#moishemakes

Time for ANOTHER POLL OH NO

This is really weirdly saved cuz ummm technical difficulties and the video quality is pretty shit but

The cheap television was propped up on the rotting wood of the table in the corner, spewing static and the odd phrase. I’m just completely fucked up. Nobody knows I’m here. I want to do everything—die—I lived—bad jokes. Someone ought to slap it around, return the shit inside to normal. The boy had been sitting on the sofa for 1, 2, 3 hours. He couldn’t remember where he was. Wait, who was he again? Maybe this was his house.

His eyes locked on the tabs which had floated to the floor. Pictures of Disneyland, of castles and people inhabiting freakish fabric and plastic costumes. Right, he was high.

He hauled himself up, ignoring the heaviness which had taken over his body. His numb legs twisted and turned with each step, unnaturally. He felt along walls like a drunkard. The fuck else did I take?

Once in the bathroom, his side slammed against the doorframe, a dim pain shooting through his ribs. He stayed standing, barely. His eyes scanned his own face. Pretty, young, depressing. He guessed his eyes had looked dead since he was a kid. His mouth was fixed in a permanent pout. He was vampire-pale, the only sign he had any blood at being the faint blue lines crisscrossing his body. He smoothed down his hair and realized a chunk was missing, as if someone had grabbed a handful and ripped it right out. When did I do that?

He was coming back to himself. Maybe. He still couldn’t grasp his name, his address. Was this really his house? He remembered his boyfriend. Maybe boyfriend? Was this a current memory? Anyway the two of them looked like they could be twins, or first cousins, if not for the lower halves of their faces. The other boy’s nose—wait, what was his name? Henry? No, that sounded wrong—was about half the size of his, his thin-lipped mouth always smiling, though never showing the half-gone, yellowed teeth beneath.

He thought, sometimes, that he loved him. Maybe. It felt more like he could. Was love something most people had to work at? He had never exactly fallen head over heels or anything. This was a love he could turn on and off, something he could be certain he felt at one moment, but suddenly realize was gone without a trace the next. Was this something he needed to admit to? Cholera, what did people care about?