Chapter 2 - Gula - Gluttony

Gula - Gluttony

The stiff carpeted floor of a tiny room on a tiny bus is your silver platter. Upon it lie two thick glasses and one pointedly less sophisticated object: a small, well-used syringe. It seems as if the first glass truly does not exist, for it is spotlessly transparent and filled with the purist form of fire. A posh expanse of vodka, more than one could ever want to drink in a single sitting. The second glass seems as if it should be filled with the deep mahogany of wine, but to the naked eye it appears empty. Its presence is only noticed due to the rainbows of light created by each twist and turn of its creator's imagination; squared off angles make it shine brighter than even you have ever shined in my eyes. It puzzles me, this glass. I want to know what your sinful mind has in store for this innocent goblet. It's funny, that it truly seems innocent. Everything, even the most unchangeably inanimate of materials seems innocent in the stark contrast of your presence. The final object makes me cringe; I shake uncontrollably on the inside while remaining your perfectly cracked porcelain doll on the out. I have been within that syringe. I know the feeling--the high, the smiles and the fogged view. I know what it is to love it more than anyone or anything.

You pick up the syringe first, and I nearly knock over the contents of your oh-so-chic platter in an effort to tear your hand away. I knew it wouldn't work before I did it. But that's what you do to me; you take away the rhyme and reason of our little poetic tragedy.

Skin meets skin in a frustrated effort to feed the flame of addiction that burns painfully within you, and as I nurse the reddened mark you left upon my cheek I watch you kill yourself slowly. I can almost feel the injection myself as the heavy liquid stretches the earthly confines of your blood-filled veins. Your eyes roll backward. It's starting.

I am leaning against the wall with knees hugged to my chin, watching you come down from your futile self-poisoning. You're smiling the sickest smile; it disgusts me and makes me love you even more. Maybe I really am as sick as you.

"Why do you do that to yourself?" I fear my own question more than I fear you.

"Because of this," you pick up the empty glass, "Can't you see it, Gerard? It's filled to its limit with excess. It's me. It's everything you've always wanted but never needed. It's giving into everything you know is wrong and being happy about it. It's making everything that doesn't belong to you yours."

"What gives you that right?"

"I'm a rock star, baby." You get up and drop the goblet to the floor. It lands upon the ugly, stained carpet and creates a subtle thud that sends vibrations up my spine. It was never supposed to be like this. We made a pact, a promise before it all began that it would always be about the music, our music, not this tainted symphony to which you dance so seductively with satan. "What the frack do you care anyway? You ask too many questions. I really hate you, you know that?"

I think that I did. I do. I know all of these things that I wish I didn't. You're walking towards me, and I know what's coming. I know that you will bruise me, hurt me, make me cry and never even consider kissing away the tears. I know that you only use me for sex, for the carnal desire that rearranges the anatomy of your body, and places your heart far lower than it should be. I will bleed and you will scream somebody else's name. You will leave me before I'm even aware you were there, and I won't even get the disgusted thank you that we both know I deserve. I know that you're horrible. That I'm nothing to you. That this won't ever change. That I will always and forever be your outlet for sin. But honey, I also know that you're my own personal heroin high.

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