Lest we forget our friends

I left the kitchen as quick as I could. I didn’t know where I was going, but I needed a release. I was in a position that I didn’t want to be in, and it would have been too impolite to ask for hard drugs.


It seemed as though it took over a year for me to find the extravagant white staircase that was centered in the living room. I grasped the marble railings with both hands as I galloped up it. Once I reached the top, I began to have something of a dizzy spell. My head hurt like I had just hit another taxicab and I put a hand to my scalp. Just when I felt myself begin to loose balance, a pair of strong arms wrapped around me tight, catching me right before I could topple over.

“Ugh, God… I’m sorry. I’m looking for your bathroom?” I said, rubbing my eyes.

“In my bedroom.” He said, taking my hands securely into his. “Now.”

Ginger pulled my body into him as he guided me past three or four large rooms, each one a different color with a different theme. It was an acid trip, seeing those colors pass by me so quickly as we walked. Marilyn Manson was rich beyond belief, and it was a tasteful, glitzy type of wealth that I quickly connected with the effect of psychedelic drugs. “Are we—“ I began to speak, but stopped as we reached the final bedroom. It was the size of a high-class studio apartment. Scarlet walls, black drapery and ceiling to match, burgundy and gold embroidered furniture and bed…ah, an extra-large king… so soft.

I fell onto it face first.

Gently I felt Ginger sit down beside me. Fingers through my hair, scratching tenderly, and then taking a lock in between his fingers, pulling. I turned over on my back, looking up at him. “Why don’t you go to sleep?” He said, “I’ll come back for you later.”

I sat up and pressed my forehead against his, taking his tie into my hand, pulling on it just as he had done with my hair, “No. I’m not ready to sleep alone. I wanna soil your sheets… the right way.”