So, Spider and I went out and got totally pissed last night. I mean, so drunk we couldn’t see straight. We’d been doing tequila shots at some hole-in-the-wall bar. You know the kind of place–dark and smelling of filthy mop water, a bar with worn patches in the varnish, and no two bar stools alike. Lining the bar were the usual assortment of ancient skanks in their clown makeup, posing cross-legged, their micro minis and stilettos a tacky contrast to the cellulite dimples and mats of webbed veins in between. It obviously wasn’t the best place for us to hang, but they had a killer special and drinks were dirt cheap.
We left after last call, and no cabs would stop for us–probably because of Spider. He’s six-foot-five, tattooed everywhere and has an eight-inch mohawk. Then again, I don’t really look the respectable type, either. So, maybe it was the combination. We ended up walking through some pretty sketch neighborhoods to get to Spider’s apartment. It’s near the tattoo shop where he works. It took for fucking ever. Spider had his cigarette to keep him entertained and it was the first time I wished I smoked again. It’s weird, but I never got the craving to light up, even in the first days after I quit. I just stopped. Period. But last night, for whatever reason, I kept staring at that plume of smoke coming from his mouth, dying for the wind to whip it up into my nostrils. He knew it, too. I could tell by the way he turned away a little to exhale. I guess he thought he was being a good friend. I’m not sure about that one.
We finally made it to his place. We went to the wrong floor, first–I did mention we were shitfaced, right?–Spider, who’d lost his keys somewhere, starts banging away on what he thinks is his door. This guy flings open the door, and starts screaming at us in this high-pitched, dog voice. Seriously, you could’ve replaced him with one of those tiny, yappy purse-dogs and no one could’ve told the difference.
Too drunk to care, we just walked away. Well, that set him off and he followed us up to Spider’s floor, still yelling. At that point the whole damn building was awake. People were opening their doors and screaming, or yelling through the walls for this asshole to shut up.
We got upstairs and Stone, Spider’s burner roommate, was the only one in the building who wasn’t woken up by all this. We were finally pounding on the right door, and this guy was still behind us, demanding we turn around and face him. I have to give it to Spider, usually he’d have already beaten the shit out of this guy. But, for some reason, he thought it was funny. Stone finally woke up, opened the door, and let us in. The guy followed, shoving Spider inside. Spider stumbled, and something in me went off.
I turned around, grabbed the guy’s arm and squeezed. I’ve always been strong, like some sort of pre-Berlin-Wall-falling East German female bodybuilder. But this time, when I squeezed, I just knew I could crush the bones with no effort at all. Stuff inside there–tendons, or bones, I don’t know–started to shift. There was no noise, just a violent reddening on either side of his arm as I cut off the circulation. The guy screamed, this time in pain. Spider, his face white, pulled me away, and pushed the guy backwards out into the hall. Stone shut and locked the door. Then, we all just stood there staring at each other.
I wanted to break that guy’s arm. Not because he pissed me off, not even because he fucked with Spider, but because I could. It wasn’t even like I wanted to see if it was possible, like a kid testing whether or not he could fly. I knew it was possible. I knew I was capable of it. And I wanted to watch myself do it.
God, I’m screwed up.
Stone wandered off to bed and Spider, standing with me in his filthy, laundry-encrusted studio, asked the question of the day, “What the hell was that?”
I wish I knew.
So, I got home late this afternoon, and Mom’s sitting there, waiting. She flips out on me for the–What?–fifteenth time this week. She threatened to leave me here to fend for myself. And as much as I wanted to say, “Fine. Screw off, have fun in that shitty town,” the words froze in my throat.
I said I was sorry.
I said I’d behave.
God, I hate this, having this urge to go to Tyne hanging over my head. It’s got me in a headlock and I can’t get out. I have to try and straighten up. Right after this bender, I’ll be good.