#trusttheballs

           Peter was startled by the hand on his shoulder— by the words that left Roman’s lips— and he looked at him quickly, a strong pressure building up in his chest. He was not to be depended on. No one in this town was supposed to grow attached to him, because he was not meant to stay here. He never is.

                                                         We run. It’s what we do.

                                  ”—I don’t know how it feels, man, because I don’t let myself grow dependent on someone else.” 

          He said the words, and yet he immediately thought of Letha— of how she’d changed him. Roman had made an impression on him, but it was nothing like the way Letha had softened him. They brought out two completely different sides of him, and he liked the one that Letha pulled from him more. It would be sad to lose it, but he still thought that, if he had to, he could leave it behind.

          He placed the cigarette between his lips and took a long drag, flicking the ashes to the ground by his feet. 

                                   ”—I don’t fuckin’ know what to tell you.”

         His grasp tightened upon the other's shoulder; his perception had shifted and shadows poisoned the tangible and his understanding of reality. Roman disregarded Peter's words, shaking his head silently and with a slowness that bordered on panicked.

                                                   [ Shut up, Peter. But don't stop talking. ]

         The strength of his grasp continued to fluctuate for a minute more before Roman leaned back, hardly conscious of his hand's position any longer. It was secure, and he would rather not-- He would rather not.  He took a breath, eyes fluttering shut in a controlled darkness for flickering second. Now he would think; now he could hear.

             Peter didn't let himself. 

          So was it a weakness to grow dependent? Or was it something that allowed the individual strengthen? His mother might argue the latter- But maybe she wouldn't. Shelley. . .  Shelley he wasn't sure about. Who did she depend on-- Did she actually depend on anyone? She was as strong as steel. Roman had almost expected Peter to echo previous words: "Maybe this is something you should take up with your guidance counselor."

                                                  "Is that something you real fucking proud of?"

                                                                                                  Veni, vidi, vici. 

         Let freedom ring, but allow the land of opportunity to resonate with the pure, bitter sound of success. Society, after all, was an arena for the contestants of the ceaseless game: Survival of the fittest, the strongest. There were warriors, built from cold money, from ambition, from ruthlessness, from history, from tyranny. The warriors would endure.

                             Veni, vidi .  .  . 

          Hemlock Grove had been rooted and watered by the Godfrey family; it grew, but steel walls suffocated its boundaries. The town grew dependent upon the sustenance.

                                                                     Vici. 

                                                                           They had been conquered. 

                                                                          "Godfrey" seemed synonymous with warrior. 

                                                                           Still, the word seemed. . . and was. . . empty.

           Roman brought the cigarette to his lips, not looking and hardly seeing; he was walking, and his pace almost bore the singular purpose of an ambitious man.                                                                                                 . . . He could not be branded an ambitious man.

            Briefly, as smoke extended into his lungs, his thoughts meandered towards a drunken, hazed encounter with a man at the bar. Something about a brother who'd lost his home consequent of some business actions of his family- Roman hadn't thought it terribly significant. He pursed his lips, wetting them, and turned his head east and west in the routine action of a man searching. Exhale.

           Isolation was never a permanent option. Not when there was Shelley, who deserved so much more and so much better, and not when his mother could see what he saw, though he saw that she turned her head with a disinterest. It never occurred to him that it could be an expression that was painted, that she could simply be waiting.

            Indeed, isolation was never a permanent option, but it was an option now. 

           He unlocked the wooden door, absently observing the swirling grooves formed by the dried grey paint upon the door. It was meaningless; it was nothing. Still, the fleeting thought drifted: Had the painter gotten bored, angry, or did he think himself some genius of the arts? Roman rather hoped not. It would be a terribly mundane art to paint doors.    

 -Why wonder when none of it m a t t e r e d ?

            The empty house, a product of conspicuous consumption, was just that: Empty. Roman had never visited before; he had no cause to do so. Even now, there was now cause. Empty, vacant, a vacuum- 

                    Then why did it reek? 

                             Disregard and continue.

            Roman tossed the keys, stolen from a drawer within the estate, onto the dusting window sill neighboring the door; he took a quick drag from the cigarette, now inspecting  the decidedly hideous wallpaper that bordered the hallway and the rooms. The house was empty, and yet it was furnished; the house rather appeared as though it had previously belonged to an elderly woman. Was she now dead, homeless, or lost?

-Why wonder when none of it m a t t e r e d ?

           Now those green eyes examined the mustard yellow, thin carpeting that muffled his steps; without a doubt, his shoe had been more expensive than this entire house's carpeting.

                        Disregard and continue.

                        Disregard and continue, and see that rusted brown stain on that carpet.

           Visually explore further, and now notice the shell; the remnant what could have been a woman.   

          Roman had to turn his head, had to avert to his eyes- Although, it not because of the gore, not because of the rotting intestines that spilled from the abdomen. Or was it? He had no reason. . . Nothing he understood. . . Of why he turned  his gaze.  Having no reason to have done so was-                                                                                                                                The cigarette fell from his fingers and was caught by the worn, rounded fingers of the yellow carpet; consequently, mustard fibers singed. Roman didn't notice.

         This girl. . . This carcass. . . Had been conquered.

                                                                   Veni. Vidi.  Vici. 

          Tightly now, Roman pursed his lips-His gaze flickered for an elongated millisecond to that shell. . . And flickered away. The gore had to be the same. The anger had to be the same. Roman's hand went to his pocket, following the curve of a petal of a pastel flower on the wall- Peter would know. He had to know something.

            He heard his monotonous voice repeating into the receiver the address of this house-

                   This house whose deed held the Godfrey name. 

       Roman gave directions without reason though he himself was disoriented. North, east, south, west. . . It had blurred to be the same. 

                  Then why did it  reek? 

                   I n t e r e s t i n g. Oh, Peter is quite interesting, but he has never been the center of attention the way that Dorian always has been, and he likes it that way. He is used to being settled right outside of society— right on the brink of being normal, but not quite fitting in. He does not argue that he is interesting, of course; he does not want the attention. Instead he shrugs, leaning back against the wall. 

            “—I don’t care if I’m interesting. I’m just saying I didn’t fuckin’ do it.”

     "Anyone who says they have no interest in being interesting is either consoling themselves because they know that they haven't got it in them, or they think false modesty is fashionable," Dorian answers dismissively.

     His eyes scan over Peter once again. He will hazard a guess that being fashionable is not particularly high on the young man's list of priorities. His expectations are quickly waning.