tried. Everything was in color, everything was different. The world had quickly become vibrant and worthy again. He stumbled out of the bathroom, and back to the table. Everything seemed so much more -intense-. Colors were brighter, and sharper, and he swore that he could literally feel the beat on his skin. It was incredible, and he didn't know how to properly describe it. Was this what JC and Justin felt at clubs? It was wonderful, it was alive. It was so wonderful that he started laughing. At first it was a small giggle, but it quickly grew until he was hysterical. A fuzzy, blond (he thought that was what you called it when hair looked like pure spun gold...) head blinked at him, and swore.
"Goddamn! Chris, I think Scoop is -wasted-."
"Shit. You're right. Get JC, he needs to get home."
After a minute or so, another hand grabbed Lance's chin and yanked it up to look in his eyes. A voice he knew he should have recognized softly intoned, "We should never have left him alone."