Fiend Read Free Page A

furniture.
    Sorry, not all of us have a house from our mom.
    Typewriter looks at me like I’ve spit in his mouth. I feel like a dick. I say, Listen, man, I’m sorry. We need to sleep and figure out what the fuck happened, you know, like what’s real, what isn’t.
    He starts to get off the mattress. I tell him it’s fine, just don’t try any faggy shit. He calls me a faggot. I tell him that was a good comeback. I lie there and my heart still thunders and I’m willing the soluble shell of the Klonopin to break open and spill its contents into my bloodstream, for my eyes to become heavy. Typewriter curls at the foot of the bed like a wary dog. This reminds me of the rottweiler. The little girl. The giggles. The little fist coming through the door. The typewriter. The flames. I picture the police there, the fire department too, Typewriter’s childhood house alive in its death, flames reaching toward the telephone poles, the electric wires connecting everything. I should call KK. Tell her I might be going away for a while. How long until they come looking for Typewriter here? I strain my ears to hear Rebecca’s TV through the floorboards. I can’t hear anything. This is odd. That fat bitch has that thing blaring at all hours of the day. I yawn, and this makes me smile. They’re working, the Klonopin. I know that when I wake up, I’ll be terrified, either because of what we’ve done, or because of what drugs are turning me into.
7:51 PM
    I wake up, not ready to. Typewriter slaps at my feet.
    What?
    It was real, he says.
    Huh?
    He points to his shirt. It’s still covered in blood. I look down at myself and see the same thing and I’m thinking, fuck my ass, what did we do? I rip off my T-shirt and throw it on the floor. I look at my pants. Smears of the little girl stain the denim.
    Bro, Type says.
    We need to get out of the bloody clothes. Burn ’em or some shit, I say.
    He understands then, stripping down.
    There’s a pile of clothes in the corner, all dirty. I pull out a white T-shirt and a pair of green sweatpants and toss them to Typewriter. I dress in jeans and a navy blue shirt, musty with cooled sweat.
    Then I’m packing what little I have in a trash bag. I stuff in some clothes, my phone charger, a jacket. I’m thinking about passports, about money, about Mexico or Canada, my parents, KK, about not using the one credit card I still have because they can track those things, about maybe ditching Typewriter because one person disappearing is easier than two. I pack my toothbrush, my unopened mail. Typewriter stands at the one excuse for a window, looking up through the basement metal grate. I feel a slight craving, just a hit toget my head straight. I wonder if Typewriter still has a shard. I ask. He doesn’t respond.
    Yes or no?
    He shakes his head.
    What the fuck does that mean?
    Still nothing and I want to bash his head in because he can be such an idiot. So helpless. So desperate. Playing the whole poor-fucking-me-my-mom-died-of-cancer junkie thing. And he’s shady as hell. Always stealing people’s scraps, shorting bags. And here he is, facing murder, staring out my piss slit of a window like he can’t get enough of the sunset.
    You gonna help? I ask.
    Something’s not right.
    I laugh. You kidding me right now?
    Look, he says.
    I decide right then and there to leave him. I’ll be better off without his constant bitching, his tendency to destroy everything he touches.
    Help me pack up the bloody clothes.
    Chase, look.
    I’ll humor him until we get out of the city, until we stop for gas. I’ll leave him while he’s paying.
    I walk over to the window and look up to the street level. There’s nothing. I ask him what he’s talking about. He points. I say, Yeah, so?
    Nothing, he says.
    That’s a good thing.
    Not one person. Nobody. When’s the last time you saw Seventh empty?
    We don’t have time for this, I say.
    Serious. When? Never, bro.
    I look back out. I half expect to see the little girl