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There's a strange (familiar) thing in his chest, in his head, in his heart, behind his eyes, in the pit of his stomach, the soles of his feet. He thinks he can feel it circling around his body, rushing through his veins, assaulting his senses, taking control of his mind. It's intoxicating and terrifying and it makes him alive and dead and awake and free.
It's not the first time this thing, this drug has been his body, it's not the first time he's tasted the air and felt the earth move and heard his capillaries sing. He first had it when he had friends (read: people who tried but failed to care), when there was people who worried when he disappeared, when he drunk himself into a stupor, when he slept with strangers regardless of appearance, of gender. He first had it many years ago, when he was an ignorant upstart who listened to no one but the voice in his head (worthless. you'll never amount to anything. just drink and smile and hide beneath masks lest anyone finds out how broken you are.) He tasted his freedom and his captor on the roof of his mouth after he took it and he knew he was hooked.
His face hurts and his back and his ass are numb from the floor so he crawls up, until he's standing on his own two feet and he leaves the room, years of experience keeping him from stumbling.
He's sitting on the edge of the building, feet slotted between rails, a glass of scotch in his hands and how did that get here?, but it's not unusual because although he loves (read: hates) the drug, he's an alcoholic first, at heart, since womb and so the scotch is welcome beneath his fingers and- oh. oh.
It's snowing. There are snowflakes in his hair, melting on his hands, sticking to the ground.
There's an abstract thought - how beautiful - before he's whisked away by the drug which stains his veins blue and tints his eyes red. It takes him over hills and under rivers, back into memory land, into the locked up, hidden parts of his mind and fuck, this isn't what he wanted, it's meant to make him forget, not remember.
There are tears dripping off his chin, mingling with the snow which covers his knees, has he really been out that long? and he realises he's emptied his glass without realising and so he pours himself another from a nearby bottle, because there are bottles in every room of this house and if that isn't proof of his alcoholism then what is?
He can't feel his legs and that doesn't scare him as much as it should because everything is numb, numb, numb, his legs, his fingers, his face, his heart. He's just cold all over, inside and out and he's always been cold, hasn't he? His insides turned to ice when his father ignored his cries and his mother refused to pick him up, only hours after his birth.
'what a joke' the voice says, his oldest friend, most trusted companion, most skilled tormentor. He ignores it and drains the tumbler, hands shaking as he pours yet another.
'no wonder no one cared and everybody left you' it whispers and he can hear it in his pulse.
No! He's shouting, It's not that they didn't care, they just has their own lives and I'm a full time job and it's too much for them, you can't blame them, I can't blame them.
'they couldn't be bothered'
They couldn't, he realises as the snow keeps falling, they couldn't be bothered to look after him, to love him. He's not sure who they is - his parents, his friends, his teachers, his lovers, everyone ever - but if they couldn't be bothered then why should he? Why should he?
And before he knows it he's clambering over the railing and he's on the other side, his bare toes curling over the edge. His arms are stretched behind him, gripping tight to the metal bar and he's leaning out so he can see the snow, it looks soft and pillowy and- look, no hands.
.
.
.
He falls for a short eternity, the world a white blur and a blue-black smear as he spreads out his arms like wings and spins in mid air. He is free and powerful and infinite.
But all eternities end (or at least for man they do) and he lands harshly on his back and sees the sky, dark and beautiful, covered by clouds and glittering stars.
I wish I could have visited those stars he thinks as blood pours from his broken body, his arms still spread in a parody of flight.
Blood pools around him, like a cape or a carpet, ha! my personal red carpet and he dies as he lived, with a joke to hide his pain.
But even though his lifeblood is red, red, red and the ground is white, white, white, his lips turn the exact same shade of blue as his drug stained veins.