We sat on the hood of a shitty pickup truck outside of the club. The bassline of some deep glitch-step beats droned through the walls and echoed into the parking lot. I thought for a moment that the downbeat sounded like something I had heard in an old dial-up syncing code, but my thoughts were interrupted by the breather sitting next to me. He was dressed in tight leathers and a black button-down. He had asymmetrical hair, shaved on one side and sort of longish on top. His facial piercings and clothes placed him somewhere between an experienced twenty-something and a Peter Pan thirty-something.
I was wearing a doom-cookie layered number that I always wear just after Purgis. It was like my naughty Sunday best—the black-on-black that I slipped on like I needed forgiveness. I wore it with a fluffed, fur-collared coat and with bright red dye in my hair—hair that, in just a few days, would be coming out in chunks, anyway; so why give a fuck about split ends, right?
I puffed on an e-cig while the boy-toy next to me cut a line on his pocket mirror. I spent a few seconds pretending to be listening to him while I checked my makeup. It helps cover what the night don’t—to a degree—but you need to keep an eye on where your skin bends to make sure it’s not starting to peel and crack. Around the mouth, around the jaw, the muscles along the sides of your neck… these places are in use all the time. Gloves are your friend, especially on the days just before Purgis, because no matter how careful you are, your skin will start to look like old-woman hands. The e-cig I held reminded me to breathe every now and then and masked the onset of corpse breath. Hiding in plain sight is a skill you gotta learn, little man.
I look like a porcelain doll right now, and I know in a matter of hours or days this shit is going to crack. I’m always dying, see. Sure, the breather next to me is slowly dying in a grand nihilist sort of way, but while he is sucking down lines and thinking that he will live forever, I know that I am slowly rotting in front of him. This porcelain facade only has a few days until its cracks appear, and I am desperate as fuck to feel alive right now. I spend forever out of sight, away from life, living with the dregs of my own kind, just a step or two above turning Skag. I feel pretty right now. I almost feel alive.
I grabbed him by the hand—not thinking twice—and pulled him abruptly off the hood of his car. He started to protest, but when I reached and grabbed for his friend as well, he knew what was on my mind. I only have days before the skin begins to peel, and I am not going to waste that time on being timid or on waiting for what I want.
We are rock stars born of the desperation of death.